Friends: One question all touring cyclists get used to being asked is, "How many miles do you ride a day?" My answer is an off-handed, "Oh, about 80, depending on the conditions, but I know that if need be I can always do 100."
I had a chance to put that to the test once again on Thanksgiving, when I began the day a little over 100 miles from home and the invitation to a Thanksgiving dinner with a reader of the blog and 24 of his vegetarian friends, none of whom I had met. It would be a mild challenge to arrive before dark with less than ten hours of light, but it was a challenge I heartily welcomed, making for a fine home stretch run after another fine tour.
I had had occasional email correspondence with Ross over the years, so I somewhat knew him, but was happy for the opportunity to finally meet him, as well as to share in a feast with a group of interesting folk, a great final travel experience. Ross had tried to arrange a visit for me with his mother in Fargo, North Dakota last month when I was riding route two across the top of the country, but it hadn't worked out. I was happy for his persistence.
I set my alarm for 6:30 and was on the road by sunrise at seven after camping behind a dumpster at a construction site east of LaSalle on route six just south of Interstate 80. There was a nightmarish non-stop bumper-to-bumper river of headlights on the interstate the evening before, but it had slowed to a trickle by morning. Fortunately it was far enough away I couldn't hear it, nor was it close enough to be a distraction as I pedaled along, as had Interstate 44 6right next to Historic Route 66 earlier in the trip in Missouri.
I had two last Carnegies to pay homage to, the first in Marseilles, after about an hour. An old codger, who told me he was living in a building dating to 1903, two years older than the Carnegie, let me know I was just a block away. He also gave me directions to the laundromat, a block down and a block over, where I hoped to give myself a wash.
The Carnegie identified itself with PVBLIC LIBRARY over its entry and above that a nice light fixture and 1905. The entry to the fine tan brick building was given an additional air of majesty with a pair of globe lights on pedestals and a flagpole and planters. It had had a small addition behind it, not detracting at all from its prominence as the most distinguished looking building in the town.
The laundromat was open and I had it all to myself. I took out my nearly frozen bottle of honey and ran hot water over it, while I washed, giving it a chance to soften up enough so I could squeeze it out without giving myself carpal tunnel. I had enough bread and peanut butter left to make myself three sandwiches, finishing off both, almost enough fuel to get me home, along with a few oatmeal cookies I had left.
I had less success finding the Carnegie in Morris, as it had been torn down, though it took me a while to get confirmation of that finally at the town's police station. A Vietnamese women at a open hair dresser across the street knew nothing about it, nor did two people smoking out on the porch of their house nor a young women at a convenience store.
I was squandering time, but I could not give up on my quest. It would be the last of sixteen Carnegies I had searched out in Illinois in the past six days. I hadn't found them all, as besides the ones in Springfield and Pekin and Morris that had been torn down, the one in Greenview never existed, as I had gotten it confused with Greenville, one hundred miles to the south. But I at least had a nice conversation with a cyclist in Greenview who had ridden RAGBRAI and was signed up for the annual three day tour of the Finger Lakes in northern Wisconsin this June. I could have pitched my tent in his back yard if I had wanted.
Even though the Carnegie in Springfield had been torn down nearly 40 years ago, I felt like I knew it better than any of the Carnegies I did see, as I spent an hour in the new library's history room paging through several folders of articles tracing the history of the library. Springfield was a thriving city of 30,000 people when its Carnegie was built in 1904 with a grant of $75,000, just one of 52 of the 1,679 Carnegies built in the US with a grant of more than $50,000. Most grants were $10,000.
It had been an architectural monstrosity, in a style derisively called Carnegie Rococo with a mixture of marble and columns in at least 16 architectural styles. It was said that, "Any architect who saw it has practically thrown up." It was built to accommodate 40,000 books. When it opened it had 35,000 books and was soon overwhelmed. By 1940 more than 135,000 volumes were crammed into the building.
I felt like I was on a scavenger hunt trying to find the Carnegies in Alton and Peoria. The one in Alton was actually in the adjoining community of Upper Alton, above the Mississippi, and was on the campus of the dental school of Southern Illinois University. It was now a biomedical library after starting out as the library for Shurtleff University. It retained "Carnegie Library" on its red brick facade flanked by two pillars.
I arrived in Peoria at 7:30 am after my night in a warehouse. I was lucky to find a bushy-bearded fellow beside a van that appeared to be his home outside the library in the heart of the city who knew that this wasn't the site of the Carnegie, but rather it was a couple miles away. My ride took me past the Cubs' dazzling Triple A minor league stadium that seats 8,000 and past a street named for Richard Pryor, born in Peoria. The Carnegie was identified as the Lincoln Branch Peoria Public Library. The four-pillared building sat on a slight rise in the middle of a couple square block park that it had all to itself. Hidden behind it was a vast addition. It was closed, as the old building was undergoing a vast restoration.
After Alton, the first of my Carnegies after crossing the Mississippi, there were still functioning Carnegies in Jerseyville, Carrollton, Winchester and Jacksonville, each with its own charm and personality that gave me a glow upon making their acquaintance. As interesting as any of them though was the Carnegie in Chillicothe, as it was now a used book store--Waxwing Books with a website of the same name listing some of its 30,000 titles and including a photo of its proprietors, the Popps, Richard and Wendy, out front of the building. They bought the building in 2005 just after it went on the market. They had just moved to Peoria, 17 miles to the south, after discovering South Dakota wasn't such a good place for a book store. They had relatives in Peoria and decided to relocate there. Shortly after they arrived, the Carnegie became available. They couldn't have been happier with their good fortune.
Fifty miles after Chillicothe I had a run of three Carnegies within five miles in Spring Valley, Peru and LaSalle, the tightest cluster I have ever encountered. The one in Peru likewise now housed a business, this one Video Services offering VHS duplicating and DVD transfers. The new library in Peru though still honored Carnegie with his standard portrait holding an open book on his lap. Those in Spring Valley and LaSalle had both doubled in size with virtual clones of their originals added alongside.
The librarian at LaSalle was a true Carnegie enthusiast. She went on and on sharing anecdotes of the library, telling me about its small reading room with a fireplace that they dared not use and advising me to make sure to give a look to a couple of cases of over 200 clocks all manufactured in LaSalle. As I slipped away to prowl about she said, "If you have any more questions come back. I'm on the circ desk until we close."
All these Carnegies were on my mind after I left Morris and closed in on Joliet for my final forty mile run into Chicago. From Joliet I thought I'd take route 171 on into Chicago as it passed through Lemont, home of Christian Vande Velde, where I'd paid him a visit two years ago (see the October 1, 2009 entry for a full report). I wouldn't barge in on him, but I imagined I might catch him out on a training ride or perhaps a run to the store for some last minute Thanksgiving fixings. I was wearing one of the jerseys he had given me, but unfortunately the near freezing temperatures had it buried under a sweater and a vest. Otherwise if one of his friends or relatives had seen the jersey, they might have been curious enough to stop and ask if I was a friend of Christian's and perhaps invited me over to their gathering. I pedaled merrily along fueled with fantasies of sharing a Thanksgiving Day meal with a Tour de France hero and his family.
When I came to Joliet I began to see signs telling me I was back on Historic Route 66, a special Joliet version saying "Kicks on 66" in honor of the song about Route 66. Joliet even had a Kicks on 66 Visitor Center. Since I had ridden 66 for over a hundred miles in Missouri, I couldn't resist the lure of following those signs all the way back to Chicago, even though that wouldn't take me through Lemont. I began to regret that decision though about 15 miles later when Historic 66 took me on Interstate 55 for a couple of miles. The entry ramp had no signs barring bicyclists, and even if it had, I would have ignored them for such a short stretch. I had a wide wide shoulder all to myself and had to negotiate only one exit ramp before escaping.
Not only was it meaningful for me to be riding Route 66 once again, it was also meaningful that before Joliet I had crossed the Illinois and Michigan Canal, as my riding partner on those first Route 66 miles, Jim Redd, The Don, had written a book on the I and M Canal back in 1993 called "The Illinois and Michigan Canal: A Contemporary Perspective in Essays and Photographs."
As I closed in on my century, I was on schedule to arrive at Ross' apartment in down town Chicago on State Street just a few blocks south of the Harold Washington Library, where several copies of Jim's book can be found, before dark at 4:30. The traffic was minimal as I headed in on Ogden, then turned on Roosevelt, taking me me past perhaps the most unsettling sight I saw during these travels--a Best Buy with a block long line of people, some in tents, waiting for its Black Friday opening, and a Channel Seven news truck parked nearby.
Ross said his gathering would be at the fourth floor hospitality room in his building. When I arrived everyone was already seated at one long table. I didn't mind at all that dinner had already started. I was somewhat concerned that I might have to stand around on tired legs and make conversation when I desperately needed to get off my feet after having ridden 103 miles in the past nine-and-a-half hours. Ross gave me a grand introduction, followed by applause. Then I hit the buffet table and collapsed into a chair.
There were quite a few cyclists among the vegetarians beside Ross. One was a former San Francisco bicycle messenger. He was presently working as a salesman, but missing the messengering. I could give him all the ins and outs on messengering in Chicago. He had resisted it, under the assumption that it wasn't as lucrative as in San Francisco, but I assured him if he worked hard enough, it could be.
His sister, presently on sabbatical from college, had just bought a bike and was eager to start riding after a several year absence. Ross and her brother were heaping all sorts of advice on her, especially to be patient with it if it took her awhile to get used to her seat, or if she was initially intimidated by traffic. I didn't have much to say.
I've learned over the years that either one has it in them to like cycling or one doesn't. There isn't much I can say to convince anyone that the bicycle is the answer to all their troubles, though I know it is. Their conversion has to come from within. I let my life speak for itself. They were impressed by my devotion to the bicycle and didn't seem to regard me as some sort of kook. I've inspired a few over the years to take to the bike or to give touring a try, but many of those for just a short period, after initially promising to be a fellow zealot. A bad incident or bad weather can quickly turn them back into an unbeliever and back to their car dependence, renouncing what they had at first embraced with great and extreme fervor, almost regarding me as a messiah in their gratitude for the great joy and freedom the bicycle had at first brought them.
Ross is a strong advocate of the bike, but without the mania of a television evangelist. He's taken the crusade to wherever he is, whether in Chicago or Indiana, where he once owned a pharmacy, or traveling or wintering in Florida. He still has a hint of his North Dakota accent and maintains the easy-going demeanor of someone who grew up in a non-urban environment. His emails always close with a quote or two extolling the virtues of the bicycle. One of my favorites is one of his own: "A bicycle gets you there and so much more. There is always the thin edge of danger to keep you in the moment and comfortably apprehensive. Dogs become dogs again; potholes are personal. You feel like a kid again while getting fit and strong."
That's as good a close as I can give to another great tour. Though it was only three-and-a-half weeks and less than 1,500 miles and not far from home, it was as satisfying as any of those of months and months and thousands and thousands of miles in some distant land. The point is to spend hours and hours day after day regarding the world from over my handlebars freed of all earthly concerns other than the basics while reveling in the beauty of the countryside and the goodness of its people, and that I achieved. I can't get back to it soon enough.
Later, George
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Chillicothe, Illinois
Friends: As I sat in my tent last night I was feeling more pleased than usual at my resourcefulness and good fortune at having sniffed out a most noteworthy campsite under the most dire of circumstances. Adding to my great good cheer was I had been fully reconciled to having to spend the night in a hotel.
I had been rained upon all day, even delaying my start a couple of hours. I actually considered spending the day in my tent hidden by a row of six foot tall bales of hay if the rain didn't let up. The temperature was barely forty and the wind was blowing from the north, making it feel even colder, not the most inviting of circumstances to get out on the bike. Once I did though, as always, I discovered the conditions weren't as bad as I imagined, or at least that infallible joy of being on the bike made it seem so.
I needed plastic bags over my wool gloves to keep them from becoming fully saturated and to keep my hands warm. The booties over my shoes kept my feet somewhat dry, though the holes in the bottoms to accommodate my cleats allowed enough water to seep in to dampen my shoes and socks. My feet were more cold than warm. My torso was fully dry, but not my legs. My tights were wet, though they were of such a quality that my legs didn't feel cold.
I had retreated to the warmth of indoors only three times all day. The first at a Casey's General Store just long enough to buy a burrito and a quart of chocolate milk, which I nibbled and guzzled as I pedaled along. Then the Carnegie library in Delavan, a town of 2,700, just double what it was when the library was built in 1914. It is a rare Carnegie that hasn't had an addition. There was no sign for the library, forcing me to stop to ask. No one was out and about in such conditions, so I ducked into the local laundromat where I saw a woman reading. "It's just down the street," she pointed. "Its the nicest building in town. I've been going to it since I was a little girl."
The three ladies tending the library were equally enthusiastic and kindly. The head librarian explained it was called the Ayer Library, as a Mr. Ayer at the time of its construction donated over $10,000, more than the Carnegie grant, for its operation. She said the library was on the National Register of Historic Buildings. Then she pulled out a book on all the Carnegies in Illinois, "The Carnegie Library in Illinois" by Raymond Bial written in 1991, a book I had never come across. It had a full page photo of the eighty-five still standing at the time and a one page history of each.
I wasn't fully dried out when I went back out in the rain, headed to the Pekin library seventeen miles away, my third and final refuge from the wet. Its Carnegie had been torn down and was replaced by a large, glassy building that will never end up on the National Register of Historic Buildings, as many of the Carnegies have. From Pekin I followed the Illinois River for ten miles to Peoria. It was less than an hour until dark. I figured I could find a cheap hotel in Peoria, what with Bradley University and Catepillar based there.
But I wasn't counting on the low overcast making dark come much sooner than anticipated. Most cars had been driving with their headlights on all day. I only made it halfway to Peoria, not feeling safe at all on the two-lane highway with no shoulder in the near dark. Much as I had been looking forward to a warm hotel room to dry out all my gear, when I saw an abandoned gas station off the road down towards the river, I decided to give it a look. As I approached I noticed a series of factories that looked closed down as well.
It was an industrial wasteland, a genuine oasis for me. One factory was surrounded by barbed wire and signs warning "No Trespassing," but another was unfenced. I was looking for a secluded overhang to pitch my tent when I discovered a door next to its loading dock was open. There were a few lights on, but there was no evidence of anyone being around or it being in use, other than rows and rows of pallets of plastic tubing wrapped in plastic stacked to the ceiling filling about half of the warehouse/factory.
I pedaled around looking for a hidden spot to pitch my tent. I found a dark corner several rooms down from the entry. At the entry was a stack of cardboard sheets, just what I needed to insulate me from the frigid concrete floor and also to absorb the moisture in my tent floor. How lucky could I be. I was still reveling at having Another Memorable Night in My Tent after Another Great Day on the Bike, when at nine p.m. I heard a golf cart patrolling the premises. My heart slightly plunged, but then I thought "this ought to be interesting." Would this be a kindly security guard or would he kick me out or even worse call the cops. His headlight swept past me, but not on the tent. He circled around and let me be, leaving me with a feeling of relief but also of mild disappointment.
Later, George
I had been rained upon all day, even delaying my start a couple of hours. I actually considered spending the day in my tent hidden by a row of six foot tall bales of hay if the rain didn't let up. The temperature was barely forty and the wind was blowing from the north, making it feel even colder, not the most inviting of circumstances to get out on the bike. Once I did though, as always, I discovered the conditions weren't as bad as I imagined, or at least that infallible joy of being on the bike made it seem so.
I needed plastic bags over my wool gloves to keep them from becoming fully saturated and to keep my hands warm. The booties over my shoes kept my feet somewhat dry, though the holes in the bottoms to accommodate my cleats allowed enough water to seep in to dampen my shoes and socks. My feet were more cold than warm. My torso was fully dry, but not my legs. My tights were wet, though they were of such a quality that my legs didn't feel cold.
I had retreated to the warmth of indoors only three times all day. The first at a Casey's General Store just long enough to buy a burrito and a quart of chocolate milk, which I nibbled and guzzled as I pedaled along. Then the Carnegie library in Delavan, a town of 2,700, just double what it was when the library was built in 1914. It is a rare Carnegie that hasn't had an addition. There was no sign for the library, forcing me to stop to ask. No one was out and about in such conditions, so I ducked into the local laundromat where I saw a woman reading. "It's just down the street," she pointed. "Its the nicest building in town. I've been going to it since I was a little girl."
The three ladies tending the library were equally enthusiastic and kindly. The head librarian explained it was called the Ayer Library, as a Mr. Ayer at the time of its construction donated over $10,000, more than the Carnegie grant, for its operation. She said the library was on the National Register of Historic Buildings. Then she pulled out a book on all the Carnegies in Illinois, "The Carnegie Library in Illinois" by Raymond Bial written in 1991, a book I had never come across. It had a full page photo of the eighty-five still standing at the time and a one page history of each.
I wasn't fully dried out when I went back out in the rain, headed to the Pekin library seventeen miles away, my third and final refuge from the wet. Its Carnegie had been torn down and was replaced by a large, glassy building that will never end up on the National Register of Historic Buildings, as many of the Carnegies have. From Pekin I followed the Illinois River for ten miles to Peoria. It was less than an hour until dark. I figured I could find a cheap hotel in Peoria, what with Bradley University and Catepillar based there.
But I wasn't counting on the low overcast making dark come much sooner than anticipated. Most cars had been driving with their headlights on all day. I only made it halfway to Peoria, not feeling safe at all on the two-lane highway with no shoulder in the near dark. Much as I had been looking forward to a warm hotel room to dry out all my gear, when I saw an abandoned gas station off the road down towards the river, I decided to give it a look. As I approached I noticed a series of factories that looked closed down as well.
It was an industrial wasteland, a genuine oasis for me. One factory was surrounded by barbed wire and signs warning "No Trespassing," but another was unfenced. I was looking for a secluded overhang to pitch my tent when I discovered a door next to its loading dock was open. There were a few lights on, but there was no evidence of anyone being around or it being in use, other than rows and rows of pallets of plastic tubing wrapped in plastic stacked to the ceiling filling about half of the warehouse/factory.
I pedaled around looking for a hidden spot to pitch my tent. I found a dark corner several rooms down from the entry. At the entry was a stack of cardboard sheets, just what I needed to insulate me from the frigid concrete floor and also to absorb the moisture in my tent floor. How lucky could I be. I was still reveling at having Another Memorable Night in My Tent after Another Great Day on the Bike, when at nine p.m. I heard a golf cart patrolling the premises. My heart slightly plunged, but then I thought "this ought to be interesting." Would this be a kindly security guard or would he kick me out or even worse call the cops. His headlight swept past me, but not on the tent. He circled around and let me be, leaving me with a feeling of relief but also of mild disappointment.
Later, George
Monday, November 21, 2011
Athens, Illinois
Friends: For years my long-time friend Chris has been reading snippets from my touring dispatches and sharing incidents from my travels with his three children, now aged eleven to seventeen, whether they wanted to hear them or not. Will, the youngest, wasn't entirely certain I actually existed, but rather was simply some alter-ego of his cycling-obsessed Dad, no more real than Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.
So Chris was quite happy when I passed through St. Louis and had time to pay a visit, not only to see me, but also so that he could introduce me to his children and verify that there really was a George the Cyclist. I was equally pleased to meet up with Chris once again and also his parents, Ellwood and Robin, who if things had been slightly different would have been my brother and sister-in-law. Robin is the sister of Crissy, my fellow free-spirit, whose life's we shared for nearly three decades until she succumbed to cancer several years ago. Robin was so endeared to her kid sister, as was anyone who knew her, that she named her first-born after her, adding extra significance to my friendship with Chris.
Robin and Ellwood couldn't be closer or more genuine friends than if we were legally bound by some official vows and paperwork. The same can be said of Chris. We don't see each other often enough, though we do stay very much in touch through the Internet. Before I was unveiled to Chris's children I was able to first drop by the office where Ellwood and Chris maintain their investment firm and begin catching up. Then it was dinner with Robin and Ellwood before venturing over to Chris' home, two doors down from home run king Mark McGuire.
I hadn't had time to shower or even change clothes, so I still had on my adventurer's costume of tights and cycling jersey, attesting to my authenticity. Besides Chris' family of five, his wife's parents had just arrived from Connecticut for the Thanksgiving week. They too had been subjected to Tales of George. They weren't skeptical of my existence, but maybe to the extent of my travels. They've done their share of world traveling, most recently to India several times visiting grandchildren and a daughter and son-in-law who taught there the past three years until moving to Senegal to do the same. I was eager to hear of their experiences, especially to learn if Senegal would make a worthy next destination for me.
As we sat around the family's grand twelve foot long dining room table Robin kept trying to keep me on topic as I talked about being attacked by a wild boar in France and knife-wielding thugs in South Africa and other stories. It was all too easy to get sidetracked. Somehow I was talking about bicycling in Cuba with my friend Dwight, an eco-terrorist who is wanted in six countries for single-handedly sinking a whaling ship in Norway and a drift-netter in Taiwan and escaping from Mexico City's maximum security prison, one of only two persons to accomplish the feat, the other being Pancho Villa.
"Whoa," Chris exclaimed. "How did you ever meet him?," then asked his name, so he could google him. When I said, "Dwight Worker," Robin commented, "There's a picture of the two of you on your Facebook page, isn't there." She was right about that. Dwight is soon to become even more famous, as the National Geographic cable network is going to feature him in an hour segment of its "Locked Up Abroad" series.
The stories flowed fast and furious like an untapped oil well. I didn't have to fake my passion or enthusiasm recounting my experiences thanks to a sincerely interested audience. No need to win them over. All the while Chris' aspiring-photographer daughter was shooting away and Chris was holding up his telephone recording my ravings. It wasn't an entirely novel experience, as I've experienced similar semi-celebrity status in foreign lands in places where Westerners are rarely seen and the population is well-equipped with telephones that have recording devices. It was quite common in newly affluent China, with everyone wanting to try out their new toys.
It was a Friday night, so the kids didn't have to devote themselves to homework or get to bed too early. Will though had to keep his fingers limber on the piano in preparation for a recital the next morning. If not for the early hour of the recital, Chris could have biked with me across the Mississippi to Alton. Instead he just had time enough to accompany me to within five miles of The Arch, nearly twenty miles from his home in the western suburbs of the city.
We were joined by one of Chris' regular Saturday morning riding mates, an avid racer who was wearing a Tour of Missouri cycling jersey. Christian Vande Velde had won the first week-long Tour of Missouri several years ago. Chris' friend had heard plenty about me too. He greeted me saying, "Any friend of Christian Vande Velde is a friend of mine." As we rode along he said he had learned the phrase "plus vite" from reading my blog. He was indeed a close reader, as I could well remember the one time I had mentioned that phrase when a teen-aged boy yelled it at me as I was climbing a steep mountain during The Tour de France, telling me to go faster. Our ride was a fine capper to what seemed like much, much more than a mere day in St. Louis with as fine a group of friends as one could wish for.
Two days into Illinois and I've already added six Carnegies to my Life List. At one point in Carnegie's dispersal of libraries across America, Illinois had more than any other state. It was eventually overtaken by Indiana and California, but remains in third place tied with New York and Iowa with 106. With luck I'll be able to visit ten or so more in the next two hundred miles. The library here in Athens is not one of them. It is less than ten years old and was constructed in part with funds donated by McDonald's. Part of the deal was that the library had to exhibit a Ronald McDonald. He is sitting out on one of the two benches in front of the library. The librarian said, "The kids love him."
Later, George
So Chris was quite happy when I passed through St. Louis and had time to pay a visit, not only to see me, but also so that he could introduce me to his children and verify that there really was a George the Cyclist. I was equally pleased to meet up with Chris once again and also his parents, Ellwood and Robin, who if things had been slightly different would have been my brother and sister-in-law. Robin is the sister of Crissy, my fellow free-spirit, whose life's we shared for nearly three decades until she succumbed to cancer several years ago. Robin was so endeared to her kid sister, as was anyone who knew her, that she named her first-born after her, adding extra significance to my friendship with Chris.
Robin and Ellwood couldn't be closer or more genuine friends than if we were legally bound by some official vows and paperwork. The same can be said of Chris. We don't see each other often enough, though we do stay very much in touch through the Internet. Before I was unveiled to Chris's children I was able to first drop by the office where Ellwood and Chris maintain their investment firm and begin catching up. Then it was dinner with Robin and Ellwood before venturing over to Chris' home, two doors down from home run king Mark McGuire.
I hadn't had time to shower or even change clothes, so I still had on my adventurer's costume of tights and cycling jersey, attesting to my authenticity. Besides Chris' family of five, his wife's parents had just arrived from Connecticut for the Thanksgiving week. They too had been subjected to Tales of George. They weren't skeptical of my existence, but maybe to the extent of my travels. They've done their share of world traveling, most recently to India several times visiting grandchildren and a daughter and son-in-law who taught there the past three years until moving to Senegal to do the same. I was eager to hear of their experiences, especially to learn if Senegal would make a worthy next destination for me.
As we sat around the family's grand twelve foot long dining room table Robin kept trying to keep me on topic as I talked about being attacked by a wild boar in France and knife-wielding thugs in South Africa and other stories. It was all too easy to get sidetracked. Somehow I was talking about bicycling in Cuba with my friend Dwight, an eco-terrorist who is wanted in six countries for single-handedly sinking a whaling ship in Norway and a drift-netter in Taiwan and escaping from Mexico City's maximum security prison, one of only two persons to accomplish the feat, the other being Pancho Villa.
"Whoa," Chris exclaimed. "How did you ever meet him?," then asked his name, so he could google him. When I said, "Dwight Worker," Robin commented, "There's a picture of the two of you on your Facebook page, isn't there." She was right about that. Dwight is soon to become even more famous, as the National Geographic cable network is going to feature him in an hour segment of its "Locked Up Abroad" series.
The stories flowed fast and furious like an untapped oil well. I didn't have to fake my passion or enthusiasm recounting my experiences thanks to a sincerely interested audience. No need to win them over. All the while Chris' aspiring-photographer daughter was shooting away and Chris was holding up his telephone recording my ravings. It wasn't an entirely novel experience, as I've experienced similar semi-celebrity status in foreign lands in places where Westerners are rarely seen and the population is well-equipped with telephones that have recording devices. It was quite common in newly affluent China, with everyone wanting to try out their new toys.
It was a Friday night, so the kids didn't have to devote themselves to homework or get to bed too early. Will though had to keep his fingers limber on the piano in preparation for a recital the next morning. If not for the early hour of the recital, Chris could have biked with me across the Mississippi to Alton. Instead he just had time enough to accompany me to within five miles of The Arch, nearly twenty miles from his home in the western suburbs of the city.
We were joined by one of Chris' regular Saturday morning riding mates, an avid racer who was wearing a Tour of Missouri cycling jersey. Christian Vande Velde had won the first week-long Tour of Missouri several years ago. Chris' friend had heard plenty about me too. He greeted me saying, "Any friend of Christian Vande Velde is a friend of mine." As we rode along he said he had learned the phrase "plus vite" from reading my blog. He was indeed a close reader, as I could well remember the one time I had mentioned that phrase when a teen-aged boy yelled it at me as I was climbing a steep mountain during The Tour de France, telling me to go faster. Our ride was a fine capper to what seemed like much, much more than a mere day in St. Louis with as fine a group of friends as one could wish for.
Two days into Illinois and I've already added six Carnegies to my Life List. At one point in Carnegie's dispersal of libraries across America, Illinois had more than any other state. It was eventually overtaken by Indiana and California, but remains in third place tied with New York and Iowa with 106. With luck I'll be able to visit ten or so more in the next two hundred miles. The library here in Athens is not one of them. It is less than ten years old and was constructed in part with funds donated by McDonald's. Part of the deal was that the library had to exhibit a Ronald McDonald. He is sitting out on one of the two benches in front of the library. The librarian said, "The kids love him."
Later, George
Friday, November 18, 2011
The Hoppy Wanderer
Friends: The Don had an epiphany in Clinton, Arkansas, the evening after we went our separate ways and has adopted another identity, "The Hoppy Wanderer." Here he recounts how it came to be, a moment he refers to as the "Immaculate Conception."
Standing out front of a Motel 6 in a dry county in Arkansas is an unlikely place to start the "Hoppy Wanderer" project, but something about pavement as far as the eye can see inspired me: a landscape of McDonald's, Hardees, Taco Bell, and, just over the horizon, a Super Walmart, all joined by the lifeline of petroleum: the vehicles, corpuscles in the asphalt veins that supply these organs of commerce with their nutrients.
But beyond the neon clutter I could see a backdrop forming. I raised my right hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the Waffle House parking lot lights to see the sunset, and a welcome sight appeared in the foreground: a bottle of Shiner Bock from Spoetzle Brewery (est. 1909) in Texas. I held it high and the sunset became a new dawning: the birth of the age of the Hoppy Wanderer. I had just pulled the Bock from the bottom of my right pannier, attached to my Cannondale mountain bike, in my room (#116, complete with HDTV, microwave, and, conveniently, a refrigerator). This bottle, and five of its companions, along with one renegade Samuel Adams Stout, had been buried there since leaving Pinewood Cabins in Mountain View, two dry counties and two days ride north.
How did that beer end up in your pannier in a dry county? you may ask the Hoppy Wanderer. This is a good question because not even the non-God-fearing minority of store owners responded as desired to my knowing wink and "under the counter" hand motion when asking "Oh, come on. Really? Just how dry IS this county, my friend?"
My last bicycle tour with George Christensen, a fellow Chicago cyclist, was from Minneapolis to Chicago, ten years ago. Since then he's toured all over the world, and I bought a hotel in Ecuador. Now we're on a "reunion" tour from St. Louis to Little Rock, through the Ozark Mountains. An unlikely riding partner for the Hoppy Wanderer, since George neither mountain bikes or drinks beer or smokes, all vices hard-wired into the Hoppy Wanderer's knees, stomach, and lungs, respectively.
But ya basta this digression: the point is George does not like to live a day off his bike, so when I told him I planned to spend the day doing single track through the Fall colors of the Ozark National Forest, he offered to make a "beer run" from this "black hole for alcohol" (as he so alliteratively put in his blog) to the nearest liquid oasis at the Baxter county line, twenty miles away. If I hadn't already been convinced of the existence of a God by the clever Bible snippets on a multitude of holy highway marquees we'd passed, I was when I returned to Pinewood Cabins after the eight-mile single track loop to a refrigerator with a six-pack of Sam Adams Stout and one of Shiner Boch, the last of which I'm shading my eyes with as I watch the sunset.
My life was surely blessed, if not by God, then at least by George, but as frequently happens, I had to make a difficult choice: which to open first? Unlike the Bock, the Stout had twist-off caps. This wouldn't normally be an issue but my Leatherman was obviously not designed with the Hoppy Wanderer in mind, and has no bottle opener. So the choice was manifest. Thus, destiny determined, by elimination, that Shiner Bock, was to be the inaugural brew of the Hoppy Wanderer's many future bike & brew product investigations, in a dry county in the Bible Belt. An Immaculate Conception if ever there was One!
PART TWO
"Drank One, Thanked One"
Cameron, the U.S. Marine, and his girlfriend just returned from a cigarette run in their Hummer and I'm sitting with them at the Capprichio Bar in the Peabody Hotel in downtown Little Rock because they just bought me a Diamond Bear Pale Ale, locally brewed 2 blocks away. (www.diamondbear.com: "A balanced classic English Ale, medium bodied with both sweetness from the malt and a pleasant hoppy aroma. O.G. 13.4P, I.B.U. 33") They're looking at the 10ft by 20ft mirror on the wall behind the bar and fantasizing about having it on the ceiling of their bedroom.
I tried that one go and order another Diamond Bear. Am I really sitting here drinking with a Marine Bud-Liter with a Hummer? Travel, especially doing micro-brew research alone by bike, sometimes yields strange bar-fellows. Cameron and Shiela are at the Peabody because they were attendees at the Marine Ball last night, and it appears have been drinking ever since.
We all go for a smoke outside and Cameron gives a homeless man $20 and tells him to go get drunk. He asks me for a cigarette and I say I only got non-filter Camels is that OK? "Beggars can't be choosers," the beggar says.
To spark conversation I tell Cameron I live in Ecuador, expecting the usual puzzled look. But he knows that's where the Galapagos are and goes into a creationist lament about how he was raised a Southern Baptist but on the other hand Darwin had some good points.
Back at the bar, in front of the big mirror, he introduces me to his friend, Tracy, also a Marine. But he's studying Geology at Hendrix College in Conway, an upscale suburb of Little Rock I had just ridden through on my way in. ("Does that make you a Marine Geologist?" I asked). He notices I'm the only bar-fellow having micro-brew and he tells me about Bosco's, a brewpub down the street. I'm out the door and when he and Sheila join me later I've already half-glassed their Hop Harvest Porter, dark and full-bodied, brewed with "citra" hops, "cones" fresh out of the field, dried and cured. (O.G. 1062, I.B.U. 35).
As I contemplate the porter in my glass I'm reminded of mountain biking in the Ozarks last week, and an especially contemplative moment when I stopped to sit on a rock outcropping I assumed was an ancient granite slab, the bedrock underlying the trail I'd been riding. Across the valley (or "holler" as they say here) the trees were still in foliage and a slight breeze was making them shimmer, as if alive (well, they are, aren't they?) in the sun, itself receding to the southwest. Since I happened to be sitting next to a geologist, I mentioned the rock to him, curious if he had any idea how old it might be. He said the rocks in the Ozarks aren't granite at all, but sedimentary, formed under ancient oceans and revealed when the oceans receded. A little more Ozarkian geology-talk and my porter-level recedes and reveals the bottom of the glass, and I have to get to the Amtrak station to head to Chicago so so-long Tracy come down to Ecuador to study volcanoes sometime. "Drank One."
The train's 30 minutes away and the harried ticket agent's got a bike box, but no tools and I'm on my own as far as boxing the bike. Twenty minutes away and I have no pedal wrench. Fifteen minutes away and where's my allen wrench? I'm trying to remove the pedals with the pliers on my Leatherman when an Amtrak porter shows up with a 15-mm open-end and removes the pedals. Five minutes away and a young Amish man helps me put the bike in the box. But no tape! The train's loading and where's the ticket agent to check the bike? The porter says maybe he can send the bike on the next train and runs to find out. He can't find the ticket master, and I'm watching the train pull out. But the porter went beyond the normal porter duties, and I thank him. "Thanked one."
Standing out front of a Motel 6 in a dry county in Arkansas is an unlikely place to start the "Hoppy Wanderer" project, but something about pavement as far as the eye can see inspired me: a landscape of McDonald's, Hardees, Taco Bell, and, just over the horizon, a Super Walmart, all joined by the lifeline of petroleum: the vehicles, corpuscles in the asphalt veins that supply these organs of commerce with their nutrients.
But beyond the neon clutter I could see a backdrop forming. I raised my right hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the Waffle House parking lot lights to see the sunset, and a welcome sight appeared in the foreground: a bottle of Shiner Bock from Spoetzle Brewery (est. 1909) in Texas. I held it high and the sunset became a new dawning: the birth of the age of the Hoppy Wanderer. I had just pulled the Bock from the bottom of my right pannier, attached to my Cannondale mountain bike, in my room (#116, complete with HDTV, microwave, and, conveniently, a refrigerator). This bottle, and five of its companions, along with one renegade Samuel Adams Stout, had been buried there since leaving Pinewood Cabins in Mountain View, two dry counties and two days ride north.
How did that beer end up in your pannier in a dry county? you may ask the Hoppy Wanderer. This is a good question because not even the non-God-fearing minority of store owners responded as desired to my knowing wink and "under the counter" hand motion when asking "Oh, come on. Really? Just how dry IS this county, my friend?"
My last bicycle tour with George Christensen, a fellow Chicago cyclist, was from Minneapolis to Chicago, ten years ago. Since then he's toured all over the world, and I bought a hotel in Ecuador. Now we're on a "reunion" tour from St. Louis to Little Rock, through the Ozark Mountains. An unlikely riding partner for the Hoppy Wanderer, since George neither mountain bikes or drinks beer or smokes, all vices hard-wired into the Hoppy Wanderer's knees, stomach, and lungs, respectively.
But ya basta this digression: the point is George does not like to live a day off his bike, so when I told him I planned to spend the day doing single track through the Fall colors of the Ozark National Forest, he offered to make a "beer run" from this "black hole for alcohol" (as he so alliteratively put in his blog) to the nearest liquid oasis at the Baxter county line, twenty miles away. If I hadn't already been convinced of the existence of a God by the clever Bible snippets on a multitude of holy highway marquees we'd passed, I was when I returned to Pinewood Cabins after the eight-mile single track loop to a refrigerator with a six-pack of Sam Adams Stout and one of Shiner Boch, the last of which I'm shading my eyes with as I watch the sunset.
My life was surely blessed, if not by God, then at least by George, but as frequently happens, I had to make a difficult choice: which to open first? Unlike the Bock, the Stout had twist-off caps. This wouldn't normally be an issue but my Leatherman was obviously not designed with the Hoppy Wanderer in mind, and has no bottle opener. So the choice was manifest. Thus, destiny determined, by elimination, that Shiner Bock, was to be the inaugural brew of the Hoppy Wanderer's many future bike & brew product investigations, in a dry county in the Bible Belt. An Immaculate Conception if ever there was One!
PART TWO
"Drank One, Thanked One"
Cameron, the U.S. Marine, and his girlfriend just returned from a cigarette run in their Hummer and I'm sitting with them at the Capprichio Bar in the Peabody Hotel in downtown Little Rock because they just bought me a Diamond Bear Pale Ale, locally brewed 2 blocks away. (www.diamondbear.com: "A balanced classic English Ale, medium bodied with both sweetness from the malt and a pleasant hoppy aroma. O.G. 13.4P, I.B.U. 33") They're looking at the 10ft by 20ft mirror on the wall behind the bar and fantasizing about having it on the ceiling of their bedroom.
I tried that one go and order another Diamond Bear. Am I really sitting here drinking with a Marine Bud-Liter with a Hummer? Travel, especially doing micro-brew research alone by bike, sometimes yields strange bar-fellows. Cameron and Shiela are at the Peabody because they were attendees at the Marine Ball last night, and it appears have been drinking ever since.
We all go for a smoke outside and Cameron gives a homeless man $20 and tells him to go get drunk. He asks me for a cigarette and I say I only got non-filter Camels is that OK? "Beggars can't be choosers," the beggar says.
To spark conversation I tell Cameron I live in Ecuador, expecting the usual puzzled look. But he knows that's where the Galapagos are and goes into a creationist lament about how he was raised a Southern Baptist but on the other hand Darwin had some good points.
Back at the bar, in front of the big mirror, he introduces me to his friend, Tracy, also a Marine. But he's studying Geology at Hendrix College in Conway, an upscale suburb of Little Rock I had just ridden through on my way in. ("Does that make you a Marine Geologist?" I asked). He notices I'm the only bar-fellow having micro-brew and he tells me about Bosco's, a brewpub down the street. I'm out the door and when he and Sheila join me later I've already half-glassed their Hop Harvest Porter, dark and full-bodied, brewed with "citra" hops, "cones" fresh out of the field, dried and cured. (O.G. 1062, I.B.U. 35).
As I contemplate the porter in my glass I'm reminded of mountain biking in the Ozarks last week, and an especially contemplative moment when I stopped to sit on a rock outcropping I assumed was an ancient granite slab, the bedrock underlying the trail I'd been riding. Across the valley (or "holler" as they say here) the trees were still in foliage and a slight breeze was making them shimmer, as if alive (well, they are, aren't they?) in the sun, itself receding to the southwest. Since I happened to be sitting next to a geologist, I mentioned the rock to him, curious if he had any idea how old it might be. He said the rocks in the Ozarks aren't granite at all, but sedimentary, formed under ancient oceans and revealed when the oceans receded. A little more Ozarkian geology-talk and my porter-level recedes and reveals the bottom of the glass, and I have to get to the Amtrak station to head to Chicago so so-long Tracy come down to Ecuador to study volcanoes sometime. "Drank One."
The train's 30 minutes away and the harried ticket agent's got a bike box, but no tools and I'm on my own as far as boxing the bike. Twenty minutes away and I have no pedal wrench. Fifteen minutes away and where's my allen wrench? I'm trying to remove the pedals with the pliers on my Leatherman when an Amtrak porter shows up with a 15-mm open-end and removes the pedals. Five minutes away and a young Amish man helps me put the bike in the box. But no tape! The train's loading and where's the ticket agent to check the bike? The porter says maybe he can send the bike on the next train and runs to find out. He can't find the ticket master, and I'm watching the train pull out. But the porter went beyond the normal porter duties, and I thank him. "Thanked one."
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Farmington, Missouri
Friends: For four days I enjoyed relatively flat terrain as I skirted the southern fringe of the Ozarks in Arkansas, but after I crossed back into Missouri south of Poplar Bluff, the hills began again. I ventured off onto county roads identified by letters rather than numbers that took me through towns that were nothing more than a small church.
For more than fifty miles of steep ups and downs from Lake Wappapello to Marquand I had the roads nearly to myself without a general store or cafe for fuel or warmth in the sudden wintry temperatures. I was down to one bottle of water. I began stopping at churches in search of a water spigot without success. I knew if need be I could stop at one of the occasional homesteads, but before that was necessary I came upon a campground on the outskirts of Cascade, the only cluster of homes to qualify as a town along the way, though without any stores that weren't boarded up. The campground only had an outhouse and no showers, but there was a water tap.
I knew if I were truly desperate I could have dared to drink from any of the many streams I crossed, all with low-lying bridges and signs warning "Impassable In High Water." Each had a measuring rod sticking up going to three feet. This was truly the back country. The temperature was only in the 40s, so I had to keep moving to stay warm, just taking a couple short breaks to eat and rest the legs leaning against the south facing wall of a church to shield me from the stiff north wind that had cooled the temperatures dramatically. Just two days before it had been in the eighties. It was a most strenuous day, but I managed seventy-five miles with all the time on the bike. How strenuous it had been was confirmed when I settled down to sleep and I could feel a still accelerated heart beat as my body continued to recover.
Though this had been a sunny clear day, the shift in weather had brought rain a couple days before. The guy who told me I was in for a rainy night in Walnut Ridge was absolutely correct. Even before I had set up camp, thunder and lightning were menacing the near black sky. I had to leave the road I was riding flanked by farmers' fields in the flats of Arkansas to detour down a side road that turned to dirt to reach the nearest forest. I found some high ground, so if the rain was as severe as the sky was intimidating it would be, I needn't fear flooding. My biggest concern was the dirt road turning into a muddy quagmire the next morning. I considered turning back when the road turned to dirt, but there hadn't been any place to pitch my tent where I was confident of the drainage or that was secluded enough, plus it was too near dark to go back to the main road in hopes of finding better camping along it.
It rained all night and didn't let up with the morning's light. My tent dripped a bit slightly dampening my sleeping bag, but not significantly. I slept to eight hoping the rain would abate, but ended up breaking camp in a light drizzle. Seeing the dirt road in the morning light, I was relieved to discover it was more gravel than dirt and only had patches of standing water. It was rideable. Best of all, no dirt or mud clung to my tires and clogged my fenders and brakes, as I have experienced all too many times on rough roads in isolated quarters around the world. Once in Bolivia the mud was so adhesive I had to remove my fenders, but was still unable to push my bike through the mud, forcing me to carry it.
It was a couple hours before the rain let up. The sky remained thickly clouded though, threatening more rain at any moment. I had been hoping to stumble upon a laundromat to dry out my sleeping bag and tent, but had no such luck. I did unroll my tent late in the day, drying it a bit, but without any sunshine, just a slight breeze, it was hardly worth the effort.
I was slightly nervous about attempting to camp that night with wet gear in the very soggy countryside. The furrows of the fields along the road were all filled with water, looking as if they were rice paddies. It would be a challenge to find unsaturated turf, but I was gaining on more forested terrain that promised better drainage.
I feared that I might be forced into a hotel, something I always dread. I consider it a defeat, an admission that I'm not tough enough to endure a little discomfort or risk, as bitter a pill to swallow as accepting a ride from a car. Resorting to a hotel is like buying one's way out of trouble--maybe not an immoral or unethical act, but at the least the easy way out. Far better to solve a problem with ingenuity and fortitude than by throwing money at it.
I passed through the large city of Poplar Bluff just as it was getting dark with motel after motel offering a temptation. But I knew thick woods awaited me and pushed on. The first couple of patches of woods I attempted were too spongy and on lower ground. But before I could get to thicker, higher forests I came upon a small church on a hill surrounded by a lawn. I checked the turf behind the church. It wasn't saturated and hid me from the road.
Not long after I was set up the rain began again, not hard, but steady. It soothed me to sleep. But I awoke at one a.m. with a wet arm. The rain was no longer soaking in and I was in the middle of a small lake. The front of the church had an overhang. Though it was concrete it was dry. I quickly moved all my gear, without once regretting I were in a motel, happy to have spent the night in my tent.
I am now within seventy miles of St. Louis hoping to overnight with friends tomorrow, then visit a Carnegie in Alton across the river and pick up Historic Route 66 back to Chicago.
Later, George
For more than fifty miles of steep ups and downs from Lake Wappapello to Marquand I had the roads nearly to myself without a general store or cafe for fuel or warmth in the sudden wintry temperatures. I was down to one bottle of water. I began stopping at churches in search of a water spigot without success. I knew if need be I could stop at one of the occasional homesteads, but before that was necessary I came upon a campground on the outskirts of Cascade, the only cluster of homes to qualify as a town along the way, though without any stores that weren't boarded up. The campground only had an outhouse and no showers, but there was a water tap.
I knew if I were truly desperate I could have dared to drink from any of the many streams I crossed, all with low-lying bridges and signs warning "Impassable In High Water." Each had a measuring rod sticking up going to three feet. This was truly the back country. The temperature was only in the 40s, so I had to keep moving to stay warm, just taking a couple short breaks to eat and rest the legs leaning against the south facing wall of a church to shield me from the stiff north wind that had cooled the temperatures dramatically. Just two days before it had been in the eighties. It was a most strenuous day, but I managed seventy-five miles with all the time on the bike. How strenuous it had been was confirmed when I settled down to sleep and I could feel a still accelerated heart beat as my body continued to recover.
Though this had been a sunny clear day, the shift in weather had brought rain a couple days before. The guy who told me I was in for a rainy night in Walnut Ridge was absolutely correct. Even before I had set up camp, thunder and lightning were menacing the near black sky. I had to leave the road I was riding flanked by farmers' fields in the flats of Arkansas to detour down a side road that turned to dirt to reach the nearest forest. I found some high ground, so if the rain was as severe as the sky was intimidating it would be, I needn't fear flooding. My biggest concern was the dirt road turning into a muddy quagmire the next morning. I considered turning back when the road turned to dirt, but there hadn't been any place to pitch my tent where I was confident of the drainage or that was secluded enough, plus it was too near dark to go back to the main road in hopes of finding better camping along it.
It rained all night and didn't let up with the morning's light. My tent dripped a bit slightly dampening my sleeping bag, but not significantly. I slept to eight hoping the rain would abate, but ended up breaking camp in a light drizzle. Seeing the dirt road in the morning light, I was relieved to discover it was more gravel than dirt and only had patches of standing water. It was rideable. Best of all, no dirt or mud clung to my tires and clogged my fenders and brakes, as I have experienced all too many times on rough roads in isolated quarters around the world. Once in Bolivia the mud was so adhesive I had to remove my fenders, but was still unable to push my bike through the mud, forcing me to carry it.
It was a couple hours before the rain let up. The sky remained thickly clouded though, threatening more rain at any moment. I had been hoping to stumble upon a laundromat to dry out my sleeping bag and tent, but had no such luck. I did unroll my tent late in the day, drying it a bit, but without any sunshine, just a slight breeze, it was hardly worth the effort.
I was slightly nervous about attempting to camp that night with wet gear in the very soggy countryside. The furrows of the fields along the road were all filled with water, looking as if they were rice paddies. It would be a challenge to find unsaturated turf, but I was gaining on more forested terrain that promised better drainage.
I feared that I might be forced into a hotel, something I always dread. I consider it a defeat, an admission that I'm not tough enough to endure a little discomfort or risk, as bitter a pill to swallow as accepting a ride from a car. Resorting to a hotel is like buying one's way out of trouble--maybe not an immoral or unethical act, but at the least the easy way out. Far better to solve a problem with ingenuity and fortitude than by throwing money at it.
I passed through the large city of Poplar Bluff just as it was getting dark with motel after motel offering a temptation. But I knew thick woods awaited me and pushed on. The first couple of patches of woods I attempted were too spongy and on lower ground. But before I could get to thicker, higher forests I came upon a small church on a hill surrounded by a lawn. I checked the turf behind the church. It wasn't saturated and hid me from the road.
Not long after I was set up the rain began again, not hard, but steady. It soothed me to sleep. But I awoke at one a.m. with a wet arm. The rain was no longer soaking in and I was in the middle of a small lake. The front of the church had an overhang. Though it was concrete it was dry. I quickly moved all my gear, without once regretting I were in a motel, happy to have spent the night in my tent.
I am now within seventy miles of St. Louis hoping to overnight with friends tomorrow, then visit a Carnegie in Alton across the river and pick up Historic Route 66 back to Chicago.
Later, George
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Walnut Ridge, Arkansas
Friends: It is "Can Forgiveness Month," at the Walnut Ridge, Arkansas library. Bring in a can of food and one is able to "can" one dollar's worth of library fines.
As odd as that scheme might be, it wasn't the oddest thing I encountered in Walnut Ridge. As I sat outside the library putting some calories into me making a dent in the two-pound tub of macaroni salad I'd just purchased at the local Sav-A-Lot before going into the library, an older gentleman stopped by to warn me I was in for some rain this evening. He also asked if I had seen the Beatles sculpture a block away. I hadn't. He told me it commemorated the Beatles landing at the Walnut Ridge airport in 1964. "Some people think it's the most significant thing to have happened in the town's history," he said.
The sculpture was a black metal silhouette of the Fab Four prancing along, emulating the Abbey Road album cover. It was behind the "Imagine Artist's Gallery," which featured individual paintings of each of the Lads from Liverpool on its front window. The shop's proprietor, Carrie Mae Snapp, was delighted to tell me every detail I could have hoped to know about the Beatles visit. She was a 14-year old girl at the time and a Beatles lover of the first order. She gushed with as much enthusiasm telling me all about their visit as if it had happened day before.
Walnut Ridge had the only airport within one hundred miles large enough to accommodate the Beatles private jet. They had a couple days between concerts and wanted to take a break from their hectic tour at the ranch of a friend in Alton, Missouri, a town that Don Jaime and I passed through a week ago. They landed at Walnut Ridge at two a.m. after a Friday night concert in Dallas and then flew on to Alton in a puddle jumper, all that is except for Paul, who was leery of small planes and preferred to be driven.
A boyhood friend of Carrie Mae's happened to be at the airport when the Beatles made their surprise landing and immediately called Carrie Mae, waking her family up in the middle of the night, to tell her that he had hung out with and drunk whiskey with the Beatles. The next day, Carrie Mae and her parents drove out to the airport to see if the Beatles jet was truly there. Not only was it there, but Carrie Mae and a couple of her girl friends were able to sneak aboard the jet, climbing up on its wing and slipping in through its emergency exit, which they noticed was ajar. They made off with five small pillows. Her father found out later that day and made them return the pillows, though she kept the slip it came in, which she still has.
They learned that the pilot of the jet was staying at a local motel. They searched him out to see if he would tell them when the Beatles would be flying out. He said he couldn't say, but if they wanted to see them they shouldn't go to church on Sunday. That's all they needed to know. They were among about 300 people at the airport Sunday morning, about ten per cent of the town's population.
When the small plane landed, only John and Paul exited, rushing straight to the jet, hardly acknowledging the crowd. "Ringo looked tipsy, as if he were drunk," Carrie Mae said. "And then right after they boarded the jet, a red GMC Suburban, that had been parked a little distance away, drove up right where I was standing and out hopped first Paul and then George. Paul passed me before I could react, but I was able to touch George. This very hand touched George," she gushed, as if she were still that 14-year old girl who had experienced the dream of a lifetime.
From the plane John glanced out once and gave a wave, but Paul gave the crowd a prolonged look. "Every girl there claims he made eye contact with her, but I know I'm the one," Carrie Mae said.
I wondered if Alton acknowledged the Beatles visit as did Walnut Ridge. Don Jaime and I spent a fair bit of time circling about the town late one Sunday afternoon trying to find a six-pack of beer for The Don and hadn't noticed anything commemorating the Beatles. Carrie Mae confirmed there wasn't, though the ranch they stayed at has tried to auction off every bit of its content that it can connect to the Beatles.
The 1962 GMC Suburban Paul and George were given a ride in is still around. It was in Walnut Ridge this past Sept. 18, the 47th anniversary of the Beatles landing, when the Beatles sculpture was unveiled. Carrie Mae said the "Wall Street Journal" had a front page story on the event. Google "Carrie Mae Snapp and the Beatles" and you can read much much more. Carrie Mae has been featured in quite a few articles over the years. "I give a good interview," she said. Yes indeed.
She added that a documentary was made of the Beatles visit, but because of rights problems with some of the footage, it has never been released. Someone else is working on a feature film of that momentous weekend.
Later, George
As odd as that scheme might be, it wasn't the oddest thing I encountered in Walnut Ridge. As I sat outside the library putting some calories into me making a dent in the two-pound tub of macaroni salad I'd just purchased at the local Sav-A-Lot before going into the library, an older gentleman stopped by to warn me I was in for some rain this evening. He also asked if I had seen the Beatles sculpture a block away. I hadn't. He told me it commemorated the Beatles landing at the Walnut Ridge airport in 1964. "Some people think it's the most significant thing to have happened in the town's history," he said.
The sculpture was a black metal silhouette of the Fab Four prancing along, emulating the Abbey Road album cover. It was behind the "Imagine Artist's Gallery," which featured individual paintings of each of the Lads from Liverpool on its front window. The shop's proprietor, Carrie Mae Snapp, was delighted to tell me every detail I could have hoped to know about the Beatles visit. She was a 14-year old girl at the time and a Beatles lover of the first order. She gushed with as much enthusiasm telling me all about their visit as if it had happened day before.
Walnut Ridge had the only airport within one hundred miles large enough to accommodate the Beatles private jet. They had a couple days between concerts and wanted to take a break from their hectic tour at the ranch of a friend in Alton, Missouri, a town that Don Jaime and I passed through a week ago. They landed at Walnut Ridge at two a.m. after a Friday night concert in Dallas and then flew on to Alton in a puddle jumper, all that is except for Paul, who was leery of small planes and preferred to be driven.
A boyhood friend of Carrie Mae's happened to be at the airport when the Beatles made their surprise landing and immediately called Carrie Mae, waking her family up in the middle of the night, to tell her that he had hung out with and drunk whiskey with the Beatles. The next day, Carrie Mae and her parents drove out to the airport to see if the Beatles jet was truly there. Not only was it there, but Carrie Mae and a couple of her girl friends were able to sneak aboard the jet, climbing up on its wing and slipping in through its emergency exit, which they noticed was ajar. They made off with five small pillows. Her father found out later that day and made them return the pillows, though she kept the slip it came in, which she still has.
They learned that the pilot of the jet was staying at a local motel. They searched him out to see if he would tell them when the Beatles would be flying out. He said he couldn't say, but if they wanted to see them they shouldn't go to church on Sunday. That's all they needed to know. They were among about 300 people at the airport Sunday morning, about ten per cent of the town's population.
When the small plane landed, only John and Paul exited, rushing straight to the jet, hardly acknowledging the crowd. "Ringo looked tipsy, as if he were drunk," Carrie Mae said. "And then right after they boarded the jet, a red GMC Suburban, that had been parked a little distance away, drove up right where I was standing and out hopped first Paul and then George. Paul passed me before I could react, but I was able to touch George. This very hand touched George," she gushed, as if she were still that 14-year old girl who had experienced the dream of a lifetime.
From the plane John glanced out once and gave a wave, but Paul gave the crowd a prolonged look. "Every girl there claims he made eye contact with her, but I know I'm the one," Carrie Mae said.
I wondered if Alton acknowledged the Beatles visit as did Walnut Ridge. Don Jaime and I spent a fair bit of time circling about the town late one Sunday afternoon trying to find a six-pack of beer for The Don and hadn't noticed anything commemorating the Beatles. Carrie Mae confirmed there wasn't, though the ranch they stayed at has tried to auction off every bit of its content that it can connect to the Beatles.
The 1962 GMC Suburban Paul and George were given a ride in is still around. It was in Walnut Ridge this past Sept. 18, the 47th anniversary of the Beatles landing, when the Beatles sculpture was unveiled. Carrie Mae said the "Wall Street Journal" had a front page story on the event. Google "Carrie Mae Snapp and the Beatles" and you can read much much more. Carrie Mae has been featured in quite a few articles over the years. "I give a good interview," she said. Yes indeed.
She added that a documentary was made of the Beatles visit, but because of rights problems with some of the footage, it has never been released. Someone else is working on a feature film of that momentous weekend.
Later, George
Monday, November 14, 2011
Possum Grape, Arkansas
Friends: As I closed to within ten miles of downtown Little Rock approaching from the west on thickly forested route ten, neither my map nor anyone I asked could tell me how to link up with the bicycle path along the Arkansas River that went straight to the Clinton Library. I knew it was to my left, but there didn't seem to be any main thoroughfares bisecting the road I was on.
Then I caught a glimpse of a cyclist in Lyra a block over. It took me several blocks to catch up to him. He was headed to the bike path himself. He said I'd have to follow him, as it was too complicated to explain how to reach it riding through the small affluent suburb of Cammack Village up on a high bluff overlooking the river to reach the lone road heading down to the river.
He warned me that if I ever drove through Cammack Village to strictly observe the 25 mile per hour speed limit, as the cops ticket drivers if they exceed the speed limit by even one mile per hour. When we reached the river, we came out right at the bicycle bridge that crosses the Arkansas River. It is the longest pedestrian/bicycle bridge ever built, 4,226 feet long. A commemorative plaque from its dedication in September of 2006, also stated it was the only bridge ever built into a dam, and listed numerous awards this engineering marvel had won. It was a magnificent structure with supports jutting out of a dam lofting it ninety feet over the river.
My riding partner said he was continuing on to Pinnacle Mountain, a pyramid shaped mountain we could see in the distance. Just a little over a mile away was another recently completely bicycle bridge, one of three on this bike route. "If you come along with me you can bike over all three of them," he said. "The third was just completed this summer and it will take you out right at the Clinton Library."
I had told him I was meeting a friend at the library at noon. It wasn't even ten o'clock, so I had plenty of time. He wasn't all that impressed that I wanted to visit the library. "Not everyone here likes Clinton all that much. When he decided to put his library in Little Rock, it caused quite a stink, but they built it anyway."
He wasn't the only person I'd met in these travels to echo such a sentiment. A former Arkansan who was tending the desk at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Missouri on Historic Route 66 told Don Jaime and me that many people in Arkansas had voted for Clinton for President to get him out of the state.
As we bicycled along the bicycle path my fellow cyclist commented, "If you'd been here yesterday this trail would have been mobbed with cyclists. But you're in the Bible Belt, and this being Sunday, most people are in church this morning." About the only others out enjoying the path were a few woman joggers and a few Asians taking a stroll.
The bridge over the dam was seven-and-a-half miles from downtown Little Rock. I thought I might be able to see the handful of its 40-story tall skyscrapers as I crossed over it, but the bluffs and winding river blocked the view. It was still very rural, even that close to the heart of this capital city of 200,000 people. The path took me through farmlands with recently harvested huge rolls of hay and past several soccer fields and more forest. After four miles I at last came upon residences and could begin to see the Little Rock skyline on the other side of the river.
A most pleasing sculpture of a young boy on a BMX bike wearing a broad grin and a backward baseball hat stood at the foot of the bicycle/pedestrian bridge leading to the Clinton Library. The bridge had been a former train bridge, still retaining its towering grid of metal camouflaging that it was a bicycle bridge. Like the dam bridge it was a nifty piece of engineering and not without a few aesthetic touches--flower pots on its railing and pull-outs to gaze upon the river.
The Clinton Library too was a magnificent structure with the look of a battle ship perched on stanchions along the river just east of downtown Little Rock. It was part of a mile long Riverfront Park, including an open door pavilion for concerts and an array of sculptures and monuments. One of the sculptures was of a giant hog or razorback, the mascot of the state University in Fayetteville. Many message boards of businesses from banks to beauty salons shouted out "Go Hogs." More than a few companies had taken on hog-related names, none more apt than the car wash calling itself "Hog Wash."
The Riverfront Park had exhibits celebrating the town's past and its role in the Civil War as part of the Confederacy. A Wellness Walkway had placards proclaiming "It's Good to be a Loser" and "Be a Quitter," encouraging people to lose weight by eating sensibly and engaging in regular physical activity and also to quit smoking--"one of the most important things you'll ever do."
Paralleling the Riverfront Park was Clinton Avenue with a Clinton Museum store packed with Clinton books and posters and memorabilia and t-shirts. The most prominent was "I Miss Bill."
I did all the exploring on my own, as Don Jaime didn't make our appointed rendezvous time. He must have been slowed by the continuing strong winds from the south. I was able to head north from Little Rock and take full advantage of the winds, nearly doing 100 miles for the day.
And those strong winds persist today. Rather than angling against them eastward to Memphis I'm letting them blow me directly north. Chicago is now just 600 miles away. If I'm not careful I'll be home well before Thanksgiving. I had been looking forward to making Turkey Day the final leg of my trip home. The winds are due to start blowing from the north any time, and if so, I can reduce my pace and spend more time lingering, but while I have such a wind as I do now, I want to take full advantage of it. I've already spent more time in this library than I wished to. As is my motto, I'd rather be on my bike.
Later, George
Then I caught a glimpse of a cyclist in Lyra a block over. It took me several blocks to catch up to him. He was headed to the bike path himself. He said I'd have to follow him, as it was too complicated to explain how to reach it riding through the small affluent suburb of Cammack Village up on a high bluff overlooking the river to reach the lone road heading down to the river.
He warned me that if I ever drove through Cammack Village to strictly observe the 25 mile per hour speed limit, as the cops ticket drivers if they exceed the speed limit by even one mile per hour. When we reached the river, we came out right at the bicycle bridge that crosses the Arkansas River. It is the longest pedestrian/bicycle bridge ever built, 4,226 feet long. A commemorative plaque from its dedication in September of 2006, also stated it was the only bridge ever built into a dam, and listed numerous awards this engineering marvel had won. It was a magnificent structure with supports jutting out of a dam lofting it ninety feet over the river.
My riding partner said he was continuing on to Pinnacle Mountain, a pyramid shaped mountain we could see in the distance. Just a little over a mile away was another recently completely bicycle bridge, one of three on this bike route. "If you come along with me you can bike over all three of them," he said. "The third was just completed this summer and it will take you out right at the Clinton Library."
I had told him I was meeting a friend at the library at noon. It wasn't even ten o'clock, so I had plenty of time. He wasn't all that impressed that I wanted to visit the library. "Not everyone here likes Clinton all that much. When he decided to put his library in Little Rock, it caused quite a stink, but they built it anyway."
He wasn't the only person I'd met in these travels to echo such a sentiment. A former Arkansan who was tending the desk at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Missouri on Historic Route 66 told Don Jaime and me that many people in Arkansas had voted for Clinton for President to get him out of the state.
As we bicycled along the bicycle path my fellow cyclist commented, "If you'd been here yesterday this trail would have been mobbed with cyclists. But you're in the Bible Belt, and this being Sunday, most people are in church this morning." About the only others out enjoying the path were a few woman joggers and a few Asians taking a stroll.
The bridge over the dam was seven-and-a-half miles from downtown Little Rock. I thought I might be able to see the handful of its 40-story tall skyscrapers as I crossed over it, but the bluffs and winding river blocked the view. It was still very rural, even that close to the heart of this capital city of 200,000 people. The path took me through farmlands with recently harvested huge rolls of hay and past several soccer fields and more forest. After four miles I at last came upon residences and could begin to see the Little Rock skyline on the other side of the river.
A most pleasing sculpture of a young boy on a BMX bike wearing a broad grin and a backward baseball hat stood at the foot of the bicycle/pedestrian bridge leading to the Clinton Library. The bridge had been a former train bridge, still retaining its towering grid of metal camouflaging that it was a bicycle bridge. Like the dam bridge it was a nifty piece of engineering and not without a few aesthetic touches--flower pots on its railing and pull-outs to gaze upon the river.
The Clinton Library too was a magnificent structure with the look of a battle ship perched on stanchions along the river just east of downtown Little Rock. It was part of a mile long Riverfront Park, including an open door pavilion for concerts and an array of sculptures and monuments. One of the sculptures was of a giant hog or razorback, the mascot of the state University in Fayetteville. Many message boards of businesses from banks to beauty salons shouted out "Go Hogs." More than a few companies had taken on hog-related names, none more apt than the car wash calling itself "Hog Wash."
The Riverfront Park had exhibits celebrating the town's past and its role in the Civil War as part of the Confederacy. A Wellness Walkway had placards proclaiming "It's Good to be a Loser" and "Be a Quitter," encouraging people to lose weight by eating sensibly and engaging in regular physical activity and also to quit smoking--"one of the most important things you'll ever do."
Paralleling the Riverfront Park was Clinton Avenue with a Clinton Museum store packed with Clinton books and posters and memorabilia and t-shirts. The most prominent was "I Miss Bill."
I did all the exploring on my own, as Don Jaime didn't make our appointed rendezvous time. He must have been slowed by the continuing strong winds from the south. I was able to head north from Little Rock and take full advantage of the winds, nearly doing 100 miles for the day.
And those strong winds persist today. Rather than angling against them eastward to Memphis I'm letting them blow me directly north. Chicago is now just 600 miles away. If I'm not careful I'll be home well before Thanksgiving. I had been looking forward to making Turkey Day the final leg of my trip home. The winds are due to start blowing from the north any time, and if so, I can reduce my pace and spend more time lingering, but while I have such a wind as I do now, I want to take full advantage of it. I've already spent more time in this library than I wished to. As is my motto, I'd rather be on my bike.
Later, George
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