The hotel had nearly real food for breakfast. Eggs. Biscuits and gravy. Coffee. OJ. Yoghurt.
Stuffed, I hit the road and screamed down the hill I had to climb back up yesterday.
And so began a day of climbing and descending and climbing and descending. On net, I climbed 350 feet, but it felt like 3,500.
Before the Ozarks, roadkill was mostly opossums. Beginning yesterday armadillos started outnumbering opossums. There was also a disturbing number of squashed turtles. I stopped and helped three get off the road.
Riding the frontage road of the interstate I came upon this strange sign combination.
It turned out to be two businesses but for about a mile I was puzzled.
An old bridge on 66 is closed but you can get through on a bike by lifting it over the barrier. This requires unloading/loading/unloading/loading as there were two barriers. One on either end.
As I was about to get underway two local cyclists, Roy Phillips and Al Trumbo, pulled up and we had a long talk. They were great and funny, full of stories. I knew I’d pay for the conversation later though. The time spent talking to them meant more time riding in the afternoon heat.
I stopped at every opportunity to guzzle water and sorts drinks. My belly was sloshing but still I was suffering. A headwind slowed me but felt great in the heat of the afternoon.
I called the town of Marshfield to secure permission to camp in the city park. Of course the access road into the park required one last climb.
I had to ride 1.5 more miles to get to a diner. The green beans that came with dinner were exactly what my body wanted. So was the cherry pie I had for dessert.
This was a really hard day. Hopefully it will pay off down the road. I need to get acclimated to hot weather.
Today was my last day on Route 66. No more refrigerated motels like this.
Tomorrow I switch to the TransAmerica Trail. Hopefully it will be my last hilly day for a while.
Last night a tornado touched down in Jefferson City, 55 miles away. All we had was a thunderstorm.
The storm extended from Oklahoma to DC. Locally it was tracking right along Route 66.
Oh joy.
The weatherman said the storm was as dying out so I left the hotel around 9 a.m. I wasn’t on the road more than two minutes before it started raining hard.
It only lasted a few miles. Then it calmed and I could enjoy more Route 66 roadside nonsense like this enormous rocker.
The road was running right next to the interstate. About ten miles in I could see a big electric sign on the highway: Severe Thunderstorm Warning in Effect.
I began scanning for shelters. Just outside St. James in spotted a pole barn next to a VFW post. I checked the weather radar and decided to make a run for St. James about 3 miles away. As I pulled into town a lightning bolt flashed. I counted for the thunder. 5. It looked much closer than 5 miles away so I looked for a place to eat second breakfast.
Not one restaurant in town. The storm intensified so I put The Mule under the large wave of the Town Hall and went inside to wait it out.
The radar looked nasty.
After an hour my tummy started rumbling. The storm cooperated enough for me to ride 1/2 mile to a Burger King. They were having trouble with their cooking gear so it was a Burgerless King.
I ate lunch with a local man named Bill Clark. He told me about mountain biking with his kids near Branson, Missouri. He said he’d ride a bike across country but only if it had a 900cc engine. He was an entertaining guy. I’m glad I didn’t sit alone with my cellphone.
The clouds cleared and I was back on the road. As I progressed, the temperature and humidity increased. The hilly terrain made for some sweaty climbs but my bike and my body were up to the task.
I couldn’t complain after seeing this road sign for the Trail of Tears.
And whenever I started feeling worn out something silly would appear and improve my mood, like this sign:
Then there was this not so little guy along the shoulder:
The route moved away from the interstate for some hilly but very pretty riding. I especially liked the rocky cliffs along this creek.
Note how swollen the creek is.
Every so often I get off route, but this intersection has my name all over it:
About four miles shy of my destination, I took a break at the top of a long hill. I drank 28 ounces of Gatorade and ate an ice cream bar.
Two miles later was an intersection with several hotels but I really wanted to camp two miles further in the town park of Waynesville.
Waynesville is at the bottom of a long hill. I had a blast flying down it.
Then I saw the park. Next to a creek. The park was closed
The nearest hotels were back up the hill so I turned The Mule around and rode right back up.
I ordered a large pizza after checking into my hotel. It was cheaper than a medium.
Last night sirens rang out. A tornado was spotted nearby.
Eek.
It was all over by 8 pm so I walked across the parking lot for second dinner. I was HUNGRY.
I brought the fast food back to my room and hoovered it.
I slept in and left the motel after the usual motel breakfast hit the road.
After a few miles I came across something I’d missed this spring back home. Goslings! These were oddly all different ages but cute nonetheless. They wouldn’t pose for me do you’ll have to enjoy them from behind.
My legs were weary but the first few miles were on level ground. Once the road left the side of the interstate (Route 66 is mostly a frontage road these days) I saw a figure walking toward me.
It was a Tibetan monk in a straw cowboy hat. I kid you not. Warren Zevon could not have thought this up. He beamed a big smile at me as I waved and said “Haveva nice day.” (I considered “namaste” but the moment was already beyond surreal.)
Temperatures were pleasant and the wind was calm for a couple of hours. My legs were not having a good time. The last two monster hills yesterday took a lot out of them.
I couldn’t find any real food so made do with gas station junk for 40 miles.
Then I ran into the Dubois, Fay and Rob, who were coming east from Santa Monica. We talked a bit and they offered to put me up if I decide to go through Sacramento. Nice!
Their blog is fayrobepicjourney4.home.blog. I can’t wait to check it out.
They both wore wide yellow brims on their helmets, just as my friend Marie does. They said they were indispensable in the Mojave desert.
We traded info. I told them about the mud along the river, the scary neighborhoods in St. Louis, and the nasty hills ahead. They later told me by text that a bridge outage I’m going to encounter soon is passable by bike. Yay, no hilly 11 mile detour.
By this time temperatures had risen into the 80s and I had a 10 mph headwind.
Oh, I forgot to mention that it was hilly. Dozens of hills that were just a bit too steep or too long for me to avoid using my granny gear.
I arrived in Bourbon. It’s a town. I went by Bourbon high school. I’ll bet there are some stories there.
It was 4 pm. I’d ridden 47 miles and hadn’t had lunch. So I ate a massive sub sandwich and drank a gallon of Diet Coke.
The meal revived me so I continued o. To Cuba to shave a few miles off tomorrow when rain is expected.
Cubs is the Mural City. Having missed photos of the monk and the Dubois, I give you the mural from the offices of the local newspaper.
The Mule is holding up. It’s making a ticking noise that I can’t find. I broke a toe clip strap today. And my front brake cable is stretched. (It’s new.) so I have some bike business to attend to this evening. There’s a bike shop in a town dorm the road too.
The day began at 3:30 a.m. I woke up stressing about the fierce weather approaching from the west. The day’s sole objective was to not get caught in the maelstrom.
After inhaling the hotel complementary breakfast (they had Cheerios!!!), I hit the road at 6:50 wearing 2 shirts, my jacket, and my long pants. It was only 48 degrees outside and the wind was blowing. Fortunately for me the wind was either at my back or to my side all day.
I hopped on a rail trail and rode it southwest out of Staunton. I passed a couple of horses munching near the trail side. One was a palomino, my favorite. It brought to mind the dearth of livestock I’ve seen in this trip. There have been no herds of cattle or horses to stampede like last summer in the northern plains.
I flew by into Edwardsville in about 2 hours. There I pondered whether to take a google maps short cut to St. Louis or continue following Route 66 on a circuitous track to the north. After briefly attempting the google route I decided to stick with my Route 66 maps. Google has too many turns and, for all I know, goes through sketchy areas.
Before crossing the Mississippi into Missouri, I stopped at a market to buy snacks. It’s been painfully obvious that I haven’t been eating enough on this trip so I bought apples and candy bars and cheese.
The river and a connected canal looked bloated as I rode across the old Route 66 bridge which is now closed to motor vehicles.
Route 66 bridge over the Chain of Rocks CanalRoute 66 Bridge Bike TrailThe Mississippi River
Turning south, I followed the riverside trail and passed a Missouri DOT truck parked at a trailhead. The truck’s flashing lights were on. The driver was asleep. I continued for another 100 yards and found my wheels encumbered with thick, slimy river mud. I worked my way up to an adjacent highway and started scraping away at the gunk in the narrow paved shoulder.
An African American man of about 40 pulled up and stopped in the north bound lane.
“Are you okay? Do you have a flat?”
“Nope, just clearing off mud.”
“You should get up in the grass out if the road.”
So I did. He pulled his white SUV onto the grass next to me.
The people who drive on this road are crazy. You gotta be careful.
Seconds later: BANG
Two sedans collided on the road. One went one way. The other ended up right where I was standing.
As the SUV driver, whose name was Jerry, said, “That would have fucked you up.”
One of the two cars took off up a side road. The driver of the other car walked up to us to see if we got the car’s license. Unfortunately I was too dumbfounded to notice. For someone who just went through a hit and run this drivers remarkably composed, as if it happened every day.
Off she drove shaking her head.
Back at my mud chore, I notice that my right index finger was bleeding. Jerry pulled out a first aid kit and gave me alcohol swabs, disinfectant patches, and band aids.
He then gave me his phone number to call him if I got stuck in the storm later in the day. Finally, he gave me directions to get back to the trail where it runs atop the levee, away from the mud.
“Whatever you do don’t stay in this road. It goes through the most violent neighborhoods in the area. Two or three people get shot every day.”
I thanked him profusely and followed his guidance. Unfortunately the trail diverted from the levee back toward the river. The mud in this area was several inches thick and super slick. I had to backtrack about a mile and ride in the road again.
This road has heavy truck traffic. Big trucks too. It’s a good thing that truck drivers are patient because every one of them passed me with plenty of room.
At Broadway and Grand Boulevard I had a choice: go two more miles along the river risking crazy drivers and gawdawful mud or ride up a steep hill toward the center of town. I chose to ride up the hill thereby bypassing the Gateway Arch and the interesting buildings along the riverfront. Having already seen them I didn’t think it was worth the risk. Plus, the hill cut some distance and time from my route, a good thing since I had lost at least an hour of time to the mud.
The neighborhood I rode through made the gnarliest DC neighborhoods look like paradise. It was hard to decide what was sadder, the depressing poor people at the bus stops or the shattered big round stained glass window in a beautiful old church. This was obviously a neighborhood bereft of hope.
Then suddenly I was in Grand Center, a few city blocks of lovingly maintained old theaters and businesses. Next came St. Lois University with gorgeous gothic revival buildings.
Turning west on Lindell Boulevard I passed the majestic Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis. On past Forest Park I pulled up to the main entrance to Washington University. The main building stood on a hill facing the city with an unobstructed view. Sadly the University has cluttered the place with modern buildings, with another being added.
Washington University
Soon I was heading west out of town through posh suburbs with hectic traffic and traffic lights that always seemed to be red.
This was taking too long but I had no choice. My original plan was to stay at a motel in Ellisville but the google picture made it look like a dump.
I forged ahead 12 more very hilly miles to Eureka. Along the way I rode on Woods Avenue. It was about a 3-mile, 400-foot windy, wooded descent, the stuff of bicyclists’ dreams.
Unfortunately this was followed by a 1-mile, 400 foot climb that taxed my body to the max. It felt just like the two mountains I climbed near Pittsburgh on last summer’s tour.
As if to pat me on the back for surviving the climb. The road descended 400 feet over the next mile, after which another 200-foot climb was a non event.
I pulled into a Burger King. After I dismounted I was shaking from the effort of those nasty hills. I ate an Impossible burger, a veggie burger that is supposed to taste like beef. It did. Well played BK.
The last two miles were uneventful. I checked in to my hotel, showered, inhaled some snacks then checked the weather.
We were under a tornado warning. Soon sirens blared. This was not a drill.
The hotel’s guests were gathered in the lobby looking at the radar on a big screen. Scary stuff.
It took a ton of effort, sone luck, a trail Angel, and way too much mud but I pulled it off. A day for the ages.
A Few Spokes Shy of a Wheel 