The Awkward Pose

September 16, 2016 – Rain, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 66

Miles to Date: 16,376

States to Date: 44

I woke to the threat of rain and pedaled with determination to Independence, motivated by the darkening skies and Harry S. Truman’s straightforward nature. Presidential Library #8 along my tour. Growing up, my father loved Truman’s no nonsense style, so I’ve always viewed him as a sort of hero. But he’s a complicated hero: a repeated failure in business; politically tied to patronage; a strategic rather than qualified choice for FDR’s fourth term running mate despite the near certain knowledge that this VP would ascend to the top spot.

Truman proved to be more decisive than anyone anticipated. He dropped the bomb on Japan, integrated the armed forces, solidified the Cold War, put us in Korea yet fired Marshall when the popular general wanted to invade China as well. He lived his motto: The buck stops here.

One quote near the end of the museum sequence reinforced how much Truman created the world we inhabit today. “America in 1952 was a nation at the peak of its economic and military power. Yet paradoxically, this America of confidence, prosperity and military strength was also haunted by uncertainties, frustrations and a sense of vulnerability. Power and insecurity, plenty and want, generosity and prejudice – America in 1952 embodied all of these contradictions.” As they do in 2016.

The rain was steady by the time I left Harry’s place. Still, I stopped at the Community of Christ Temple because it cut such a distinctive profile on the skyline. Turns out to be creation of a splinter group of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints who stress Joseph Smith’s early teachings and collective peace. The theology did not grab me, but the grandeur of the building and its dedication to world peace drew me in.

The sky lightened and I sang Muddy Waters as I pedaled west, even if the lyrics are not quite right for me:

I‘m going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come.
I’m going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come.
They got some crazy little women there
And I’m gonna get me one.

September 15, 2016 – Sunny, 85 degrees

Miles Today: 91

Miles to Date: 16,310

States to Date: 44

I woke before dawn, excited for the ride; stretched, breakfasted, and was on the road by seven. I always enjoy riding in the morning. The horizontal light highlighted the galvanized silos and skittered off the corn tassels. I got good miles behind me before the heat set in; the breeze gentle as the contours of the land. I rode the shoulder of US 65 north, across the Missouri River to Carrollton, then thirty miles west on Missouri 10, which follows the crease between the flood plain and the foothills. I logged fifty-nine miles and reached Richmond before noon: a new personal best.

What gave me such motivation? Yesterday I received an email titled, ‘I See You are in Missouri’ from a college friend. Bill made his fortune in technology and finance and retired at age thirty-nine. I saw him three years ago at his spacious house in North Jersey with his wife and youngest child, who was following in his three older siblings’ footsteps in applying to elite colleges. We had a good visit, but I didn’t contact Bill on this journey because I bypassed North Jersey. Turns out that while I pedaled fate threw Bill a curveball. An old childhood flame from his youth in Lima, Peru contacted him on Facebook. The two reconnected. In April, Bill left his wife and affluent New Jersey for a farm in Cameron, MO. Wouldn’t you wake before dawn and pedal 91 miles out of your way to get the skinny on that?

I was famished when I arrived at Jeffrey Kyle’s, a terrific family-owned buffet and restaurant for lunch. Next time you are in Richmond, eat there.

Bill and Jan’s farm is off a dirt road that Google cannot find. I headed north on Missouri 13 without a clear destination, texted Bill from Casey’s General Store in Polo, and hung around for direction. So much buzz in a small town convenience store. One man scratched dozens and dozens of lottery tickets without any sense of joy. A queue formed at the ATM, People bought a steady stream of cigarettes and pop and beer. Four people worked the joint, always busy.

Bill messaged me to ride west on Highway 116 where he and Jan picked me up at a truck stop along I-35. They toted Tom and me to their patch of South America via Missouri, where they raise Alpaca and thrive on their renewed connection.

September 14, 2016 – Sunny, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 68

Miles to Date: 16,219

States to Date: 44

 Today was a terrific day of bicycle touring, though it still did not win me over to gravel. I spent the first 30 miles on Missouri’s famous KATY Trail. It is bucolic and serene, the limestone cliffs are striking and the Missouri River expansive. It is likely the best gravel trail I’ve been on. However, when I pedaled through a passing storm my entire bike got covered in dirt and there’s too much friction to ever feel any speed. Nonetheless I passed more cycle tourists in three hours than I’ve seen in three months. Clearly, I am in the minority on this preference.

I was hungry when I reached Boonville. The town has a newish, garish casino, and I recalled that casinos have great buffets. The hostess wasn’t too keen to invite me and my panniers to the buffet line, but she kept her smile pasted. I had a terrific lunch that fueled me through an afternoon of fluffy clouds, little traffic, and great pavement. Arrow Rock is a neat little restored town; Marshall is famous for Jim the Wonder Dog. The park dedicated to this fabled animal is worth the detour off the highway and into the town square.

I looked for a coin-op car wash to clean my bike, but no such luck. So, I maneuvered Tom into the tub at the Marshall Lodge and gave him a good shower. After he dried, I lubed his chain. He’s as good as before he ever skittered along the KATY Trail. So am I. And we have some misty photos of the broad valley to show for our effort.

September 13, 2016 – Sunny, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 28

Miles to Date: 16,151

States to Date: 44

 True confession: I do not seek out absolutely every contact I know to discuss tomorrow. I’ve passed on few Catholic recommendations because, well, I have a lot of history with that church. And today, in Columbia, I didn’t bother to seek out University of Missouri Press, publisher of Architecture by Moonlight and bane of my existence for over a year. The book came out so well, but there was no reason the birthing needed to be so difficult.

Instead, I had a short but lovely ride, toured the Mizzou campus, and spent the afternoon in the Columbia Public Library. A much better way to spend time.

September 12, 2016 – Sunny, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 70

Miles to Date: 16,123

States to Date: 44

Missouri’s bicycle claim to fame is the KATY Trail – 237 miles from Machens to Clinton, mostly along the Missouri River. But it’s gravel, and I dislike the dust that creates. It’s removed from towns and cities, which I seek out. So, despite Google Map’s consistent attempts to route me on the KATY Trial, I stay on paved roads. Today, instead of paralleling the Missouri River, I paralleled Interstate 70. It may not have been as pretty, but it was a more representative view of our country in this century than following the river Lewis and Clark mapped two centuries ago.

I was not just pedaling west, I was pedaling into the West, following in the shadow of the fur traders, the trappers, the Conestoga pioneers, the renegade Confederates, the railroad builders, the homesteaders, the Depression farmers, and the beatniks; generations of people who pushed this direction for fortune or security or plain old fun. As thousands and thousands of people whizzed by me in air-conditioned comfort I thought about how hard this journey had been for those who came before; how easy it is today.

The Interstate highway system is our nation’s second most auspicious feat, superseded only by depositing a man on the moon. It changed our conception of space and time: Americans live at a mile a minute. It changed our geography from discrete cities and towns whose streets ended in countryside to continuous strings of pavement that sprout houses and stores and industrial nodes all along their path. I passed more construction along the I-70 corridor fifty miles from downtown Saint Louis than I did in the city core. Eventually, the path from Saint Louis to Kansas City will be a linear city in its own right.

One ironic thing about the Interstate highways is that, in their determination to make us go fast and safe, they blur distinctions. We build up the low lands and hollow out the hills to make smooth grades. We bring universal commerce to the on-ramps, which undermine local purveyors. In making it so easy to cross our land, we’ve made it virtually impossible to identify where we are. Our landmarks are not ravines and cliffs; they’re exit signs and golden arches.

Another irony is that, in making it so easy to go west, we’ve commoditized the adventure. Sure, it’s fun to drive coast to coast. But it’s not an achievement, its not difficult in any way. Since anyone can do it, there’s nothing remarkable in the feat.

The Interstates are just another example of how our culture, in its rush to make life easy, has smoothed our experiences and made them less distinct. Our physical lives are so comfortable, yet our mental and spiritual lives are not comparably satisfied. As someone I talked with recently said, “We are fat cats, starving.”

September 11, 2016 – Sunny, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 38

Miles to Date: 16,053

States to Date: 44

 I spent most of today noodling over what I learned yesterday, which included a long writing break to consider Ferguson and the people I spoke with from several angles. I still managed some wonderful riding as the day was perfect and there was no traffic. People must have been in their mega churches. From a distance, I thought this one was an airport concourse – it was at least twice as long as the photo frame would accommodate. You need a pan feature to reckon how big Jesus is in this part of the world.

I don’t know why there are bike locks all over the chain link fence that protects cyclists from a better view of the Missouri River, but the vehicle structure that dwarfs the bicycle span is impressive. I felt the circles of my trip lap back on each other when I crossed the Missouri River near its mouth at St. Charles after tracing it for weeks last summer through the Dakotas and Montana.

September 10, 2016 – Cloudy, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 16

Miles to Date: 16,015

States to Date: 44 

16,000 miles after I left Cambridge I arrived at one of the very first push pins I placed on my map: Ferguson, Missouri. What I encountered was worth all that effort.

Ferguson looks nothing like the images etched into our televisions two summers ago. It looks like the middle class community it is: modest houses with nice lawns, solid businesses, no-nonsense public buildings and shady trees. My day included a few hours at the Ferguson Farmer’s Market; a visit to the public library, which won 2015 library of the year award for its work after Michael Brown’s shooting and Darrell Wilson’s exoneration; time along West Florissant Ave, where the worst of the rioting and looting occurred; and dinner at Marley’s, a local pub, with long-time residents who hosted me for the night.

I am particularly grateful to Linda Lipka and Wesley Bell, two Ferguson City Council representatives who talked with me about their work and responded to my question. I have asked dozens of candidates and elected officials along my route; Linda and Wesley are the first to participate in my project. They typify what I found everywhere in Ferguson: transparency, respect, and tolerance.

Toward the end of my locally brewed Ferguson Pale Ale, I realized that what transpired in Ferguson could not have happened just anywhere. It couldn’t happen in a lily-white community, a pitch-black community, or a gated community. It could only happen in a community that was already on the road to integration, a community where Whites and Blacks rubbed shoulders on a regular basis. A string of disrespect and bad decisions sparked that rubbing into friction and violence, a young man died, and the world reprimanded Ferguson. But when do we reprimand the places so guarded and fearful they do not even allow racial discourse to occur?

We’ll never know if Michael Brown had to die in order to create the respect and tolerance I witnessed in Ferguson. But we should give credit to the citizens of this city who, under a microscope, took his death and its aftermath as a call to come together. Ferguson is far from perfect, but it’s further along the path of respecting all our citizens than most places in our nation.

September 9, 2016 – Rain, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 33

Miles to Date: 15,999

States to Date: 44

 It’s hard not to love a place that embraces you. I sent out four conversation requests in metro Saint Louis, thinking I might get two invites. I got four. I sent out a handful of warmshowers and couchsurfing requests over four nights. I got so many invites I had to turn some down.

I met heavy rain this morning riding through East Saint Louis; a city so poor and empty there is no traffic to splash a cyclist. The sky brightened when I arrived at Cahokia State Historic Park, the World Heritage Site that preserves the largest city north of Mexico circa 1200 A.D. This is a fascinating place, packed with school children and tourists. The introductory film is excellent and the exhibits informative. Walking up Monk Mound – one hundred feet high and 22 million cubic yards of hand carried earth that took 300 years to build – gives a greater appreciation for the capabilities of our native people.

At the top, the sight of the Gateway Arch in the distance creates a link between the symbolic structures of two cultures that inhabit the same broad valley 1,000 years apart.

After visiting our efforts to preserve an ancient culture, it was dispiriting to ride through East St. Louis and witness how quickly we abandon our own cities. The vacant theater on Broadway has one of the most beautiful terra cotta facades I’ve ever seen, left to spall and peel.

I often call Tom ‘the Crown Victoria of bicycles:” sturdy and heavy but reliable in rough conditions. I may have to reevaluate that analogy after seeing this souped-up Crown Victoria in East St. Louis. This car is light years apart from its police cruiser cousins.

I crossed the Mississippi on the Eads Bridge and rode around the Gateway Arch from all directions. It is stately when viewed from the river, quirky when glimpsed from the aging industrial buildings south of downtown, and surprisingly fresh when viewed from the west, where it pops through the rectangular skyline in unexpected ways.

Spent the afternoon at City Museum, one of the most innovative ‘museums’ anywhere. It is educational and informative, but the learning always comes in the service of play. City Museum is also a fascinating study of a failing non-profit turned itself into a profitable asset for the entire city.

In late afternoon I rode to my hosts in the Southwest Garden neighborhood. Saint Louis is on the rebound – the population of 25-34 year olds is on the rise for the first time in decades. It’s got a cool vibe with lots of local shops, eateries and bars. The city grew bonkers just over a century ago, when it hosted the 1904 Word’s Fair and popularized ice cream in a cone. Miles of stately brick homes on generous streets form the core of neighborhoods, most of which appear to be bouncing back from their low points. The city was sliced with too many interstate highways, but it seems the wounds are finally healing, the neighborhoods finding new centers after being ripped apart.

Not all neighborhoods are rising equally. Rich and poor live cheek by jowl in St. Louis. The gatehouses of private streets are often larger than the burned out shells of derelict buildings only a few blocks away.

The city has terrific bike paths, including one feature I’ve never seen: a two-foot zone striped between parked cars and bicycles so that cyclists don’t get car-doored. There are so many reasons to love Saint Louis!

September 8, 2016 – Rain, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 87

Miles to Date: 15,966

States to Date: 43

One look at the window this morning told me rain was on the way. They interrupted the TV newscast of crime, bloodshed, and accusation to describe a storm of Biblical proportion, a giant boomerang of red thunderstorm warnings across our nation’s middle. If we heed the weather warnings we’ll never venture out of doors. If we succumb to the news fears we’ll suspect every neighbor of a crime. When does this message of fear cease?

Despite the warnings, I cycled out of Benton and enjoyed hours of wonderful riding; plenty of corn to keep me in good cheer.

The lunch buffet at Pistol City Restaurant and Saloon in Coulterville compensated for the food desert I pedaled through yesterday. Fried chicken, roast pork, brats with onions, a solid salad bar, tasty stewed tomatoes, and the absolute best peach cobbler I’ve even eaten. I downed two servings of that. The tab? $7.59 plus tax and tip.

Come afternoon the rains arrived. I got wet. I persevered. But I did not get swallowed by that big red boomerang or flooded out in a ditch. I arrived at my host’s on time; a little soggy but no worse for the weather.

September 7, 2016 – Sunny, 90 degrees

Miles Today: 84

Miles to Date: 15,879

States to Date: 43

If the only constant in life is change, the only certainty in bicycle touring is that expectations will be dashed. The day began with such promise. Rising from my sumptuous bed in The Poet’s House, absorbing the Harmonie Labyrinth on the way out of town, riding on smooth blacktop with a fresh breeze and light filtering through the trees. And, of course, there was corn. Acres upon acres of it. I hardly minded the head wind because it made the tassels dance all the way across the Wabash, and the Little Wabash, and through miles of Illinois.

Forty miles in I turned onto US 45 and everything changed. Six miles of dusty road construction, widening a highway with such scant traffic I wondered whose palm got scratched to make it happen. Hungry and parched and powdered as Pig Pen, I looked forward to a nice lunch in Eldorado.

The nicest thing I can say about Eldorado is that it needs so much more than a wider highway leaving town. It’s big enough to have a Subway and a McDonald’s and a Hardee’s, but not so large that those chains allow any other eateries to survive. I exited US 45 and pedaled through downtown in vain search of a cafe: nothing but ‘antique’ stores dusty as my bike and town offices plopped into aging storefronts.

On the way out of town I passed a city park on a hill with covered picnic tables and a drinking fountain. At least, I thought, I could have some shade while I ate lunch from the food stores in my pannier. My arrival attracted too many drifters to comfortably attend to the middle-class functions of checking email and applying sunscreen I usually do during a break. I gobbled my Cliff bar, gave a smile and a wave, and spun out of town.

No more cornfields, no more dabbled light. Who knew Southern Illinois produced coal, by strip mining? The remaining little towns didn’t offer so much as a convenience store.

According to the sign on the edge of town, Benton has 7,100 people, but I don’t know where they are. True, there were more buildings in downtown than I’d seen all day, but they were just as underutilized. My EconoLodge next to I-57 was very nice, but there was nothing, nothing near it. I don’t mind savaging one meal one meal a day from my bag: trial mix or power bars of dried fruit. But when lunch and dinner are high-density energy food, I go to bed unsatisfied. Which is all right. I imagine that people who live here all the time are unsatisfied in many ways as well.