A Rerun, Maker's Marks the Spot, and Race Across America

Day: 16 (Springfield, KY to Sonora, KY)

Average Speed: 10.6 MPH

Miles Cycled Today: 75.1

Miles Cycled Total: 930

Dogs Encountered Today: 3 (ummm... make that 4*)

Mood: Introspective

The Cozy Corner in Loretto, Kentucky. Okay... It's Probably a Motorcycle... but Who Cares?

I was ready to do 100 miles today... but a distillery got in the way. That's today's excuse and I'm proud to stick to it. 

If yesterday's ride was a cartoon, today's was one of those cheesy WB sitcoms in reruns. Ya' know, it's fine to have on in the background, but the jokes are stale and it's nothing memorable. 

That's what rain does. 

It mutes the landscape and keeps you focused solely on getting from point A to point B. 

Unless, of course, you're me and you unexpectedly come across this sign: 

A Godsend of a Sign

Sure it was still raining, but in my world the sun came out, the butterflies flocked from the bushes, and The Carpenters sang "Why do birds suddenly appear..." more passionately than ever. 

I'll put it like this: imagine your a tweenage girl, and replace the words Maker's Mark Distillery with Justin Bieber. Same reaction. 

I had no idea I was on the bourbon trail. And I'll be damned if I wasn't making this detour. I pedaled like Kentucky dogs were in pursuit. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and add another dog to the Dog Encounter stat right now*. 

Yes. Yes I did. And I couldn't be happier.

When I reached this haven, I half-expected someone to come out and greet me: 

"Ah, so you're Jim Quinlan. You're the one who pretentiously tells everyone that you started drinking Maker's Mark before it exploded in popularity. Do come in. We've been expecting you!"

But no such fanfare happened. 

Instead my chain fell off in the parking lot and I fumbled like an idiot trying to get it back on while spreading grease all over my hands, face, and yellow rain gear. The excitement was too overwhelming, and my awkwardly weighted bike kept tipping in a rush to make things right. 

Stealth Touring

I realized I didn't have time to take the full hour-long tour (especially with my out-of-the-way mileage), and plus it was nine bucks. So I snuck into an already-in-progress tour instead. I didn't think anyone would notice, but then again, I was wearing a bright orange and white shirt with cycling shoes that made loud clicking sounds every time I took a step. I mean, if Pixar's Nemo suddenly showed up to a casual cocktail party wearing tap shoes, you'd notice. 

I got some Hairy Eyeballs cast my way and people avoided me... either because I smelled ripe or because they didn't want to be associated with the tour crasher. Doesn't matter. I don't care.

Where the Magic Happens

After joining the group for a few buildings, it grew painfully obvious that the tour guide was about to call me out in a private one-on-one session. I know the look. I'm a middle school teacher. Plus my time was running short, so I skipped around the Maker's Mark Village on my own for a bit and headed toward the gift shop, where I delightedly dipped my own little bottle of Maker's into the famous Red Wax.

I bought a shirt for me and one for Hanna (don't tell her... I want it to be a surprise) before heading out. 

The new apparel plus my freshly dipped bottle of heaven was totally worth the weight. 

Get it? 

Worth the weight? Ugh. 

Today's Route

So anyway, today's ride was just... fine. A rerun. Here's the route (remember, hills are not as steep as they appear due to different elevation markings):

At some point, I started a game with myself called "Guess How Far Away That Object Is!" to pass the time. Using my tripmeter, I focused on a landmark in the distance, and took a guess as to how far away it was. 

This game is just as exciting to lose as it is to win. I won once. I lost once. Then I stopped playing the game. 

Howardstown (Taken from Google Images... not my pic)

By the time I reached Howardstown, a tiny one-stop-sign place that I suppose belonged to a guy named Howard at some point, I needed a water bottle refill. 

The local gas station had a sign that said Temporarily (read: Permanently) Closed, and the only other business was a liquor store/bar. I went in there for a fill-up and was immediately the topic of conversation with the four locals chuggin' brewskis at a table. 

They called me over and peppered me with the usual questions. These were Good Ol' Boys- my age- Kentucky natives and proud as hell to be so. They pored over my map and offered alternative, more logical routes (people love to do that). One guy, Shayne, asked me if I ever met Howard Stern being that I'm from New York. I laughed. He didn't. He seemed genuinely surprised that all 8.4 million of us New Yorkers aren't acquainted with one another. 

I have a pic of these guys-
But I'd rather not publicly shame.

Then another in the group asked where I was headed. 

"San Francisco," I said. 

Two of them cocked their heads and raised their eyebrows. 

This was not the "You're going all the way to San Francisco on a bicycle?" look.

It was the "But that's where all the gay people are..." look. 

"Calm down! He's got a girlfriend!" Shayne said (he had asked as much when the others weren't listening). 

With that, a sigh of relief, followed by a slew of homophobic slurs. 

If they had sensed that I were gay, would they have treated me differently?

Absolutely. 

I've received many comments in both public and private messages along the lines of "People wouldn't be treating you so well if you were a woman," or "You wouldn't receive the same hospitality if your skin were a different color," and this is something that's been nagging at me since the first random-act-of-kindness (of which there have been many). 

Here's the thing- and I realize how dangerous it is for someone in my demographic to pontificate about inequality in America- but this is the first time on this trip that I've seen hard evidence. 

While it's a fair question to ask (Would a woman or a minority be given the same treatment as I have received?), I don't believe it's fair to judge others on behaviors they haven't displayed. 

Would the Fizers have welcomed me- a stranger- into their home if I weren't a white 35... errr.. 36 year old male? I don't know. And I'm certainly not brash enough to ask. 

Would a six pack of beer been left by my tire yesterday? Would I have gotten that Cucumber Lime Gatorade? That peach? Would Paul Collins have made that U-Turn to deliver my bag? Would Brittany have opened up to me? How about Kay at the top of Afton Mountain- would she have welcomed me into the Post Office? Would the park ranger have told me where to camp without being caught?

I don't know. 

And neither do you. 

I do know that there was no sign that said "White Males Only" at the Ewart Oasis yesterday, and I'd bet a million bucks that David would've given anyone on this earth a tour around the Circle C Ranch with Splash. I know for certain that the Cambia Community does not give a shit who you are; they have the unlocked doors to prove it. And I know that my other hosts, Rachel and Carolyn (and Rob Lowe) responded to phone calls and text messages- blind to my race and sexuality. 

My goal for this trip was (and is) to get from Yorktown to San Francisco. While it's slowly turning into a discovery of humanity, I don't how I'll be treated tomorrow. Or the next day. 

All I know is how I have been treated. And I believe it's an exercise in futility to take a pessimistic approach to anyone's kindness by hypothesizing about what he/she may have done differently. 

I won't be hanging out with Shayne and his buddies anytime soon. While they're fun lovin' natives, I would not have accepted an invitation to stay the night on their property. 

They're not that bad either. Just ignorant. 

I sipped the iced tea that I had purchased, nodded politely when expected, and turned down their offer of a beer. 

"Knock some sense into those fags and tell 'em to vote for Trump when you get there!" a Good Ol' Boy said before I left. 

I told them I'd convey the message, and left. 

Now I'm camping in the picnic area of a church in Sonora, Kentucky- enjoying the fruits of my earlier labor (no way am I going to hold on to my hand dipped bottle as a keepsake).

This church doesn't know I'm here. They don't know my skin color or gender or sexual orientation. And as far as I know, they don't care. 

Before I settled here for the night, I rode four miles out of my way through a Shaker village in an effort to find a campground that my map says exists. 

It doesn't exist, and I decided it best to cut my losses and head to where I saw shelter earlier. 

On my way, a Shaker man and his children waved to me. 

I thought about asking them if I could camp on their property since it was getting dark, but I was afraid they'd deny me. So I backtracked four miles instead. 

A Shaker Homestead in Sonora, Kentucky

I should've asked. 

I bet they would have welcomed me with open arms and a breakfast in the morning. 

But who knows?

I certainly don't.

And neither do you.

P.S.

"If you want to touch the miniature horse, you'll have to get through me first! Honk!"

Seriously, wherever I moved, the goose moved to guard it. I should've taken video. Hilarious.