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.