Temporary ecstacy

8/2/11 Booneville to Hindman

Oh, the temporary ecstatic clarity that comes with soaring down a mountain. For about four minutes, my brain allows me to think, "This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I know the meaning of life. I am pure of heart and spirit. I am weightless. I love being on a bike. I know why I do this." However, much like the way memory of pain dissapates without scar, the ecstacy of descent and all the transcendence it brings is just as fleeting.

I told Chris today how I feel like I experience the entire wheel of emotion in one mountain. I must look like an actor, practicing character by mimicking the smile to frown pain chart at the ER. At the bottom I think, "You are tough sonofagun. You are going to tackle this with no problem". Somehow things rapidly spiral once I reach anything steeper than 14%. "F this. Why am I here? Why does Chris have to go so damn fast? Why are my eyeballs covered in gnats? Knee caps can sweat? Why do people ride bikes? This is not natural. I want to go home. Blargh".

I know. I am scary. At least no one has to hear this out loud. Instead, just a pneumatic wheezing.

Arrived in Hindman with plans to call the historical society and find some kind of lodging. Our plans were foiled, however, when we found out at the local artisan cafe, that the historical society has no employees. No camping. No lodging. Ack. Ate a turkey sandwich and wandered around the town like zombies.

"Chris. Where we go? No place sleep. Want lay down. Want food" Coming back from the gas station with dinner of poptarts and gardettos, we discovered Jason. (Our 4,000 miles of hope friend, or as I call him, Beardyguy.) The three of us sat on a bench on the tiny main street looking pityful. A sweet man in his early forties with blonde hair and a tucked in tshirt said we could come wash our faces in his woodworking studio. He is the master artist in residence at a strangely placed studio in the middle of nowhere. Mild mannered Christian man and father. Jason chatted him up while we were in the bathroom. Jason has an awesome Matty-like way of getting people to do his bidding. It's in the eyes. Maybe it's in the beard, I don't know. Whatever magic he used, we ended up crashing in Richard's cozy apartment upstairs.

We sat and read and blogged while Richard unpacked and smoked a pipe. More snuggly moments that make things feel like home.

In the morning Jason cooked a breakfasy so good make youwannasmackyermamma. Bisquits and jam. Eggs and mushrooms. Bacon and cold milk. Like Christmas morning.

Jason left the woodhsop with a free dog-beating stick. (Believe me, it is necessary.) And we left with happy bellies and good spirits, having rested in a stranger's bed once more.

House on the Hill

7/31/11 Bardstown to Berea, KY

Farm dogs. Heat. Inevtiable climbs. Met two guys who were just now coming from the east. One of them had gotten two flats on the way down Mt. Vesuvius and had ripped his nipple off. I know this sounds horrendously gruesome, but we cannot stop laughing. Maybe we are cursing ourselves but we are convinced there is nothing better than "nipple rip". We exchanged tips with one another, where to stay, what to avoid, etc. While we road away Chris shouted the most valuable information he knew, "DON'T FORGET, IT'S SHARK WEEK."
They shook their heads, knowingly and pedaled off.

I don't remember anything else about this day as we have done back to back centuries. New levels of exhaustion.

Berea is beautiful. Small historical town with a college. It is surprising find after winding backroads of nothingness. We noted on one of their signs that they offer "broomcraft" as an area of study. I can only hope this has something to do with magic.

Slept in a not so bad motel. Got some shark week in. In the morning we went to a coffee shop. Cute, crunchy little joint filled with fashionable young folks. Saw some art quilts and hit the road.

8/1/11
Berea to Booneville, KY

Rode 65 miles towards the Boonville boonies. Three miles before the town we came upon a sign at the bottom of a hill

LINDAS VICTORIAN ROSE B&B. Just like that. We got about a half mile past it before I shouted up, "Hey, wanna go to a creepy bed and breakfast?"

We turned around and stopped at the bottom of a steep gravel driveway. We called the number on the sign. It must come across in my tone that I am sick of explaining myself after eight states. "Hi. We're broke. Uhhh. We are cycling across the country...", I trailed off.

"Cyclists huh? Ok. Forty." This is my favorite deal and it usually follows my tired damsel in distress schpeil. "Where are you, I'll come pick you up".

"Um. I think I'm at the end of your driveway."

"Well, come on up." The lawn and all the land leading up to her home and the "house on the hill"- a menagerie of weird. A manequin wearing a tshirt and a baseball hat, an old van turned plant potter, brass children's beds wrapped in ivy. Stephen King novel. Hold on, it gets creepier.

She greets us warmly. She has a tank top on with arm holes big enough to see her bra, died red old broad hair, the kind that looks pink. She is smiley but obvious tough. An ex-smoker. She gives us a tour of the yard. "This is where I buried my six cats." I look away, not knowing what to say to this. I'm sorry? Oh, cool? How many cats do you have now?

"And this is where my husband is buried." Say what. No headstone. Just a little faded American flag stuck in the dirt, a miniature angel statue, fake flowers. Ok. Let's see this bed and breakfast, lady.

Years of wallpaper layers. Dusty chotchkes. Everything is topped with a horse figurine and or tea cozy. Three bed rooms and a kitchen. All one floor. Don't get me wrong, we are grateful. But when she hands us a gold key with a plastic tab marked "house on hill" in cursive, we are pretty sure we're going to be killed in the style of a paperback murder mystery novel.

Thankfully, we are not killed. We make eggs in the kitchen forgetting we have no butter. (The dinner Chris now refers to as the "eggtastrophe") We read in dim light and sleep heavy in crocheted blankets smelling of old lady parade. Get up in the early morning and ride hills in dense fog.

Every day is an adventure.

Don't tread on me

Falls of Rough to Bardstown 7/30/11

We've entered a new part of the nation, one filled with rich history. Where the landscape holds such strange visual paradoxes as a Hummer and a horse and buggy. People on the road drive with special care on the winding roads. Everyone waves. The hospitality is unusual. Today at the bottom of a hill stood an unshaved man in a stained gray shirt, holding two bottles of ice cold water.

"Saw you comin' up the hill a while back. Thought I ought head home and catch you." We had heard tell of this mysterious kindness but never really believed that people are waiting at the ends of their driveways to help us. It is real.

Later today a beat up cream colored truck from the seventies cruised slowly in front of us. Three kids under twenty were stuffed in the bench seat with the windows down. The truck pulled in two driveways ahead of us. A tall, tan boy, maybe 19 threw himself out, reached in the bed and pulled out his BMX bike.

"Tell me you're coming to ride with us." He nodded and grinned. His gear ratio was so ridiculous it was a struggle for him to keep up. His rear cog was the size of a spool of thread. He asked us where we were going and where we were coming from.

"Woah. Sick."

When he was satisfied with his answers he veered off without a goodbye, hurling his bike and himself into the truck in the same effortless fashion he had disembarked. This interaction made me grin for about an hour.

Coming up into Bardstown we began to see rows of enormous gray buildings with tiny windows and black stained streaks down every side. Something akin to a jail, a concentration camp or really, really bad dorms. Don't fret. It's nothing so sinister. Whiskey is sleeping. And slowly maturing to delicious bourbon.

We rounded a big bend and the trees opened to reveal the Heaven Hill Distilleries gate. After 95 hard miles, a nice shot of bourbon sounded like good medicine for sore asses and low morale.

Closed. Five pm. Chris looked like he might throw a tantrum or cry. He laid down in front of the door in protest. It's like Uncle Denny driving all the children to the water park, coming to a stop in the parking lot, and proclaiming "Well, there it is" and then turning around and leaving. Poor Chris.

Went to McDonalds for a consolation milkshake. Scooted our sad and tired bodies to yet another dumpy motel. Chris and I resolved to eat the remainder of all the camping food that has been sitting at the bottom of our panniers since Utah. I microwaved water and filled all the bags. We sat on the beds, with wet heads, trying to choke down dehydrated food.

"Bleck. I'm going to the grocery store. You stay here." I put on street clothes and moved to leave. I got half way through the parking lot before a group of 15 motorcycle people stopped me. A million questions about the bike trip followed with, "Well, where ya goin' now?".

"Groceries?"

"Nope. You're not." They poured me a big cup of something homemade that tasted like high test Boone's Farm. "Where is yer man?"

I jogged back over to the motel room. Chris was on the bed looking pityful.

"Free. Beer. Sandwiches. Come now." His eyes lit up. We walked back to the party. It had rained on us earlier that day, just a refreshing drizzle. But now the sky opened up. So happy we were not stuck out on a ride. We huddled under the awning, drank beer, ate jerkey, talked bikes and laughed until we nearly peed our pants. We compared silly tans, bike seats. They tried to sell us their old motorcycles. One of the bigger fellows was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and big black leather boots stood up whilst we conversed. He took off his boots, walked to the pool in the pouring rain and stepped in as though he was not expecting it yo drop off. Funny guy.

Politics divided us but we managed not to strangle one another. It often surprises us to find that Harley flags are almost always coupled with tea party flags. These people aren't rich. They're blue collar. But they hate the idea of paying into social programs. Oh that apple wine allowed me to speak my peace on welfare.

They patted my little head like I was some naive little child. "I've seen these people. They've figured out the system. They are driving Cadillacs."

I tried my best to get across that even a man who squeezes the system to the last drop is a not a rich man. It didn't go so well. Eventually we went back to drinking and telling jokes. I was too tired to fight. One of the ladies of the pack gave me a turkey sandwich. We shared stories about teaching.

We were dead tired and I was unable to drink more while thinking about the 90 mile ride ahead of me. In the end, I was glad I went to bed. But I certainly could have stayed up all night, singing and carrying on.