A lot of people have been really complimentary of the bike trip web site at www.biketrip.qball.org, and I think it's only fair to redirect that praise back to whom it truly belongs--me, of course, for giving Ryan Quigley permission to create a web site about us (and I suppose he deserves a little credit for single-handidly designing and maintaining the site). There should be some new pictures up soon.
Well, the signs have been subtle but sure: Dan Meade's lack of balance that's caused him to fall off of his bike multiple times and his bouts of forgetfulness (he's gone through 6 pairs of sunglasses on the trip thus far); the way Harly's beard changes in certain light (particularly when he hasn't rubbed in his sunscreen very well) from the color of hubbard squash to that of gray and the way his sleeping schedule matches my grandmother's (and I'm sure he's only months away from also picking up her habit of drinking a Diet 7-Up and applying cold cream before going to bed, too); and they way both Dan and Harly now pepper their conversations with allusions to the McLeher News Hour and the 700 Club instead of the Simpsons and SportsCenter. But it wasn't until Harly announced last week on the 26th that he was turning 24 years old, however, just 2 weeks after Dan Meade did the same, that they confirmed what I'd long suspected: the Newportians are starting to age. I must say, though, that it's been nice to celebrate two birthdays on the trip, as it reminds me that I have a good three weeks left to wallow in the immaturity of 23 years (Danny, who will be 21 this September, still has a lot of youthfulness left).
With all this aging going on, it was a good thing we hit Missouri sooner that later, for everything we'd heard about the Ozarks turned out to be true. To begin with, they are full of steep, short hills (the locals fondly call them "haystacks"), which means you peddle like hill to get up them and then peddle like hell going down to build up momentum. As a result, you feel a little bit like you're on a self-propelled roller coaster, complete with blind, sharp turns around bushy corners that limit your vision. These hills seemed to immediately appear as soon as we crossed the border into Missouri, so I was hoping they would immediately disappear as soon as we crossed the Mississippi River into Illinois, but I had no such luck and it looks to be hilly from here on out.
The back highways of Missouri, Illinois, and Kentucky proved to be breeding ground for amusing political fodder. Instead of plastering the side of the road with anti-abortion signs that quoted Biblical scripture (signs that were often ironically coupled with other signs urging us to "protect our freedom" and blessing God for our "liberties"), a la the Kansas highways, Missourians seemed determined to make sure we didn't forget the Ten Commandments as we rode, and therefore nailed down a sign with them posted on it at the end of just about every driveway we came to on some stretches. There have also been a few Confederate flag sightings, and more than one local has bragged of and/or shown us a hunting or gun/bow and arrow collection. Riding one day through this heavily conservative buckle of the Bible belt, it suddenly dawned on me: so these are the people who are voting for Bush this November.
Politics notwithstanding, I liked Missouri and southern Illinois and Kentucky (it's been far too long since I last wrote). Kentucky, especially in the central bluegrass region, seems like a great place to spend the evening hours sitting on one's porch looking out over a perfectly tended expanse of lawn and having a glass of Bourbon (mixed with water, if you'd like Grandma) and maybe some sort of tobacco product (the locals really like to chew) while watching the sun drop over the hills.
It's always amusing and sometimes annoying when people assume that we average a lot of miles in an hour. "Oh, it's only 30 miles down the road," they'll say, "so you'll be there in an hour," when we'll really be there in 2 1/2 to 3.
Thus, it was even more funny to me when a store clerk in the 200 person Ohio River town of Elizabethtown told me the opposite. "The Cave in Rock Ferry stops running at twenty to 10," she told me, ringing up my purchase of candy bars and Gatorade. Glancing at the clock and noticing it was only twenty to 6, I performed some quick mental math to figure out that I'd have to go 2.5 miles an hour to make it to Cave in Rock, just 10 miles down the road. I proceeded to politely inform the woman that I actually intended to pedal, not walk, my bike to Cave in Rock, but she just shook her head at me. "You must got yourself one of 'em fast bicycles," she replied, turning her attention back to her Menthol Light she'd left sitting in the ashtray next to the cash register.
With just one week left to go, the end of the trip is approaching rapidly. I'll try to keep you better updated this week.
Take care,
-Nate