Well, let's try this again, shall we? I woke up in Carbondale and saw that Thursday's weather was just as drab and dreary as Wednesday's had been. I oiled my bike chain and wheel (having cleaned both the day before) and loaded up my gear, then ducked out of the door at my customary departure time of 11:00 am -- incidentally, the checkout time of my motel.
The ride from Carbondale to Murphysboro was flat and easy, though a few drivers found the time to harass me. I continued to roll further and further west, enjoying an uncharacteristically easy afternoon. I soon reached Chester, Illinois, the world-famous (not really) birthplace of Popeye's creator. I have forgotten who created him. The town seem to make the most of this claim to fame, however, with lots of businesses referencing either Popeye or a Can of Spinach. I didn't patronize those businesses because of the enormous, teeming lines of people waiting outside, snared by this clever marketing strategy.
I did laundry at a local... err, laundromat... while I consulted my maps, checking to see if I could make up some of the time I'd lost the day before. After deciding to press on to Ozora, Missouri, I gathered my laundry and hit the road -- crossing the Mississippi River as I left Popeye's hometown. As I crossed the Mississippi, I felt a sudden wave of joy, knowing that I was crossing a symbolic line that divides the populous east from the more open lands of the west. Unfortunately, the bridge was very narrow and offered no bike lane, so I was unable to take a picture of the river itself.
Once on the Missouri side of the river, I noticed a particularly dark set of clouds, and conscious of storm's approach, I curtailed my usual state-line celebrations. Here's a fun fact: See that pack-towel strapped to my rear pannier (so it will dry)? I'm about to forget to put that into one of my waterproof panniers, which means that it's about to be soaked! And it's supposed to be drying! HAHAHAHAHAHA, life on the road is so funny.
Another side note: Missouri's nickname, the "Show-Me" state, turned out to be very appropriate. As in, "Show-Me-the-way-out-of-this-craptacular-state." Why, you may ask? Read on, faithful friends!
Here's a little exercise in reality. Look at the following picture. Notice how the storm system is raining on the right, but still dry on the left. Here's the puzzle: guess which way I'm headed?
Okay, you probably guessed right, but only because I told you that my towel was going to get wet. The storm was rather impressive, in fact, and as I tried to quickly dress in my rain gear, the wind carried some of my other equipment a short distance away. At one point I chased after a waterproof sock, hampered by my rain pants, which were half on. This elicited an appreciative honk from a passing trucker, which -- as ever -- makes my pathetic existence seem meaningful.
I decided at some point in my rain-soaked travels that Ozora wasn't the place for me, and instead I pushed even further to Farmington. The last 20 miles were a bit surreal, since I had run out of water and become dehydrated. Dehydration, in addition to slowing my pace, messes with my head. As a result, I can recall only fleeting moments of that part of my ride. I do recall stumbling across a few vending machines and tearing through some CountryTime Lemonade.
I finally made it to Farmington, where I checked out the city park and then went out in search of food. I ended up at a place called Spokes, which was a bike-themed bar. My waitress asked about my trip (after ninety miles of hills, my response was somewhat hard to understand, but a nearby biker recognized the haunted look in my eyes and put two and two together. Shannon (as she introduced herself) is riding west-to-east, making her the lowest kind of TransAm rider -- the kind that enjoys a tailwind the entire way across the country. She invited me to join her at her table, which I did. To her credit, Shan acknowledged that she had enjoyed lots of tailwinds and no headwinds, which I found rather refreshing compared to the masses of sniveling eastbound whiners that usually complain about nonexistent headwinds (jetstream notwithstanding). Of course, I'm not bitter or anything.
In addition, Shan is riding with a support vehicle, which means she carries no gear. Luckily, I had consumed a few beers at this point, and their mellowing effect, along with my fatiguing day, prevented me from throttling her and making her ride laps around the parking lot on my overloaded bike. We talked of what we should expect, and Shan said it would be interesting to see what I thought of the Ozarks (which I would soon cross.) Shan, if you're reading this, the verdict is this: the Ozarks are steep, but very, very small. One in ten climbs was particularly tough, but those types of grades are much more common in eastern Kentucky and much of Virginia. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news (not really, tailwind freak).
I left Spokes and rode to a different city park, having been warned by the police that my first choice of parks was plagued by teenagers (I call the police to ask permission to camp at the parks, which keeps them from waking me at 3:00 am to ask what the hell I'm doing.) I set up my tent and crashed.