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.
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.
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.
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. 
My first big breakfast of the ride comes at the behest of my most generous host Charlie. We hit Cathy’s Kitchen Cupboard again and I’m the only man not wearing a hat. After eggs and bacon and grits, I fill up on water and head north, without any set destination. If I stay on course, I’ll be 70 miles toward a town called Bardstown, with no campground or hotel anywhere nearby – so I’ll be crashing behind the nearest fire station or library I can find as the sun sets. Charlie tells me it’s bible study night and an Episcopalian church would be most likely to let me camp – but avoid the Baptists.
…Buffalo Kentucky. What the hell? There’s no sign of any beautiful river or American bison here. Space and time are still making us all their fuck toy. I decide to keep pushing. If I can get to Bardstown, they have cheap motel rooms, and knocking out another century ride would would make a room worth paying for. So I do it. And it hurts. And I arrive and come to find out Bardstown is the Bourbon capital of the world. No bourbon for me this trip but I did eat a truly gourmet dinner.
Hoping for a Tail Wind 