I got a thing with rain jackets, specifically whichever rain jacket I have when I have it. Over the years they’ve been used ones, new ones, cheap, whatever. They all work. Whenever I put it on, the rain stops (or never even starts). Right now I’ve got a rather pricey Eddie Bauer rain jacket on. They don’t pay me and I had to buy the one I’m wearing right now. Right now. I’ve had this one a few years now and it’s nice. Armpit zippers and everything. You better ask somebody.

Earlier. Like way earlier. It’s morning in KCMO. I awaken in a comfy king size bed with four pillows and I’m wearing zero rain jackets. Butt. In case we’re counting at home (and why wouldn’t we be?) I take not one, not two… yes three deuces — actual poops — before I even leave the room. Dayum. Life keeps living.

After all that shitting around I gotta psych myself up the rest of the morning before leaving out. About this long ride at hand, not about more shitting. Kinda doing the abundance mindset, power of intention thingamabob. Telling myself it’s all mental. Ya know. All that nonsense. And… it’s all that makes sense.

Forecasts gonna forecast today. I can get wet but I like to keep my gear dry as a bone. Just cuz. Back to focusing hard as I roll up this Ortlieb waterproof pannier bag, I tuck the long plastic drip stop strip thingy that makes it the most waterproof bag that money can buy. Deutschmarks, Dollars and Euros alike. They don’t pay me either, in any of those currencies. Convolutionally inspired, electrical impulses fire about inside my cranium, going on and on about how I’m gonna roll it this one time—it’ll be the exact right way — in an exercise in getting these protons, neutrons and/or electrons in my mind to where we need them to be. Sure.

I fucking nail it. Deliberation with intention come forth and manifest. Jedi Mind Trick kinda hotel room right now.

Then 30 seconds later I realize that I left my detachable fender in that same/exact/fucking bag and now have to undo it all anyway. What the hell?! So much for doing it one time correctly. I’m team Lauryn all the way, yet Wyclef might have been right… “two times.”

Ninety minutes to check out and I just now find the hairdryer. Clutch! because it completes the bathroom-to-laundry-room transformation that is the staple of a hotel on a long ride. Every sink; a clothes washer. Every hair dryer; a cloth dryer. Long ride bike pack cycle tourists only really care about clean underwear and a shower, everything else is filthy anyway. It’s a generalization. It’s a little secret. Nobody talks about, but it’s true. Clean yet dirty.

Everything outside my 3rd floor window is still wet from another over night downpour. There’s more where that came from. I check the radar. All the green and blue as usual. Then. Mustard… no ketchup. The roof puddles several buildings over grow still; the raindrops have finally let up for a bit; I don my magic rain jacket and head out. Ready for adventure. Ready for the world. Ready for… ugh. 2 blocks in and I realize I have no idea how to use my GPS element bolt two navigational handlebar computer thingy anymore. Like I made sure it worked at home but I have absurdly forgotten how to navigate with it. I can’t even R2-D2. I’m bad Luke Skywalker. I figure it out after only maybe three wrong turns. Yeah. Three. I gave up printing maps 3 years ago and the research is ongoing. I haven’t however given up on the obligatory fully loaded bike shot:

The wind picks up more. Somewhere around mile 7 and it starts to hurt everywhere. Not the wind. My body. My legs. I for certain have the least physical conditioning I’ve ever had ahead of a week-or-longer ride. Today is only 35-40 miles for a reason. Tomorrow might be that way too. Tough miles. Wrists. Knees. Getting out of cities sucks. And everything is wet. It’s that back-and-forth and that universal dialectic conundrum that gets me in that mindset that I need to be in. A differential equation. Calculus, one could call it. Let’s just approach infinity (or negative infinity), for fun. Shits AND Giggles. Whoa. Yesterdays hot and cold extreme self-temperatures now dangle in my view point in some strange hallucinated hologram. Is this just more contrast?

Contrast therapy, even. Cue Snagglepuss voice. You know that bow tie flamboyant feline who debuted on The Quick Draw McGraw Show. His Wikipedia says he’s: enjoys the finer things in life and shows a particular affinity for the theatre. His stories routinely break the fourth wall as the character addresses the audience in self-narration, soliloquy, and asides. What a strange cartoon character. Such a misleading name for such a clearly homosexual talking cat in a universe of full of cartoon cats. Snagglepuss makes the Pink Panther look like Chuck Norris. See, there I go again with the juxtapositions. Juxtapositionings, exit stage right.

And then. The holy grail of capitalism… the Mecca of bike tours… Walmart. It’s a love hate for me. Mostly love, because when I need something they have it. I need camp stove fuel, since my pals at TSA don’t allow it in checked baggage. I’ve gotten away with it before but left it out this time. Now I need more. And I need a break to stretch. I detour off the trail. The first car I’ve seen in 15 miles lays its horn in on me all the way. “Fuck him”, I think as I flash a two finger peace sign. I left my back rack American flag at home; it usually calms these chodes down. Nonetheless, here in Raytown Missouri I do my patriotic duty and try the local hardware shop first. To no avail. I’m cynical Walmart will have the small iso butane canister either. God damn this is a robust Walmart. I need a map to get out of the lifestyle sections. And. And. And they have it! Fuck yeah. I grab two bananas (no cramps!), a spicy ramen for later and a grab-and-go chicken wrap for now. Good deal. Way to go Murika. I step outside and the drizzling begins. This is what was called for. The temps are gonna plummet, I hear. Slap my magic rain jacket back on and push off.

This tunnel was short but had motion detecting lights!

Ten miles or so it’s still not raining. I remove the jacket and predictably the drizzle picks up in five minutes. I stop at a trailhead park for their water fountain and covered pavilion. The drizzle picks up more then tails off. Up then down. Up then down. There’s little cover on this trail but I decide to go for it. Detour ahead puts me back on roads with cars amand near some sort of civilization that should provide some sort of shelter, if I can make it in time.

I don’t. Here comes that radar mustard!! Two miles later and all that calculus kicks in. My magic goes to shit. Differential Downpour approaching infinity. Like buckets. Cats and dogs. Soaked to the bone. All the cliches. I’m on a way-too-busy-road in a rainstorm for a good hour. I cross a six lane highway in redneck rush hour, legit riding down into a two foot pot hole filled with water. Somehow everything survives that. Somehow. The jarring hurts my neck and quads. Then, another bastion of American wealth and worker exploitation which I truly only frequent on long rides appears: Starbucks. Fuck it, I tuck in, cop a seven dollar latte in a ceramic mug and spend an hour waiting it out, pretending I’m gonna dry off.

All my anti capitalist rambling flows off like a nonsense Nile; as if hypocrisy were the new patriotism. Maybe it’s always been? Anyhoo. The rain lets up. The wind has strengthened. Profoundly cold and still wet I now roll off, aborted into these colder and wetter, godless commie public roads. I’m legitimately a fetus shivering the first mile or two. Wearing every long sleeve top garment I brought, wearing my full finger gloves, wearing my knit winter hat. Rain jacket is wet but hoodied up tight. Feet soaked in socks — and that’s just gonna be the way it is for a while. I have yet to not be let down by anything marketed as a completely waterproof sock for bicycling. Outside of some fleece lined sweatpants, some extra underwear and some long socks, if the skies open back up right now, I’m gonna be out of dry clothes on day one.

There must be magic left in this EB rain jacket as no more rain falls all night. I roll into Pleasant Hill City Lake Park. My chosen first night camp site. $20 and there’s showers. Yes!

Except the shower is not working. What the fuck. I get out of the wet shoes, now wearing my dry socks and flip flops. I’m that dude. I never wanted to be that dude. Still stanked up and rain slick, I pop up the palace and fire up the camp stove. The ramen sure hits the spot, temperatures drop and the wind picks up. We’re talking 40° and 18 mph winds. I mummy myself up in the bag and do my best to get some sleep.

After an hour of dozing in and out, I stir and step out to drain the main vein. The stars have taken over the night. The bathroom showers might have been out of order, but the star showering was right on time. I start to freeze and jump back in as quickly I can.