The Dead Sea, Israel

Friends: Neither the setting sun nor the rapidly declining temperatures deterred a bus load of Austrians and I from a baptismal bob in the Dead Sea at Ein Gedi, one of the few free public beaches along its 40-mile western Israeli shore with accompanying showers. With a salt content ten times greater than the ocean, washing off that chalky residue after a dunk is highly advised. As inviting as the blue-green water of the Dead Sea was as I biked along its shore after my climb up to Masada, one of Israel's premier shrines, twelve miles back, caked in a thin layer of my own salt, I resisted taking a plunge until I came to a place where I could rinse the thick Dead Sea salt from my skin. 

 Masada, Hebrew for fortress, resides on its own private plateau, rising most imposingly some one thousand feet above the valley floor. Back in the year 70 A.D. its Israeli inhabitants committed mass suicide rather than be slaughtered by the besieging Romans, who had surrounded it. The plateau had originally been a Roman stronghold, but the Israelis claimed it in the year 66 A.D. during their revolt against the Romans. It took the Romans four years to put down the rebellion and reclaim Masada. There were close to 1,000 Israelis residing atop Masada with enough food and water to hold out for months when more than 8,000 Romans began their assault. When the Israelis realized their cause was lost they committed mass suicide. 

Masada has now become a rallying cry to the Israelis, that never again would they allow such a thing to happen to them. Many Israeli Defense Force units conduct their swearing in ceremony atop Masada. Most visitors pay to be whisked up to the plateau in a cable car rather than submitting to the strenuous, steep, two kilometer climb up the Snake Path carved into the cliff face. In the summer months the path is closed by ten a.m., as the heat is too intense to allow people to go up it. I didn't arrive until after noon, but there were no such restrictions this time of the year. 

An orange juice stand at the foot of the trail was still doing a brisk business. There were more people descending than climbing when I arrived, snaking their way slowly up and down its many switchbacks. If these had been the summer months there would have been throngs at the Ein Gedi beach cooling off and cavorting in the Dead Sea when I arrived there at 4:45. But not this time of the year with the temperature barely 60 in the shade. At first, I thought I was going to have a private swim. The official bath house showers with hot water had closed at four, though there were still cold showers out on the beach. 

It was a steep descent down to the water and just a sliver of a rocky beach at its shoreline. There were two or three souls finishing up their swim as I prepared for mine when a troop of Austrians came frolicking and dancing to the water from the distant parking lot having changed into swimming attire in their tour bus. They were in such a rush, so obsessed with getting to the water, they could have been a colony of nymphs engaging in a nightly ritual of returning to the sea for the night. They surprised me as I was slipping into my swim suit behind the semi-privacy of my bicycle. 

 The water was comparatively warm, so no one faltered in their rush to the water, other than stepping gingerly on the rocks. The water didn't deepen very fast but its buoyancy factor was so great with a 30% salt content, one barely had to lift their feet to be afloat. One of the Austrians brought along a newspaper so he could lay back, poke his feet up and deliver the classic Dead Sea pose. I was happy to discover no cuts or abrasions on my legs or feet, as the strong salt content would have immediately pin-pointed them. The water was choppy, so no one ventured far, nor swam with face down. Everyone seemed to have been alerted to keep their face out of the water, as it would sharply sting one's eyes. 

 I was several days early to the Dead Sea, as I was turned away at the Jordan border, preventing me from a couple day detour to see the ruins of Petra. I'd already paid the 64.5 Shekel departure fee and changed 200 Shekels into 35 Jordanian dinars at the border, when a young woman Israeli customs official asked me, "Hasn't anyone told you, they won't allow you into Jordan on a bicycle here. They'll send you back to us if you try to cross over." 

 That was news to me, though it made perfect sense that an oil-producing country wouldn't want someone transporting himself via a non-oil consuming vehicle, especially one as simple as the bicycle. The powers-that-be certainly wouldn't want some cyclist demonstrating how easily and pleasurably and cheaply one could travel under one's own power, almost as if by magic. Such a revelation could undermine the foundation of their society and economy. It could provoke a revolution of people abandoning their car- and bus- and taxi-dependencies, as well as their slave-labor jobs, and start pedaling to all those places they wanted to go. They'd be overwhelmed by how free they could be. They'd soon learn there is no limit to what can be achieved via the bicycle. 

 Those who travel by bicycle are a further menace to a closed society such as Jordan's, as the bicyclist is easily accessible, not entombed in bus or auto, and the bicyclist likewise has easy access to all and sundry along the way. A bicyclist can, and will, stop anywhere for a rest or a chat. He is liable to preach a doctrine unapproved by the established order. The touring cyclist is aglow with an aura of freedom and sense of accomplishment, and exhilarated by seeing and experiencing so much. The touring cyclist exudes an aura of rapture and is a threat to influence others to follow. There is no telling what else he might reveal that would be contrary to the regime's doctrine. Better to keep all outsiders confined to sealed boxes so that the locals can't have any contact with them. It is further understandable that Jordan wouldn't welcome cyclists, as they don't spend much money and prefer to camp free in the desert rather than pay to sleep in some hotel. 

These Arabic countries for years have been bent on suppressing the nomadic nature of their forebearers and rounding up the desert-dwelling Bedouins to live in cities forcing them to get with the program of job/permanent residency/becoming a consumer. The touring cyclist is a reminder of their roots and their natural inclinations, just what the powers-that-be want them to forget. 

 If I'd gone to Jordan I might have continued north along the Jordanian side of the Dead Sea and crossed into Israel at Amman. If I had done that I would have missed Masada, but at least would have been spared seeing the much more developed state of the Israeli side of the Dead Sea. There is a huge potash factory at its southern tip employing 35,000, and also a cluster of high rise hotels and spas. Still, most of the shoreline is undeveloped and rapidly receding. The water evaporates at a high rate in the torrid summers. It is 1,350 feet below sea level, by far the lowest place on the planet. The oxygen content of the air is 10% greater than at sea level, which will make the huge climb up to Jerusalem from the Dead Sea--nearly 4,000 feet in less than 25 miles--a little less difficult than if it were in the Rockies. 

 Later, George

Nuweiba, Egypt

Friends: For three nights in the Sinai I've scrounged to find a strip of sandy gravel for my tent and sleeping pad in this rocky, rugged terrain. I was happy for the rocks last night though, as I needed to line the inner perimeter of my tent with the biggest rocks I could find to keep the fierce and swirling wind from sending my tent into the Red Sea. The wind was so strong it caught the two panniers, one front and one back, that I'd left on my bike, blowing it over onto the tent. The non-stop flapping of the tent's rain fly was so noisy I didn't hear the crash. When I awoke at one point to full consciousness and discovered the handlebars poking into the side of the tent near my head I thought the tent poles had finally snapped, something I feared at any moment as one gust outdid another. It was the most severe test these poles had ever been subjected to.

The flapping was so loud and distracting, I contemplated removing the rain fly and letting the
wind blow through the mosquito mesh of the tent, but then I would have been imperiled of being smothered by sand. Even with the fly blocking the netting, a fine layer of sand was penetrating the tent and covering all my gear. I could feel it gathering on my face. As inhospitable as the Sinai can be, there is a striking beauty to its stark and desolate landscape, rugged mountains on one side and the winding coastline of many quiet coves on the other.

The landscape was even more dramatic when the road turned inland after 40 miles. It rose sharply out of Nuweiba, climbing to 2,800 feet in eight miles. After ten miles on this plateau I had the choice of continuing down the coast to the traveler's resort of Daba or heading inland to the 7,000' high Mt. Sinai, where Moses transcribed the Ten Commandments. It was 55 miles away, a little further than I had time for, since I had to double back, but I chose to head for the highlands for at least a glimpse of that high peak. After 15 miles of more climbing and winding around gargantuan, spectacular pinkish rock formations unique to this region, I decided to turn back.

It was closing in on noon and I had not passed a restaurant all day. I had been counting on a service station/cafe at the intersection, but all that was there was a police checkpoint. They told me there was no food or water until I came to St. Katherine's Monastery on Mount Sinai, 55 miles away. That wasn't entirely true, as there were a handful of Bedouin hovels offering tea and soft drinks. I stopped at one just as a place to escape the sun and headwinds and hoping to get some food. The woman kept wanting to sell me water. When she finally understood I wanted some food she nodded yes and went off for some twigs to light a fire. I had no idea what I might get. Half an hour later she placed before me a couple of freshly baked pitas and a bowl full of chopped up tomatoes. While she prepared the meal her barefoot five-year old daughter snuggled up against me intently staring as I read a book seated on a couch of carpets.

As enticing as Mt. Sinai and the monastery were, the winds and climbing would have required four to five hours of riding time to cover the remaining 40 miles, almost until dark, on minimal food and drink. If I had truly been determined to go all that way I could have accepted the offer of a van driver who stopped alongside me earlier in the day when I was on the long steep climb from the coast offering to drive me there for 100 Egyptian pounds, or $20. Not even an offer of a free ride would have been enough to entice me to being cooped up in a suffocating van isolating me from such spectacular terrain that I could so easily be out in and enjoying on my own terms.

There is hardly a sprig of vegetation to be seen anywhere in these parts. Just a couple minutes after crossing into Egypt I came upon a quartet of camels foraging in a dumpster in the town of Taba. I saw the similar site of a lone camel with his head poking into a garbage can a day later, also at dusk, on the outskirts of Nuweiba.

For 40 miles from the border to Nuweiba the coast was lined with a variety of resorts, some grandiose with casinos, including the Hilton that was bombed a few years ago, and simple clusters of small cabanas for the budget set with names like Escapeland, Paradise and The Getaway. Most were closed though, as it is the off season, just patrolled by watch dogs.
They won't open for another month or so and then plane loads of Germans, Italians and Russians will pack the beaches.

Its good biking weather with the temperature in the 60s, though it feels much warmer sitting in the sun out of the wind. With the sun beating down relentlessly on the Red Sea, its waters are pleasantly warm. I've taken advantage of it several times. The water is clear and known for its snorkeling and diving. One had to wade a considerable distance before it deepens. Jordan is on the other side of this bay of a sea, not that distant. It seems perfectly plausible that it could be parted, though I wouldn't want to try.

I was tempted to take a ferry from Nuweiba to Jordan and save myself from having to double back to Eilat to cross into Jordan, but I missed the one ferry a day I could have taken my bike on. Bypassing Israel would have saved me the $20 exit fee Israel imposes for crossing into Egypt and Jordan. All Egypt demanded was a ten dollar toll a couple miles past the border.

I had my best meal of the trip at a two table locals cafe in Nuweiba. Two of its walls behind the
counter were plastered with the front pages of yellowing newspapers celebrating Saddam Hussein. The cook let me sample several items before adding them to the falafel he prepared me. Nor would he let me peel the hard-boiled egg I had as an appetizer. He swirled it between the palms of his hands crumbling away the shell. I was treated to similar hospitality at the local grocery store. The owner shared half an orange with me. People regularly go out of their way
to have a word with me, many hoping to avail me of their services. Several have tried to talk me out of going to Jordan, but that is next up.

Later, George

Eilat, Israel

Friends: Israel is no place for one with a phobia for guns. Young soldiers with automatic weapons dangling from their neck are a common site. I see them at bus stops, often gabbing away on a cell phone. They join me at roadside cafes, grabbing a burger or a falafel, plopping down at a table, their weapons on their lap performing napkin duties. I see them in towns quietly going about their business, their weapons as much a part of their appearance as a woman with a satchel. I've become so accustomed to seeing soldiers and their standard issue automatic weapon, if I notice one without a weapon, something seems amiss. I haven't seen or heard one put to use though, not even in the occasional "firing zones" I pass through in the desert. I dared to camp on the fringe of a forested firing zone, figuring it was safe when I didn't notice any evidence of spent shells.

There were "no gun" signs on the doors at the airport, sparing arrivals an immediate dose of what might freak out some. The ultra modern Tel Aviv Airport was most welcoming in every way. The customs officials did not stamp my passport nor did they query me about what was in all those bags on my bike or even take a peek. I was fully prepared to lay all my gear out for them and explain the purpose of each of my many bicycle specific tools and all else I require for a month long bike tour. I wondered if I could do it in under an hour.

I passed through customs so quickly that it was nearly an hour before my friend Evey arrived to meet me. She had bused down from Jerusalem, less than an hour away, to welcome me and pick up a few items I had brought her, including some silk long underwear and  half of the books I brought to read along the way. I'll pick the books up when I swing through Jerusalem in a couple of weeks after visiting the southern half of the country.  We had a fast hour chat and then went our separate ways, she back to Jerusalem and me off into the Negev.

It wasn't until my second day in Israel, when I was well into the Negev Desert, which comprises 50% of the country, that I roused the suspicion of an authority figure. I was flying along with a nice tail wind when I heard a siren behind me. I had feared such a sound for my first 50 miles out of Tel Aviv, much of which I spent on four-lane divided highways. There were no signs barring cyclists as there are on such Interstate-type roads in the U.S., but still I worried that it might simply be understood that bicyclists aren't allowed on such roads. But with no better alternative, I dared to ride on their shoulders as gobs of traffic whizzed past at ungodly speeds. If it had been Germany, I would have had motorists blasting their horns at me or slowing to tell me to get off the road.

At last, beyond Beer Sheba, the largest city in the Negev, the road narrowed to two lanes and the traffic greatly diminished. So this siren came as a surprise. I was maintaining a decent clip, but I doubted I was exceeding any speed limit. The officers remained in their car and beckoned me to approach, as they didn't care to go out in the rain, a light drizzle, though it had been a hard downpour just minutes before and I was soaked. The officer in the passenger seat rolled down his window. "What are you doing?," he asked.

That was a good question. It was 40 miles to the next town and an hour until sunset and the sky was thick with dark clouds. I simply said, "I'm bicycling around Israel."

"Where are you going?," he next wanted to know.

"To Eilat," I said, the southernmost point in Israel, less than 150 miles away.

"By bicycle?!" he asked, as incredulous as if I had told him I was rushing to a hospital to give birth to a hippopotamus.

"When's the rain going to stop?," I asked.

"Maybe tomorrow," he said, then rolled up his window and was off.

As I continued cycling in the cold rain I kept hoping a kindly soul from a kibbutz might pull over and offer me refuge, though there was no evidence of any kibbutzim in the empty desert terrain. That didn't happen until the next day. But the kindly soul wasn't from a kibbutz. He just had friends who had a campground in the town of Mizpe Ramon. He drove me to their compound on the fringe of the town. It was early in the afternoon and I doubted I would take advantage of it, but I obliged him, responding to his friendliness. The price of 80 shekels ($23) made it easy not to be tempted, even though I could have used a shower.

The guy then led me to the fringe of the giant crater the town is nestled up against, the largest crater in the world that is a cross between the Grand Canyon and lunar landscape. His apartment overlooked it. It was Friday afternoon, with Shabbat, the Jewish sabbath, imminent. I had stocked up on food for the next day, as most businesses close from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. But I needed a loaf of bread for the two pounds of hummus I had bought and my peanut butter. My benefactor sent his wife to his apartment for a loaf while we chatted. He had traveled by bike across France and Thailand, so knew full well how much appreciated food can be to a touring cyclist. I was the first touring cyclist he had ever seen in Israel, however.

We pored over my map. He suggested a quieter, less-traveled route to Eilat. He also assured me that a gas station/cafe at an intersection 60 miles down the road would be open tomorrow on Shabbat. I was counting on it. When I arrived there I was down to one water bottle. It was another 40 miles to Eilat from there. But the facility had a sign saying it wouldn't open until 5:30 that night. It was 10:30 and it was beginning to warm up. Mizpe Ramon had been at 3,000 feet elevation, high enough for there to have been snow the week before. I was very happy to have brought my down sleeping bag with night-time temperatures dropping into the low 40s. But as I descended to Eilat, a resort city on the Red Sea, I no longer needed my tights nor even a long sleeve shirt. I was rationing myself one sip of water every mile for the 40 miles to Eilat. But miraculously, about 15 miles down the road after I turned on to the main artery linking Eilat with Jerusalem, I came upon a big-time kibbutz that had one of the largest dairy productions in the country and a store that remained open on Shabbat. It was the only place that day with food or water in the 95 miles between Mizpe Ramon and Eilat. Now its off to Egypt for a couple of days before returning to Eilat and a quick swing into Jordan. Then it will be on to Jerusalem and the northern third of Israel.

Later, George

Crete, Illinois

Friends: I crossed back into Illinois over the fairly stagnant Wabash River in the southern part of the state. Just after the governor's welcome a sign warned, "$2,000 fine for bootlegging cigarettes." Across Indiana, stores advertised cigarettes for the "Absolute legal minimum price," something over three dollars. In Kentucky certain local brands were selling for $1.79, dramatically less than the six dollar a pack prices in Chicago, not that I indulge.

After entering Illinois at the small town of Hutsonville I continued west two miles to Highway 1, turned right, and began a 250-mile home stretch run straight north along the eastern border of the state. Highway 1 eventually turns into Halsted Street, which runs virtually the length of Chicago, passing within eight blocks of my apartment. It was flat, wide open country of mostly cornfields. A few fields still had the now brown, withered stalks still standing that had provided more than adequate shelter for my tent and I through Indiana and Ohio on the first leg of this trip before I ducked down into southeast Ohio and West Virginia and began forest camping.

I gave extra welcome to whatever clusters of trees I came upon now, as they offered a break from the northerly winds that the pathetic looking corn stalks couldn't. It was the first serious head wind I had encountered in my month on the road, slowing my speed by several miles per hour and forcing me to increase my effort. I had chosen this route as my final stretch, as it took me through Paris, Ill., not so much for another Paris but because the librarian in Paris, Kentucky mentioned that the Paris, Ill. library was a Carnegie, as was his.

Carnegie libraries were one of the themes of these travels. After I encountered several in Indiana and Ohio, I began searching them out. There were quite a few more than I realized. According to Wikipedia, Carnegie funded the construction of 2,509 libraries between 1883 and 1929 all over the U.S. and the world. All but two states, Alaska and Delaware, have at least one Carnegie library. Of the 1,679 Carnegies built in the U.S., Indiana had the most with 165. California was next with 142, then Ohio with 111 followed by Illinois and New York with 106.

Not all the Carnegies are still standing or are still used as libraries. The one in Oberlin, Ohio is now used for the college's music department. The one in Cambridge, Ohio stands empty. Many of the Carnegies I visited have had additions over the years, some two or three. They are all distinctively grand, stately buildings, almost immediately recognizable as a Carnegie, though each has its own personality and flair. At the time of their construction, they were usually the most prominent building in a town--genuine temples honoring literature. They have aged very well and still retain their majesty, many adorned with columns and domes and fine stone work.

When I began inquiring about the history of the library in Paris, Kentucky, the librarian invited me back to his office to show me his collection of postcards of the library, all enclosed in protective plastic. Several had postmarks from the early 1900s, shortly after the library opened in 1904. He said whenever a postcard of his library appears on Ebay, he buys it.

He was very interested in my bike travels. When he was studying to be a librarian at a college in western Pennsylvania twenty-five years and twenty-five pounds ago, he intended to spend his summer vacation bicycling around the region visiting relatives. He had his route planned and all the equipment for the trip ready to go, but had to cancel at the last minute when he discovered he needed to take a course that summer if he wanted to graduate a year ahead of schedule. It is something he regrets not having done. Now he has hopes of bicycling to visit a brother in Louisville one hundred miles away.

He was the second person on this trip who told me such a story. The director of Winston-Salem's film festival, a younger man who served as the publicist for Chicago's film festival for two years several years ago, was all set to bicycle coast-to-coast across the U.S. after he lost his job with the Chicago Tribune. But he was offered a job out in Hollywood just before he was to set out that he couldn't turn down. Carl Bernstein of Woodward and Bernstein fame tells a similar story in the book "All the President's Men." He had wanted to bike coast-to-coast but pursued his journalism instead.

The Carnegie library in Paris, Ill., a most vibrant community of 9,000 residents, was one of the few that actually had Carnegie chiseled into its facade. Most are anonymous. Only a few even acknowledge Carnegie with his portrait hanging somewhere within their confines. The Paris, Ill. library was the only one I came across with the date of its construction in Roman numerals, MCMIV. The Carnegie in Ridge Farm, a town of just nine hundred, twenty miles north of Paris on Highway 1, was a rare one modestly constructed of red brick. Most were of white stone. The Carnegie in Bedford, Indiana, the"Limestone Capital of the World," was expectantly constructed of limestone. The Carnegie in Marietta, Ohio, a river town with character on the Ohio River just across from West Virginia, was perched on a former Indian mound in a residential area of the city.

A very tempting bicycle tour could be made of searching out all the Carnegies in a state or a multi-state tour visiting a Carnegie in each state. Such an idea has been festering ever since I came upon a Carnegie library in Texas a couple falls ago and then again this past summer in Scotland. Libraries are always at the heart of my U.S. travels, as they were in Iceland and Scandinavia and the British Isles, places that were also rich in public libraries.

I often drop in on two or three a day, even before they offered the Internet. They always provide a pleasant, warm sanctuary. Only twice on this tour have the librarians been less than hospitable. The library in Brownstone, Ind. was the only one that wanted money for the Internet and this library here in Crete initially wanted to limit me to fifteen minutes on the computer until I explained my situation. The young man helping me said he had to ask his supervisor though, for permission to let me have an hour, even though only two of the dozen computers were in use.

Rare is it that I have to ask someone directions to the local library when I'm passing through a town, as I'll invariably come upon the universal sign of a book being held up to be read with an arrow pointing the way. But if I do need to ask, I can count on getting an answer from whomever I ask. The only times I have failed is if the person does not live there, or once in Nevada when I asked a road construction worker and he responded, "Do I look like I'd know where the library is." When I reached the center of Crete and hadn't come upon the sign for the library I asked a pedestrian, a husky guy with a hooded sweatshirt. He told me it was a mile up the road on the right, and added, rather testily, "But it doesn't have a pay phone."

Danville, with a population of 36,000, was the largest city along Highway 1 back to Chicago. Every block or so through the center of the city there was a small sign attached to a light pole with the portrait of someone born in Danville who went on to achieve some sort of fame. Among them were Dick Van Dyke, Zeke Bratkowski of the Green Bay Packers and an astronaut by the name of Tanner. Danville wasn't the only town on Highway 1 expressing pride. The small town of Westville, shortly before Danville, mentioned it hosted the first night football game in 1928. A church in St Anne, a ways beyond Danville, laid claim to being the first shrine in the US.

As I neared the end of this trip, I wasn't disappointed at all that this had been my fall trip rather than a more glamorous ride from Istanbul to Cairo, as I had been contemplating. It was wonderful to see Ken and Laura and their delightful young children Iain and Clara in Oberlin and Tomas in Greensboro and Lyndon and Stephanie in Winston-Salem. I had wanted to visit all of them for years.

It was also nice to have finally gotten to the Bicycle Museum of America in New Bremen, Ohio and also to have experienced the spectacular fall foliage of West Virginia and all the grandiose Halloween decorations in the small towns along the way. Kentucky and southern Indiana also provided unexpected superior cycling. My only regret was that I didn't bring along my down sleeping bag, forcing me to wear long pants and a sweater and a wool cap most nights in my sleeping bag, rated to only about 45 degrees. Otherwise, the camping was top-notch. It was a thoroughly satisfying month on the bike. I'd heartily recommend it to all. I'll have to do it again some time.

Later, George

Paris, Illinois

Friends: Biking through the Bible Belt I have been barraged by non-stop proselytizing, none of it though by the decent and kindly folk who have taken an interest in me. Not a single conversation diverted to the subject of religion, not even to ask if I was a believer or had been saved or if Allah was my lord. Rather, the proselytizing has come in the fairly benign form of advertising on the message boards in front of just about each of the many, many churches lining the roads I've been riding, giving sermon titles and other pronouncements.

Religion is easily the most predominant industry in these parts. Like any business, they need customers, and as any good businessman knows, it is important to advertise and to promote whatever he might be selling. The churches rival the fast food franchises with all their message boards trying to lure buyers with bargains (Whoppers 2 for $3) or some new product (Spicey Chicken Sandwich $1) or news (McRib Is Back). Some churches merely use their message boards to announce the times of their services or mention a rummage sale, but most offer much more, trying to turn heads and entice them into becoming a customer. The less imaginative merely post some verse from the Bible, but many strain to be clever and witty, not only to capture the attention and stir the thought of someone passing by, but also to make them think, "Hey, whoever came up with that could be fun and could perhaps be the pastor or congregation for me."

There is lots of competition out there, and the churches well know it. Some of the postings are stodgy, old-school, generic, tired, recycled cliches little more interesting than the Bible verses, but others are most contemporary keeping up with the lingo of the times, such as, "Not all answers can be found at google." Many are meant to give a chuckle, some combining humor with a sting--See you Sunday, unless you have something better to do." Some are wacky enough to qualify for a David Letterman Top Ten List--"Went to see Dad, back to see you later--Jesus." Many refer to that Jesus fellow--"Got Jesus? It's Hell without him," "Jesus--The equal opportunity saver," "Be an organ donor, give your heart to Jesus."

Some give warning--"Pray now or pay later," or threaten--"Life has many choices. Eternity has two. What is yours?" Some scold--"Quit griping about your church. If it was perfect you couldn't belong." Some rhyme--"Where God guides, He provides." Some speak of crime--"Sin carried far enough becomes its own punishment." Some advise--"Go out on a limb, that's where the fruit is." Some pose questions--"Where will you be if Christ comes today?," "Do you spend your time loving others or judging others?" Some are seasonal--"The best Ghost is the Holy Ghost." Some are double entendres,"Are you helping with the harvest?" Some ask hot, burning questions--"Is Hell real?" Some are libelous--"Try our Sundays, they're better than Baskin-Robbins." Some are provocative--"It takes guts to be a sinner." Some are definitive--"God said it. I believe it. That settles it." Some are inspiring--"A mighty fortress is our God." Some are Swedenbourgian--"Faith goes where eyes can't see." Some are puzzling--"Does temperance grow on your tree?"

One church felt the need to respond to AA's 12-step program--"The steps to happiness are the church steps." Some give mathematical formulas--"God's arithmetic--love, joy and peace multiply when you divide with others." Some advise where to look--"Feeling Down? Look Upward," "Keep looking up, God is looking down." And there are plenty of general advice--"Feed your faith and doubt will starve to death," "If a sibling of Christ has a problem, don't gossip, pray." Some offer words of consolation--"There is no problem when you have the answer," "Real peace comes from being in God's will." In rain-starved North Carolina one church simply announced, "Praying for rain." Another was more specific--"Let us pray for lots of gentle rain."

My travels coincided with Pastor Appreciation Week, so I had a minimal reprieve from the barrage that week, as many churches opted to put "We Appreciate Our Pastor" or "Thank You Pastor So and So" on their message board. There were so many churches along one road in eastern Kentucky, one every four or five miles, there was a special road sign warning there was a turn-off to a church ahead. I was never far from the religious tenor of the Belt. One town's welcome said, "Attend a church of your choice and be square all week and come 'round on Sunday." Businesses that posted their hours didn't simply say "Closed on Sunday," but might say, "Closed to give thanks."

With many churches under construction or expansion, religion is clearly a hearty growth industry. Besides the many simple, humble one-room school house-type churches, there were the occasional magnificent Taj Mahal edifices, often on a hill, surrounded by vast parking lots and sprawling, meticulously manicured lawns. They looked so nice that parishioners might have to remove their shoes before entering. I kept hoping I'd encounter some church or some message board pronouncement so enticing at service time, that I would be drawn within and might discover a Sam Kinnison of a preacher, the deceased screaming comedian who got his start on the preaching circuit. There was clearly a lot of talent drawn to the profession.

I might not have paid so much attention to the church message boards if I had had bumper stickers to occupy my thought and to be on the alert for, but they have become an extreme rarity. They were once virtual standard issue, providing a continual stream of amusement and insight into what were the issues of the day. Back in the era of the bumper sticker, when it was rare to see a vehicle without at least one to let all know what was important to its owner and what that owner thought was amusing, owning a car almost had some justification. One felt the need, if not obligation, to put some bumper sticker that spoke his mind on his vehicle. Mentioning a clever bumper sticker was a frequent topic of conversation and stand-up routines. The demise of bumper stickers might be partially blamed on answering machines, as their cute messages seemed to suck a lot of creativity from those who composed bumper stickers.

The passing of the bumper sticker is another sad fact of our homogenizing world and the crushing of individuality, as well as the fear that prevails. Some would say it is an indication that people no longer care enough about anything to make an issue of it, not even to express pride in their child the honor student or that they have a baby or an alien on board. The decline of the bumper sticker might be traced to the sticker, "My student can beat up your honor student." It said all about the violent and vengeful nature of our times, and reflected the fear people have to mention anything they care about lest it push someone's ignite button. In this trigger-happy society it doesn't take much to set off someone sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic listening to the bile of radio talk shows with hosts and callers venting their rage. A simmering and stewing driver trapped in traffic staring at a bumper sticker promoting something abhorrent to him, whether it simply be the call letters of a radio station he associates with evil, or something innocuous as "Keep your laws off my body," might turn him crazed, especially if that vehicle was a tad slow to respond to a light turning green or might have earlier slipped in front of him.

There are related reasons for the demise of the bumper sticker. One is that bumper stickers make it easy to identify and track down a motorist. Since anyone can be involved in a mishap they'd prefer not to have to be held accountable for, it is best to remain as anonymous as one can. Another reason is there are all too many who regard their automobile as a sacred object and wouldn't dream of desecrating it with a stuck-on object, even one that said, "Pray Now or Pay Later."

In all the miles I have biked the past month and thousands of vehicles who have wagged their rears in my face there was one that hearkened back to the good 'ol days of bumper sticker mania. Its brave and defiant driver had adorned her car with stickers approving gay rights and disapproving of war and one that read "Vegetarians Taste Better." The car belonged to my friend Stephanie in Winston-Salem. Her husband Lyndon's van was sticker-free, however. And he said he always felt like slumping low whenever he had to drive Stephanie's car, as he feared anyone seeing him would question his masculinity.

Later, George

Brownstown, Indiana

Friends: As I sat eating the lunch special (meat loaf and mashed potatoes) at a small cafe/general store in rural Kentucky that advertised "Plate Lunches," a series of seeming regulars, stopping in for a pack of cigarettes or cup of coffee or the special, paused to have a word with me, almost as if the odd site of my loaded bike out front had lured them in.

Some gave advice on where I ought to cross the Ohio River just a few miles away to Indiana. The options were either via the town of Madison or the Markland Dam Bridge. Most recommended Markland, as there was a river boat casino there, and as one said, "If you was lucky enough not to have been run off the road around here you ought to hit the jackpot with your luck." The boat was on the Indiana side, as Kentucky does not allow casinos. It has been voted down several times and most likely will lose again Tuesday. "The church-going folk are agin' it," one guy explained, "And there are more of them than us that want it. But it don't hardly matter, as they can't keep us from crossin' the bridge to Indiana. It's just a shame all our money is goin' to Indiana when we could use it here."

A tattoo parlor owner also lamented the influence of the church-goers. He was telling the guy taking everyone's money at the cash register that he was looking to open up another tattoo parlor because he knew the demand was there. "I know of eight people who are giving tattoos out of their houses, which is against the law," he said. "But the health inspectors can't go after 'em unless someone becomes infected and files a complaint, which just doesn't happen. If they get infected, they don't want to admit it. I've been lookin' all over to open another place, but its hard to find a location. People don't want a tattoo parlor in their neighborhood. You know their reputation--tattoos, drugs, whores, crime, they all go together, or at least that's what folks around here think, especially the religious types." An older guy in bib overalls sitting at the table next to me said, "Ain't nobody gonna put a tattoo on me. I get stuck enough by needles."

Conversation also drifted to the topic of tobacco. After some 100 miles of riding past horse farms in the central part of the state around Lexington, my final 50 miles of Kentucky was through tobacco country. It had been harvested and was presently hanging in partially open and well-ventilated barns, the large tobacco leaves darkening to a deep reddish brown. The "housing of the tobacco" can take a couple of months before it is fully cured. Philip Morris and R. J. Reynolds buy up the bulk of the crop. It goes for about $1.50 a pound, down from two dollars just a couple years ago when federal subsidies were cut off. The price has also declined since the tobacco companies started buying it from China at a cheaper price. Carrolltown, the largest city in the area, on the Ohio River, where all the local buying and selling takes place, once had one of the three largest tobacco festivals in the world. It is still held every October, but with tobacco production way down in the area, it is no longer the grand, celebrated event it once was.

I had had so many interruptions in my meal, I was still eating when the lunch hour had pretty much past, allowing the cook to take a break and join me in conversation as she sat at an adjoining table with her meal. She had heard I was heading back to Chicago. She said she had been there once to attend a gathering of Long John Silver managers. She used to run the one in Carrolltown for 14 years until new management took over. She flew up to Chicago from Lexington, a 45-minute flight. She said she couldn't believe so many people could live in one place. She doesn't miss her days at Long John Silver at all. It was a job of many headaches. One of the biggest was having to hire a new high school kid every week or so. She was well into her 60s now. Working in this small cafe was like going into semi-retirement. As I was on my way she commented, "Thanks for coming in Sweetie. Come on by again."

Later, George

Paris, Kentucky

Friends: I've wild-camped in some precarious and perilous spots over the years--on the fringe of a tiger preserve in India, downriver from a dam in New Zealand after a 5.9 earthquake as the region was being evacuated in fears the dam might break, at the top of a run-away truck ramp on the California coast, in the Botanical Gardens of Melbourne, at the trail head just off the road in the rebel territory of Laos, anywhere in Colombia, on a military firing range in France--but, some would say, none was more foolhardy than where I camped last night, in a Kentucky small town cemetery on Halloween.

I've camped in cemeteries before and was unscathed by the experience, but never on the night of the spooks and goblins. I didn't intend to cemetery-camp on Halloween, but I was down to my last few minutes of light, and the road the last couple of miles had been lined with small farmsteads, fenced and with dogs on the prowl. I was closing in on the town of Irvine, less than four miles away. But I had not a worry, just a heightened sense of expectation of what hallowed piece of turf awaited me that I could call my own for this night.

I knew something would turn up, as it always has, hundreds, no thousands of times, over the years. Half an hour before I was passing through Boone National Forest with deluxe wild-camping left and right, when I began an unanticipated two-mile, 20-minute climb. It was imperative I complete the climb, and especially the descent, before dark, as making that descent in the morning's 30-degree temperatures would have left my fingers and toes brittle enough from the semi-arctic 30 mile per hour wind-chill to break off. The climb had come as a surprise, as now that I was more than 100 miles beyond the mountains of Appalachia the terrain had been merely rolling and mostly flat on roads that lazily meandered along rivers and train lines. The cycling was so superlative and I was gobbling up the miles so effortlessly, I was spending more time pedaling than I had intended, and by the time I came to the cemetery I'd amassed an unexpected 100 miles for the day, my most in the 1,500 miles I've come since leaving Chicago three weeks ago.

I was in no rush to be anywhere, though if I wanted I could set my eyes on making it to Indianapolis by Sunday in time for the "Game of the Millennium" between the Patriots and the Colts. But I just wanted to take my time and enjoy the rural beauty and tranquility and linger a little longer at the cafes and libraries I sought for warmth, and to eavesdrop on the locals and read Paul Theroux's excellent travel book "Pillars of Hercules" about an 18-month journey around the perimeter of the Mediterranean from the Rock of Gibraltar to the Middle East and across the top of Africa to Morocco. He was enjoying it and was much less grouchy than he can be. It stirred many fond travel memories of my own, doubling my present travel pleasures by being in two places at once, here in Kentucky and over there. Each evening I was looking forward to reading more in my tent, but not so much as to quit riding early when the riding was as good as it was this day of Halloween.

When I came upon the cemetery I unhesitatingly seized upon it for my evening's campsite. It was a classic--unfenced, up a hill, with a few scattered trees amongst the graves. Back in a corner was a nice level spot beside a hefty tree that would partially shield my tent and provide a lean-to for my bike. There was a house across the street and another beside the cemetery below me surrounded by trees. I was fairly well-secluded, but I was slightly concerned about lighting my candle, as it gave a soft glow to my tent. If I didn't need the warmth it provided I would have stuck with my headlamp for my sole illumination.

As I began my dinner of sardine sandwiches and a can of baked beans, a dog below began barking, letting me know that he knew I was there, but not so frantically as to arouse the curiosity or concern of its owners. Still, I wished he'd desist, lest he betray my presence. When I called it a night a couple hours after dark, I knew there was the possibility the cemetery might attract some Halloween pranksters, but it didn't prevent me from promptly drifting off to sleep. If anyone came around, ethereal or otherwise, I wasn't aware of it. It was another great campsite after another great day on the bike. And I was happy, as always, to awake to my tires still fully inflated.

Kentucky has been treating me well since I crossed into it at the summit of Black Mountain, the highest point in the state at 3,500 feet. I reached it after a seven-mile climb up a road known as The Lonely Pine Trail. It could have been just The Lonely Trail, as I had it mostly to my self. It linked former coal mining towns that were now more dead than alive with the passing of the industry in this region. Not even the Kentucky Coal Mining Museum in one of the small towns was attracting any one. But it made for fine cycling, especially the gradual descent after the initial steep plunge of several miles through a narrow valley past countless uninhabited two-story wooden houses that at one time were most respectable.

Kentucky has abounded with refreshing and heartening small towns allowed to be themselves, unmarred by cloned tract-house developments or gated communities on their fringes or glaring eye-sores of someone's dream house. There is no evidence of wealthy city-dwellers building quaint refuges from the urban jungle for themselves, so common in Wisconsin and Michigan and out west near ski resorts and quaint western towns. Not too many of the towns have libraries, but I still manage to come upon one or two a day. Several have offered their discards free for the taking. I picked up Studs Turkel's memoirs written thirty years ago and a book about athletes who overcame more than the usual adversity to achieve great success. It was written before the Lance story. Riding and reading, two pleasurable pastimes.

Later, George