Let me get this hot tub out. My lil portable one I have in the rear left pannier. Fill er up on this water fountain. Time Machine time. We need to go back just a few weeks, I’m on the Amtrak app. I’m home. Actually, I’m probably at work so I’m probably on the desktop computer website. Tapping away, nonetheless – just with fingers not thumbs. I book a flex ticket from Alton Illinois to Chicago Illinois and I add on the $10 bicycle too. Alton is basically East St. Louis. Took me like 10 minutes to speed past it before all that hot yoga last week. This ticket’s been my bail out plan the whole time in case either Katy was a lot more than I could handle or I just took my time so much that it became a real vacation. There’s like 10 other Amtrak stations through the state and I’ve mostly followed the route of them, having seen the train pass me a few times. So yeah that brings us up to now, get out I gonna drain this thing.
Now is 4:30 AM me taking a massive crap in this vault toilet there’s no seat. It’s one of those stainless steel. Just sit on it and I do. Doo doo. No cars woke me. It’s that I’ve already slept eight hours.
Hello, circadian rhythm.
After that, it’s 60ish miles to downtown Chicago OR 13 miles between me and this Joliet Amtrak station AKA my last chance to board and take advantage of this ticket to ride. Chicago all the way means 30 more miles of rail trail in front of me +25 miles of god forsaken suburban cycling nightmares and then a big question mark of City vehicular traffic. I wanna ride. It’s more good than bad miles for sure. The weather is nice with no wind. I do wanna ride. I can ride.
Speaking of can. Trains can. Even little ones know they could. Amtrak, like the USPS and a long list of other entities, is basically a federale operation being starved out of funding that we generally spend on the military industrial complex. Or whatever the kids are calling it now. Thats what Truman called it. Train travel like mail delivery is a national operation provided for the betterment of citizens and visitors the the USA but we handcuff them into shoestring budgets and lack of flexible innovation. I do wanna shout out all the Amtrak employees who do a great job. Including those conducting the train. Including those that answer the phone. You can literally call or text an actual American living and working in this country 24/7 for customer service. The women that helped me flex my flex ticket has a wicked Long Island/New Jersey accent. Those are different accents but I can’t tell.
Still having all sorts of indecision on the last section of this rail trail this morning. I did this to myself. Going 7 miles an hour. Right down to the last mile before a turn off. It’s a turn on. It’s all because of that flexible rigidity. Or was it rigid flexibility? Either way me thinks it’s the ultimate outcome in a series of planned and successively integrated situation so that I could put off making choices until the very end to figure out what I had in me without overcommitting and being all fucked up somewhere. It’s my typical long ride one-day-routine of pushing goalposts after highlighting two — if not three — potential remote sleep options, now in application of the entire ride. When it works it not only doesn’t leave me all fucked up somewhere, it leaves me feeling joy.
Feeling resilient.
All these feels and I still gotta make this choice, pedaling with a third of a mile. I can see my turn and don’t know which way to go. I’ve got nothing to prove to the suburbs surrounding Chicago, if the canal trail went right downtown without traffic I’d probably choose otherwise… I ride right onto the train, strap my bike against the handrail, and take a seat riding backwards. Cue Graham Nash.
Kinda sorta been had grown weary of camping near a highway. Literally tired of it. Despite the cold, Katy spoiled me so. These campsites aren’t bad. It’s nice to get a shower, but sometimes it sounds like a fucking runway of airplanes all night long. Like right now, right now. I’m up at 3 AM marveling at the full moon and still hearing semi trucks sound like 787s on the tarmac.
Earliest start yet. Just to depart from sonic pollution. Still chilly, still wearing my jacket. With just a couple days before Chicago I wanna finish this trip like I started it, away from cars. So it’s bye bye to Route 66 – cutting due north for some county farm roads up to the Illinois and Michigan Canal Trail and a slew primitive campsites and state parks.
First ten miles are much smaller roads with a decent shoulder and a solid volume of heavy truck traffic. I don’t mind them. The truck drivers are fucking awesome in my book. They are licensed, certified and sober and that’s more than I can say for most other daily drivers in America. Our licensing process is a joke: one time when you’re 17 or 18 and then you’re good forever no matter what?! Really? Which then takes out of the possibility of any kind of certification or ongoing education or skills refinement! And sobriety? Even seriousness would be a start. If only we could go back to the heyday of when it was just Clem getting a bit tuned up after work and knowing enough to drive half the speed limit on his way home — now everyone’s smoking fake weed or on a drug they’ve been prescribed by a doctor and on it while they’re driving when they shouldn’t be. Because we don’t take away peoples licenses or even enforce infractions, people don’t give up their shitty driving habits. Cops don’t wanna do that. It’s cooler to be the detective making the big bust. Driving in the United States has somehow become a right instead of a privilege. Associated with freedom and sold on tv with revolution, somehow. What a crock of shit. You’re in a cage. It’s not even the highways or the people that built the highways fault, though Robert Moses is a motherfucker. Its not really even the oil industry and automotive industry profit margins. I’m at least 51% sure it’s We The People, it’s drivers. It’s constant information and 24 hour seven day a week noise. Lack of attention and dedication to the duty involved in conducting such heavy machinery. Humans not understanding that an automobile is as deadly a weapon as a handgun. We need our motor vehicle control to look more like our gun control in this country, if we want it to be a livable and sustainable nation.
Guard rails have returned and I do the old water in water out at those; they make great Bike stands too. Good for any occasion and there haven’t been many of them on this ride.
After a dozen miles up those busy road turns to empty farmland roads. I have a solid headwind too. Eventually, some gravel. Slowed moving. Still. Absolutely great and relatively flat still. Plus: quiet as hell – no unnatural sounds whatsoever. Few vehicles. And most of em are trucks so we just wave. Even the windmills are quietly operating, good job guys. Usually, I’m seeing the corn grow on these rides. Or whatever crop being cropped. Being late October, it’s all just the cleared — or waiting to be cleared.
Eventually I come to why I came this way. The Illinois and Michigan Canal Trails. It’s nice. I get a good 20 miles of it.
It is a glorious trail with autumn colors popping at golden hour. Words wouldn’t work.
Speaking of popping… as the sun sets, I pop up the palace a state park campground right on the trail. No shower – butt there’s a vault style toilet and drinking water. The TP is soft. It’s quiet. Thats the ticket.
This super 8 breakfast is rather meek. The coffee machine provides a pretty solid brew, though. Apples, bananas, common muffins, etc. Oh, look biscuits and sausage gravy. It’s actually warm food, score. I am easy like Sunday morning, Lionel.
Chugging along various versions of Route 66. The history of it here in this area helps pass the time. Kickapoo tribes first used this route. The Kickapoo are an Algonquian-speaking Indigenous people originwhose name translates to “he moves about” or “those who walk the earth”. Can I kick a poo? Yes you can. It becomes The Pontiac Trail. Then Illinois makes State Road 4. Then the US dons it Main Street of America. Then because of Steinbeck it’s The Mother Road. Eventually, the military industrial complex gets its grubby hands on it and destroys the ability to enjoy it outside of a motor vehicle going 60 mph.
All that said, it turns out a whole lotta separated bike path has been put in that neither I nor my navigating R2D2-of-a-bike-computer are aware of. 35 of my first 50 are all vehicular traffic free. Another score.
I see you Money Creek. Back to you in the future. First up, it’s Funk’s Grove Gazebo coming in after a brisk three miles. This is a funky gazebo as far as gazebos go. Still no water, still no electric. I can take my jacket off though. Sun is shining. It isn’t too shabby. The gazebo, not the sun. Normally it would make a great spot to remote sleep. Again, not the sun.
The area is known for its maple syrup. Which they spell sirrup. So now I’m on this separated bike path, next to an historic old route road, on the other side of me is a rail track, and then there is the whole interstate highway. Four different things and I’m not mad.
Shout out to Lenny and Larry. They’ve come a long way.
I cruise right through Bloomington and Normal on the Constitution Trail. The rail trail keeps me on it, there’s water and I have enough provisions. Not sure about the name though. Illini’s just tries to take stuff. Nowadays I’m much more of a just the bill of rights kinda guy tbh. I do like all the union halls though.
I see sections of 66 where guardrails have been just cut off right at the surface. These things kept the land pretty narrow. Worked fine back when you went out for a cruise at 20mph. Today they unknowingly reveal how shitty Americans’ driving has become.
I roll over section of paved concrete road that are 100 years old. Still in good shape, though a lot of the edges are crumbling down into a ditch alongside the road. A ditch I have to maneuver expertly to avoid crashing into whenever traffic pics up and I have to ride over the roughest and crumbliest of edges with little choice otherwise. I don’t like this. Worst section so far and a long ways form the glories of Katy. Valar Morghulis. If this is it, I pray to the spoke gawds for a quick death. And tbh why is death by dragon fire always portrayed to be all screaming and painful. Like maybe being burned alive tied to a stake would be like that, slowly feeling and seeing your body burn. But with a dragon, it’s all hot all flame all at once and I feel like it would be instant instantaneous incineration. Like “thanks little winged flying homie you just saved my people money on cremation.”
Money Creek. What?! No paddle needed. You’re so money and you don’t even know it baby. Pink Floyd and the O’Jays are mashing up in my head right it and sounds baller. I am fairly certain that my eyes have cartoon dollar signs in them.
I don’t think of much. I just pedal. Some miles are easy. Some are tough. Most times I push aside the pain. Knees. Hands. Hamstrings. Knocking these miles out and being outside breathing air is enough for today. Simplicity. There’s a $20 campground in Pontiac and it’s got showers. The overnight lows are up and the moon is full tonight.
Quick reboot still starring Jack Black and Mos Def aka Yasiin Bey and Be Kind Rewind to last night. Right after giving me my cash change back, Priya lets me know I’m getting the last ground room floor. And she goes out of her way to express that they usually reserve it for seniors. In the slowest and most deliberate manner. Like I should offer to move upstairs if someone with mobility issues shows up at 8pm. It almost doesn’t feel real. The shower and the bed did though.
This campground is a hybrid County Fairgrounds and 4H campground. The campsite, hostess Leslie hooks me up with the form and points to the dropbox. I find a nice patch of grass and even an outlet. I’ve stayed at these 4H spots for a while starting back in 2006 taking high school kids on a rolling summer camp from Seattle up to Vancouver to Victoria and back around the Puget Sound. This is more like an RV park with some tent, camping and shower facilities. I shower. I do a little research on 4H, figuring it’s only a matter of time until someone offers me, free pancakes and exchange for listening to them about Jesus. Or tea and Muhammad. Curry and Buddha. Scientologists and whatever they got. Whatever. I want none of it. Turns out, 4H is secular as fuck. Most importantly, the Hs stand for Head Heart Hands Health. Word. Enough for me. I’m team 4H.
Throw back to the evening of Day 8. I cross the Mississippi River. I pedal hard through Alton and make my way to Edwardsville, where I’ve secured the generosity of my host Jeremy, who’s gonna let me crash in his spare bedroom tonight. Not a solid campsite around in my direction so another night sleeping inside the best option (sad face). Timingwise. My arrival lines up with a yoga class that he has scheduled as some time to spend with his brother who sorely needs some physical movement. If I hear the phrase “motion is lotion” one more time I’m going to kill everyone with bare hands. Karate, even. Anyway, yeah, here I am balls deep in a 100-110° F hot-yoga class after bicycling 40+ miles. This kind of hot yoga is another example of something. I wasn’t sure I was still able to do. It’s amazing what can happen when when the options and circumstances dictate their situation a little bit more than you’d like. Feels like more increasingly incapable cliches are in order: Comfortable in the uncomfortable… Not for nothing… Don’t knock it til you try it. So yeah. Turns out that 75 minutes in a hot humid room stretching is exactly what I needed. My muscles feel fucking fantastic, thank you Jeremy.
Sidenote: I’m so glad that my phone now AutoCorrects “ducking” to “fucking”, instead of the other way around.
Now get this puppy up to 88mph and let’s hit September of 2023. I’m gonna have to stop and take a leak.
Something that’s been on my mind for a couple hundred miles. Hydration. And the nature of such a thing. Here I am in September 2023 on a five nation romp through Europe, concluding in Istanbul (fka Constantinople). I now find myself in Munich Germany for the most authentic of Octoberfests. Which is September bee tee dub. I am all up in the first Octoberfest since pre-panda too. It’s huge and probably just got its own variant if people were still counting them at this point. I’m at the opening day tapping of the first ceremonial keg by the mayor of Munich… despite not having a reservation… I get some table space and way we go… and damn this beer is good… and… and.. after three of them… yo, maybe its the vibe- but this beer has put me in the spaceship. Feeling it. Tuned up. Like they spiked the beer with DMT or something. So maybe a 4th beer later, I’m in this hallway gauntlet of stainless steel troughs that’s been constructed as a bathroom. I am wearing camo shorts and a black tee, squeezed in next to mad dudes in lederhosen. Wild shit for such a state. Butt the trough reminds me of the Rich Stadium piss troughs of old. Do not urinate in sink. So there i am, emptying those three big fresh beers and the German Homie next to me looks over right in my eyes and says in the thickest of fun accents “water in water out, brother”. Whoa. Some sort of Urinal Morpheus , beer Yoda, hydration sensei. Words ill never forget that ring true whether riding bikes or drinking beers.
Back in the right now, a few miles further in Illinois, see the situation above. Also on my mind for the last 100 miles or so is the fact that the bolt and hardware for this front rack’s attachment to my fork totally came loose and fell off somewhere. Somewhere. Over the rainbow. The screw had been giving me problems and I should have gotten some loctite in there. My temporary solution has involved a gear tie and a zip tie working together. An important note here is that I have found that whenever you have to field repair something make sure you check it within the next 100 to 150 miles because it might need readjustment. Probably. Bc of rattling and movement and weight. In this case, my zip tie needs tightening, and my gear tie needs adjusting, as the rack was sliding too far forward. Done and done.
I had to look it up to be sure. This is my third time crossing the Mississippi on bicycle. Once up north, St Cloud Minnesota in 2010. Once down south, just north of Baton Rouge on my way to Perry’s in 2021. And this time. Right in the middle. Just right. This is one mighty long river.
Pondering the differences of going from a Lewis and Clark kind of trail to a Route 66 trail over a bomb ass breakfast Sammy from this delightful bakery and coffee shop, when another — less hostile — MAMIL lets me know theres 150+ miles of rail trail in the Edwardsville Illinois area. Not a bad de-escalation plan since I’m on the rebound from my break up with Ms Katy. These middle aged men in Lycra are everywhere. All bright and color coordinated like some sort of cycling super hero. All those trail miles just loop around the same area and that’s cool for about 30 miles or if you’ve come with the car. By late morning, I’m done with those and I’m following Route 66.
I miss Petra. The place and the pool noodle. If you’re not familiar, you better ask somebody. They’ve both been around for a minute.
Back to more 66. It existed as a state road before there were cars flying down it. Illinois had connected up St. Louis in Chicago way back, which makes sense. It also makes sense that that’s why the US decided to make this one of the first roads in the country because the state had already started a good chunk of it.
Dope shower house at Double J Campground. I appreciate that they put the primitive tent sites as far back away from the highway as they could.
I’m crushing an apple somewhere between Springfield and Bloomington having just passed through Springfield and not reminding me of The Simpsons at all. No one was skateboarding. No news papers were flying. The clouds didn’t even look like that. Highways kinda fucked that vibe all up around This land. Your land. My land. Kinda sounds like seized property, doesn’t it? Anyway, Route 66 doesn’t look much like Route 66 anymore in these parts. I’m guessing other than a few small town holding onto cool nostalgia the last 200 miles into Chicago technically the first 200 miles out of Chicago is this service road along with us now interstate 55. That interstate in this road clearly show everything that is wrong with the world or at least America today. Fight me. I hear the traffic all day but at least they’re on a different road. My road is generally much better traffic wise but much bumpier. Less maintained, no shoulder, etc. I’m cool with it. It’s level, it’s direct, it’s weathered…like me.
Now I’m eating a banana. I’m on the direct route to nowhere today. Destination unknown. Wherever I end up when the sunsets is the plan. So we shall see. Next up Lincoln Illinois.
I’m doing 5 mph down Lincoln Ave, in the city of Lincoln, in the Land of Lincoln. I don’t feel anything special. Normal levels. Even after 250 years. Dissent is patriotic. There’s a grocery store.
There’s a place I heard called Funk’s Grove Gazebo for legal-enough-free-bike-tenting. I love that shit. What a name too. I think I can there before sunset. I’m somewhere between Shirley and Mclean (no jokes) and I decide I don’t think I wanna. Despite how awesome Double J Camp was, being just off the highway is the worst. Plus no water. I really wanna sleep outside, even late night and early mornings are warming up to 50s now. I pull the plug 3 miles before the tent spot.
I’m checking into the Super 8, it’s probably like a 2-star hotel maybe. Two floors. No elevator. Multiple entrances. Slight amount of shade but well kept from the outside. I get inside, smell curry, say hello, introduce myself… and go straight in negotiating the best rate I can with the woman working the desk. She’s got all the features of a Patel. Like if Mattel made a Patel kind of Patel. They’ve probably done that. I bet it’s called Kolkata Ken. I bet this woman asking me for my ID’s name is Priya. It’s a beautiful name but it’s no Katy. Anyway, thank you to all those with ancestors from the Asian sub continent who have effectively saved so many small affordable motels across the USA. For reals. I know the room is gonna be clean and you don’t tolerate riff raff and nonsense the way the whites and blacks will. I said it I meant it. Lemme get this thing cheeeeeaaaaap. I’m ready to pop off planning the last two days maybe three. And figure my flex ticket Amtrak situation. All with The World Series on. I think I can afford the luxurious. I run down a list of ways I might be eligible for a discount with her. Priya hooks me up for sixty four cash money US dollars. Namaste. Inside.
I document here what I feel might be a perfect pack, clothing wise. Soviet Russia next level Tetris with the layers. Sans the spare underwear and socks. I’m able to wear almost all of this at once when it’s cold riding and cold non riding — which are two different colds. So far, this setup has worked wonders this ride, with temperatures fluxing from 32° to 75° in wind and rain and sunshine. I’ll document the specific items in an updated packing list page when I get home.
Ok back to morning here on day whatever day it is. 8. The ocho.
It’s mind-numbing here at the bare bones best western plus breakfast. I know my map position, is this really the best we got? it’s not even that I’m the only one here, or that the woman working asks if I’ll be here tomorrow, “it’ll be better tomorrow”. It’s my subjugation to the American news media. Right not right now it’s my first dose of the news in many moons. And. The news is that pumpkin patch visits are at an all time high?! This is where I use a phrase I never you. “I can’t”. I grab some apples and eat a couple push button pancakes with some pretty good coffee.
Some ladies walk in and we trade good mornings. They both do something here. Later they and another guy all get the news of reduced breakfast something we other. It’s deeper than I thought. There’s some sort of re start going on. Or something. I dunno. Like there wasn’t even any breakfast before today. My suspicions stir. I also couldn’t care less. Both. At the same time. The TV interrupts with breaking news and it’s a totally different not your usual-three-faces face on the screen, so it could be really real. Quick prayer to the spoke gods that Stevie Wonder is breathing easily somewhere in, I dunno — Bali. Whew. It’s just something about being Someone got shot and killed. Non descriptive. Def not Stevie. I can’t tell myself back in society, “I didn’t know someone getting shot and killed was still news in America”. The one lady responds “yeah, and maybe we could have some good news”. Hell yeah. She even knows about the brewery.
Good News Brewing
I’m glad I get some chilly anti inflammatory pool time and super stank laundry done. Worth the inside sleep and leaving the trail a bit for one night.
I’ve settled into this 8-9mph trail pace and 40-50 daily mileage. It’s less than my usual, but you know…. Also, less creative, more contemplative. Miles on a trail. The longest contiguous in the US and A. Other states please connect your trails into long ones.
Today is the pivot day and the cross the Mighty Mississippi day. I follow the Missouri River to the Mississippi river. Confluence. I pivot off of this non motorized rail trail to vehicular roads and other shorter trails for the next 300 miles to Chicago.
It. Is. The. Last twelve miles on the Katy. Imma miss you Katy. I think I’m in love. I still do my best to hang at as many trailheads as I can with only a few of them left. Then it’s even less than I thought. Too bad. So sad. A few moments of rest and electrolytes at Black Walnut. Some history here and there. Jim Beckwourth lived a hell of a life on earth. Puns. Funs. I enjoy the silence. The sounds of only nature… without speeding cage-like death machines that have illegal muffler things happening. Pavement is pending.
A side by side:
Trail:
Slower, no vehicles, more wildlife, no steep inclines, nearly infinite pee stops, sometimes hard to find drinking water. Mostly trailheads but the occasional super cool sitch.
Road:
Faster moving, navigation, loud music to drown out vehicular traffic times, hills, cold drinks a plenty, infinite road kill, much more stimuli in general.
Some MAMIL in bright latex screams at me, “You’re one of those screws heads!” as we cruise by each other on bicycles. Mean too. His look let me know. Welcome to Illinois Bike paths. I’m sure that guy has 1 million ways to list how I’m crazy or whatever. You may be right. I may be crazy. But it just be a lunatic that you’re looking for. Yeah, OK buddy. I gave you the Billy Joel so now relax. I just got here and I’m gonna be here all week so go hate yourself somewhere else. I roll off thinking, Fur realz tho if u wanna b mad letz hate the cars together.
I leave the trail at the terminus via a non sanctioned way. A way people beg others online not to do. Basically I allow a gps file for someone’s route on ridewithgps (they don’t pay me) to convince me to trespass. I change my route and instead of taking the grafton ferry, I save the miles and decide to head over the separated bike lane on Clark Bridge. US67 I think. This involves cutting thru the trees to a cross and existing rail line to a farm road that looks public. When I get to the end of it, I’m now clearly at the end of a shared driveway, the for sure public road is 30 yards away and there’s a 40 foot chain hanging across my way. I jump off and decide to just keep stepping. I duck under the chain near the far right post, I’m about 20 feet last the chain when I set of a motion detector and all hell of sirens break looose. Oh shit. I do not change walking pace but as soon as the gravel evens out I remount and roll. The squealing sirens finally cease as I turn right on the road and I wave and yell my apologies. Then I deal with cars and I cross the Mighty on this bridge. Traffic is low volume but there’s debris a plenty. I forgot that on the list up there. Nimble to avoid nails. Illinois. Land of Lincoln brings Lincolns and Landcruisers.
