i believe my map listed this place, at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere, as a grocery. That must have been years ago. Now the only food available was ancient, packaged junk food. I bought coffee and a cylinder of those waxy, ersatz chocolate mini-donuts -- absolutely tasteless.
The route I am on was first designated around 1976 for the country's Bicentennial. (It was originally called "Bikecentennial.") So, many of the people along the route, know the route and the route maps better than the riders.
Yesterday, I wasn't paying attention and got off-route. I rode several squiggly, hilly miles before I realized I had goofed. By then, I wasn't even sure which direction I was headed. Two guys from Cooksey working on a home improvement project were the first people I saw. I rode up to them, asking for help and announcing that I really had no idea where I was.
You just rode the square. You need to go up here, take a left and go back to Bolton's. Just before Bolton's take a right. You'll be back on track. Yeah, we know the route.<\p>
Thanks. Oh, wait a second. I'm going east. <\p>
Then you need to go out here, take a right, go past Bolton's and take the first left. That'll put you where you want to go.
Conversation today started with "How do like these hills?" I
said I liked them, that I was amazed at how courteous the drivers were,
and that the hills were a nice change from Kansas.
The fellow running the place laughed and said that he had passed me on his way in today -- he asked me if I remembered getting passed by a red car -- "I was going so fast I woulda blown your doors off . . . if you had any doors."
He also said "Don't worry. The hills get better," and asked to
see my map. He showed me on the route's elevation profile what
will be tomorrow's ride-- lots of sharp, jagged peaks and valleys like
a lie detector graph.
The conversation moved on (I don't recall how) to the fact that some Amish families lived in the area. I said that I had seen the signs warning of buggies on the road. The fellow on the left said that the signs were wrong:
Around here they can't have tops on their buggies. Over near [someplace] they can have tops but not here. It depends on what their bishop says. What he says is what they do.
These guys were about to meet an Englishman who had had it with the Ozark hills. I met him about 20 miles down the road. He was utterly exhausted, on the heavy side, sweaty, carrying a ton of stuff, and appeared close to completely losing it. He planned to pay one of these guys to carry him to Kansas, or at least the next town.
I was prepared for the Appalachians. I was prepared for the Blue Ridge Parkway. I'm prepared for the Rockies. But I was not expecting this! These bloody hills. This is the worst. No warning for these things. I hate this.
I felt bad for him. Every other rider I have come across
seemed cheerful, but this poor guy looked nearly dead. I offered
him water, food, anything else I had. All he wanted, he said was
"to get out of here and on to someplace that's decently flat."
