Hoping for a Tail Wind

Damn my brakes are squeaking…

When you’ve seen it manifest so many ways throughout rural areas, the natural “roadside stop-and-chill spot” becomes recognizable before you even get to it. Though not nearly as bad as the Suburbakillyah effect, every little buttfuck town USA comes with an increased load of vehicular traffic. I always feel it right as I pass the first country store or gas station, especially when there’s no shoulder. But there’s also the change up when you’re heading out, where the cars and trucks diverge or there’s a right turn over a bridge or there’s some tracks to cross going left at a fork. Sometimes its all three of those things at the same time. I see it coming today, like some sort of infrared vision fueled by being dog tired of riding the god forsaken hills of Kentucky. And so that’s where I’m stopped right now.

Go back in time to me waking up in the Winner’s Circle motel, shitting three times (¡aye dios mio!), showering once, eating half of a protein bar, filling my water bottles with free ice and my thermos with free coffee before peaceing the fuck out of prize-horse-land. I forget to brush my teeth.

My mighty heavy load is of Cymande proportions at this point and though I’d rather take it easy the first ten miles, the hills have me using all my gears in 2 miles. I cruise up and down, up and down – I get 25 miles in before breakfast number two: trail mix.

The motorists today are really nice until a couple bad apples come along. I wonder who is the bigger gaping prison-raped asshole? The motorcycle gang dweeb who brushes just inches by me after the two cars in front of him move completely into the other lane to pass? Or maybe the cunt with the six tire pickup truck who passes me all vroom vroomy, slows until I’m closer, then literally squeals his tires so I can taste burning rubber and exhaust? Or possibly the jerk in the two door sedan with something about god loving everyone stickered on his trunk who tries the same stunt but doesn’t realize she’s not very original? I don’t come up the answer. If you have any deep insights into this puzzling question, I’d kindly request you to type it up, email it to yourself, print that out on recycled paper, put it in a glass bottle and bury that bottle in the ground.

So anyway…

More hills.

More hills.

More hills.

My legs are melting when I get startled by a sound I haven’t heard yet this trip: a train horn. Yes ladies and gentlemen, unlike civil discourse, trains are back. Not just train tracks (which I ain’t seen much of either), but actual trains regularly running on train tracks. Kentucky may not have much teeth, but they got much trains (if you’re playing along at home, scratch and sniff the train icon now). All of this can only mean one thing – lots of things are about to change around here.

First: It gets loud. I can no longer hear the car traffic cruise up behind me nor Stevie Wonder wondering if I knew “we’d be jammin’ to the break of dawn.” Two: the world is now my art gallery. Fantastic murals speed along at a distractingly furious pace. And C: the terrain is about to go less than 5% grade. Most of the train lines run parallel to my route but some cross. I get caught at a crossing for 20 minutes, mesmerized by the entire ordeal. Placard by placard. Graffiti piece by piece.

Ok, so we’re now all caught back up to that roadside “stop and chill spot” I described at the top. Good thing you’ve seen enough Tarantino films to follow along with this kinda thing huh?

My entire world flattens out after I have a snack in Williamstown. I don’t mean old ladies complaining about the bridges in Buffalo kinda flat, but the no more wear-your-knees-out, consecutive uphills kinda flat. No more granny gear. No more slow slaloms. I get it in from that point on. I’m right at 18-20 mph for a vast majority of miles 35 to 60, save a couple climbs here and there. I can smell the Ohio River coming. I’m now one gangster ass flat-earther.

I’m spending the night just minutes from the bridge to Cincinnati. One last night in Kentucky. I’m given a place to crash and immense hospitality by David and Karen, a couple who have done quite a ton of bike touring, including going cross country southern tier on their touring tandem (I love those things; n+1). They are super adventurous and made some great jambalaya and corn bread for us to feast on. We share stories and laughs… and tomorrow, I’m hitting Ohio.

I don’t even awaken until 830am – I’m usually 10 miles in by this time, then I realize I was now back into the eastern time zone (if that’s not time travel, I don’t know what is!). Still it’s a later start nonetheless, but I finally get out and get moving. All hail the return of the mighty tail wind! Damnit it mean it – ALL HAIL! This is the first true tailwind of my ride and tailwinds generally mean three things: 1) there’s no head wind, 2) I get a little boost during the inclines and a little break on declines, and 3) my blog is clearly titled appropriately. It’s a strong tail wind too, about 18 mph steady with gusts up to 40 mph out of the WNW – and I’m headed To The East, Blackwards (shout out to X-Clan; not on the playlist… yet). I’m making great time, but damn I can feel it every once in a while when the route turns back on itself.

Route 62 is a lot of up and down, up and down; a bit less maintained; and has zero shoulder. But traffic is light outside of towns and most everyone is patient until they can safely pass. Some dudes working on the toad give me the bull horns and I can make out one dude mouthing the words, “fuck yeah”. One ass hat of a motorist give me the 8 second long horn as she passes. I wonder what she’s so pissed at, since I clearly can’t move over any more. Maybe she just hates bicycles or tents or tattoos. Or herself. I conclude it’s the last one, so I wave at her as she burns away more dinosaurs, speeding further into her own depressed existence.

I’ve gotta let y’all in on a little secret. A high fructose pipeline has been constructed throughout Trumpistan. There is no more “corn belt”. It’s no longer just Iowa and Nebraska – every state I’ve seen is now pumping disease onto each and every one of our dinner tables, all in the name of maximum corporate profit. This isn’t your 4th of July corn on the cob, microwave popcorn or cream corn casseroles. No that’s the storied last of good old American agricultural awesomeness. This is processed sweeteners, cheap cattle feed and ethanol. This is government subsidized big business that inefficient at feeding citizens but costs taxpayers out the ass. It’s massive and it ain’t going anywhere soon. The only thing we can do is put our money where our mouth is, so do what you can to only purchase products that do not contain high fructose corn syrup. You’ll be doing yourself and others a big favor.

Back on the trail, the winds increase and start to swirl, making some of these turns and inclines increasingly difficult. I can feel the day before’s century still aching my body and so I start taking lots more breaks. This bridge was the best one, not only did it shake a little bit ever time a motor vehicle roared by, but it came with its own caption. The last two hours of my journey are through horse country. I mean wealthy, win-the-Preakness, we got acreage kinda horse country. This is the wealth I never see. These folks live in an entire other world, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – they actually have workers weed wacking every single fence post – and there must be tens of thousands on just the 10 miles stretch I’m on. The grass isn’t even that high. Must be nice to have it like that. Still, the roads were smooth and quiet and the scenery was amazing, so it was a welcome change of pace from Route 62, which I had been on for hours. Thanks super rich old white guys.

Plus its route 1977, so it much be fantastic right? The wind keeps beating me up as I turn to the north and they are now hitting me from the side and at times from the front. I decide against camping in this and grab another cheap motel room. I’m getting soft. This is one is pretty nice and cheaper than the last. They even have ice and coffee… and there’s an authentic taco truck out front! I grab 5 tacos, nom nom nom, and it’s light out before the sun even sets.