Tree Trunks, Kittens, and a Dip in a River

Day: 23 (Centerville, MO to Summersville, MO)

Average Speed: 10.4 MPH

Miles Cycled Today: 67 

Miles Cycled Total: 1366

Mood: Buoyant

Hanna Left for Ireland Today, and Brought a Bicycle with a Green Saddle Along. 

The Ozarks

Had I met the Ozarks back in eastern Virginia, I’d be at the Landmark Inn in Warwick right now, enjoying a Gorgonzola Steak and an ice cold Rushing Duck. Ain’t no way I could’ve done this in week #1. 

But they met me post-Appalachia. And while I neither want to disrespect the mountains nor any struggling eastbound cyclists, I’m tempted to say this is child’s play. I have tree trunks for legs, and I have overwhelming, inspirational support that I never knew I had back in Yorktown. 

The Sun Sets in the Ozarks

The Ozarks are fun in every way that the Appalachians are not: the roads are smooth and wide, the traffic is light, the shoulder is a bit more friendly, and the downhill rides are better than anything you’ll find at a Six Flags. Yes, the climbs are steep, but because I’m in “mountain mode,” I accept and enjoy them. It’s not like coming to a bunch of unexpected pain-in-the-ass hills like in Illinois that Joop didn't warn me about. 

I hate Joop. 

My map describes the Ozarks as “…a self-propelled roller coaster ride.” I think that phrase lacks color and imagination, but I can’t describe it better. You know the sound a coaster makes on the first big ascent (click, click, click, click…) and that feeling you get when you know you’re cresting the top? Bingo. The click, click, click part is up to you though. 

I have video of what I'm describing, but not the bandwidth to upload right now. 

But I hit an exhilarating 50 MPH up and over hills without pedaling at all.

Just. Like. A. Roller. Coaster. 

To be honest, today's start was easy because I was riding high off of the wonderful night and morning I had with Tracey and Andy- which provided some pep for the first 25 miles or so. They woke me up, cooked breakfast, made coffee, poured orange juice… come to think of it, I didn’t do shit. I just realized that. 

Damn Brits

I did write a Thank-You note to Ron, the owner of the Butterfly Inn. Upon seeing this note, Andy decided to “out-polite” me. Compare the two notes. He wins. And if I re-wrote my note, he would’ve too. I’m no match for British wit.

They bear-hugged me goodbye, and I could hardly look them in the eye. Knowing that people who could easily be your best friends are slipping on by is… not easy. 

I seriously hope I see them again.

Nonetheless, they left me buoyant. Lifted. I replayed bits of conversation I had with those two and laughed out loud (literally). With a heat index of 107 degrees, I got goosebumps climbing uphill three different times thinking- as usual- about how lucky I am.

Check out the terrain for today’s route- again, I never would’ve felt so spirited in Week #1. This is tough stuff made easy because of people I’ve met, incredible support from readers of this blog, and tree trunks for legs. 

Today's Route

Sure I took breaks. And the conversation from passerbys was The Usual. I engaged politely, but I didn’t always say what was on my mind:

“The next hill coming up is absolutely brutal! I don’t like doing it in a car!”

I did the Appalachians. 

“I can’t imagine how your legs can handle this stuff!”

They’re not legs… they’re tree trunks. 

“People drive like maniacs on those roads… watch out for them!”

I’ve been in a New York City taxi.

“How can you handle this heat?”

Good question. 

I don’t know. It’s extremely difficult, if not impossible, to tell yourself that you’re not hot. Three bottles that were piss-warm minutes after filling them with ice water were not enough today for the 24 mile stretch between two different towns. At my 38th mile today (4 miles before the next convenience store and 20 miles into that same stretch), I had run dry, and I all but collapsed in someone’s shaded driveway, sprawled across it like a damsel in distress on a railroad track.

 Except without the damsel part. Or the railroad track. Or the distress.

 So I guess that analogy doesn’t work at all. 

I was in mountain territory on the hottest day of the year, and I just needed a break. 

Don't Eat Here

On cue, a truck pulled in the driveway, and a guy named Dale welcomed me in to his house, where I chugged cold water out of his fridge. 

Water is an amazing thing.

 And I was good to go. 

I’ll skip past my shitty lunch at a shitty bar in Eminence and hit the next highlight: 

Kittens.

Trek

During a quick break at a small canoe rental place, two kittens found my bike and were fascinated, playing with the pedals, the spokes, and my luggage. I asked the owner, Shayne, what their names were. 

“We haven’t named ‘em yet!”

I took a shine to the who approached the bike first. “Can we name this one Trek?” I asked. 

Trek

“No. It’s name is already Trek. A cyclist just named her that. Trek is a stubborn and doesn’t listen. That’s ‘Ol Trek right there…”

So I named a kitten. Cool. 

Moving on…

There’s a beautiful place called Alley Spring about 14 miles behind where I am currently camping. Check it out:

Alley Spring Mill

Alley Spring

Jacks Fork River

Just before Alley Spring, there is a river that asks to be swum in. Now, I haven’t been swimming in about five years, but the river called. 

Don’t ask me twice. 

Jeff Grieves

There, I met Jeff Grieves and his family. Jeff joined me in the crystal clear water and offered tidbits of history while I cooled off (I never tire of that history stuff… I only tune out when someone offers directions that I didn’t ask for). 

Taking a Swim

As the sun was beginning to make its farewell for the day, he invited me back to his campsite for dinner. I still had 14 miles to go, but it was too tempting to resist. 

His wife, Terri, heated some pork chops and packed me a quality bottle of beer for camp (I absolutely cannot consume any alcohol whatsoever in the middle of a ride now), and I raced the setting sun to my destination at the town park in Summersville.

 I made it.

 And the beer was still cool. 

Jeff, Terri, and Sweaty Me

Here I am now. In Summersville, Missouri in the small town square, camping for free. The youths of the town called me over- they were having a cookout on the back of a pickup truck on the edge of the park. They do this every night. I wish I were hungry, because I would’ve taken the pickup-truck-cooked hot dog that they offered in a second. But alas, I was well fed, and I went a whole hot day without eating a single damn protein bar. 

The Nightly Summer Ritual in Summersville, MO

One last thing- Tracey and Andy warned me about Utah. They said to say goodbye to my family and friends for about week because cell service and wifi is all but non-existent. 

When I didn’t have a post up this morning due to the same issue, the inquiries about it were just as uplifting as Tracey and Andy themselves. 

Thank you. 

I thought it would be misery to log my thoughts on a daily basis, but the opposite is true. I look forward to writing every night. It's extremely motivating. 

Stay with me. 

We’re in this together. 

And be safe in Ireland, Hanna. I miss you. 

P.S. 

Wifi Password in the Shitty Emerson Eatery...

...But it Worked.