Further tales of the tail

The bruises from the pickup truck accident had almost disappeared. Obviously it was time for something new and exciting.  Approaching Streator, IL, in the late afternoon, I felt what I thought was run-of-the-mill, ordinary, end-of-the-day tail-end discomfort.  But when I finally got settled and stepped into the shower, the stream of hot water alerted me to a painful problem in the hinterland.  For the first time in my life, I am finally to experience the dreaded saddle sore.

The normal precaution against saddle sores is merely good hygiene and clean clothes.  I had been religious about those two items, so perhaps it is somehow related to the pickup accident or to the two back-to-back 80-mile days.  I had only read articles about how awful it is to have a saddle sore, but never what a saddle sore actually is.  I should never have gone on the Internet to research it, because I learned that the initial abrasion can easily become an ingrown hair, a boil, or an ulceration.  In its most glorious state, the pain is so great that further cycling becomes impossible for two or three weeks.  That didn't sound good, but I stuck to a home remedy of disinfection and ointment.

But I worried a lot.  I cannot afford to be laid up in some small Midwestern town for three weeks with the clock ticking on my return to work.  When I got up the next morning and opened the blinds, there was a ferocious thunderstorm with lightening strikes within a half mile of where I was staying.  My Radio Shack weather radio (finally of some use!) reported a severe storm warning until 1:00 pm.  My butt and my brain conferred, and decided that I would spend another day in Streator, Illinois, and get my saddle sore treated while it was still in a non-fatal stage.  The fear of an enforced 3-week stay in Streator, Illinois, outweighed my deeply engrained reluctance to pay emergency room fees.

Once again I fell into the American medical system's "Catch 22": if you are not already a patient, you cannot become a patient, even with an urgent medical problem.  I called two clinics (where multiple doctors share facilities), and several individual doctor's offices, and all refused to treat me.  In the medically backward USA, it is usually the poor, the indigent and the uninsured who cannot get medical care.  I have discovered that even an insured itinerant with a credit card is treated the same as an indigent: it's the emergency room or nothing.  This was particularly rankling because I was in the state of Illinois and I insure with Blue Cross Blue Shield of Illinois, for all the good it does me.

I was admitted to St Mary's Hospital within five minutes.  I even got a wristband.  As I lay face down, butt-naked on the treatment table, the friendly ER staff found my dilemma quite amusing.  I am so pleased that they, at least, could see the humor of the situation.  Apparently the outer skin had been abraded to expose the ultra sensitive subcutaneous tissue, but luckily there was no hint infection.  They bandaged me up, wished me well, and recommended the same treatment I would have applied without a visit to the ER: good hygiene, antibacterial ointment, and a bandage.  I suppose the continued pressure of the bicycle saddle could have caused the sore to worsen, but the treatment has been working and my trip does not seem to be in jeopardy.

My encounter with law enforcement

I was very happy to be on the road again the next day, but it was a difficult day.  Headwinds slowed my progress to a crawl; the weather was overcast, dull and gray; and the only reasonable place to stay was 75 miles away.  I pushed hard all day, slightly discomforted by the saddle sore.  I cycled a bit more than nine and a half hours to go the 75 miles, I didn't arrive in Ashkum, Illinois, until 7:00 pm, tired, dirty, and hungry.

I knew in advance that Ashkum (population 720) had no lodgings other than the city park. The information section of my bicycle map instructed cyclists to check in with the local police.  I knew neither where the park nor the police station was located, but I spotted a police car at the edge of the BP station parking lot where I had pulled over, so I cautiously approached his vehicle in my best law-abiding-citizen posture.

I asked the officer if it were true that one could camp in the city park (it was), and where the park was located.  The officer told me where it was, and then offered me a "police escort" to the park (no lights and sirens, though).  Our two-vehicle motorcade proceeded the half mile or so to the park.  My bad mood began to lift (just slightly) when I saw how beautiful the park was --- lots of trees and grass.  The officer got out of his patrol car and told me he would get the key to the park's restroom so that I could use it.  There was no shower (sigh), but I could get by with hot water and a sink.  Things could have been worse.

We must have chatted about 20 minutes about bikes, Ashkum, and even the Bay Area before officer Jim took off to get the key to the restroom.  I spotted a nice grassy area for my tent and started to unload the bike.  He walked about as far as the sidewalk, and then turned back without the key.  He asked me if I were still in shape to cycle four miles.  My metabolism had not yet slowed down to its relaxed-for-the-evening mode, so I said that I could if I had to.  It turns out that I would have to ... if I wanted a hot shower, a soft bed, a washer-dryer, pizza and beer.   Officer Jim was immediately promoted to my newest best friend, and I soon learned that my good fortune was unbounded: officer Jim worked together with his drug dog, a handsome black Labrador retriever.  It just doesn't get any better, and the four-mile ride to neighboring Danforth was all downhill with tailwinds.

Sometimes bad days have terrific endings.

The middle of the Midwest

It looks to me that the Midwest grows enough corn to feed the entire Western Hemisphere.  For more than two weeks I've seen nothing but fields of corn or soybeans, punctuated with small towns with grain silos.  I am beginning to understand why virtually every beverage in America contains high fructose corn syrup as its primary ingredient (besides water) --- from Gatorade to Coca Cola.  I was surprised to read that high fructose corn syrup was also the second primary ingredient of the chocolate milk I purchased a couple of days ago.  With all this corn, our cows and pigs are well fed and nicely marbled with fat, and the same statement applies increasingly to us Americans.

I also get the impression that Midwest farming is very profitable.  Even small unincorporated towns contain a good number of magnificent turn-of-the-century homes.  The turrets, gingerbread decoration, porches, verandas, and thousands of square feet of living space are very impressive.  Outside the towns, the farm houses are often (not always, of course) grand structures that would sell for several million if transplanted to a big city.

Symbols of patriotism and religious belief abound in the Midwest.  American flags line driveways, surround flower beds, and hang from buildings.  Tall flagpoles often tower over the enormous expanses of perfectly maintained lawns.  From the porches and verandas hang red, white and blue buntings that make every day look like a Fourth of July celebration.  A Star of David is often displayed on the street-facing exterior wall of homes, and religious-themed statuary becomes garden decoration.  Ohio, in particular, must have the highest rate of per capita flag ownership that I have seen in the United States.

Although people continue to be incredibly friendly and helpful, I have to say that I encountered my first unfriendly Midwesterner in the small town of Grand Rapids, Ohio.  I had stopped for a quick lunch at Rita's Dairy Barn.  When I finished eating, I grabbed my empty water bottle from the bike, and walked back up to the counter and asked if they could fill my water bottle.  An emphatic NO came the reply, we're not allowed to fill water bottles.  The lady offered to fill a cup with water that I could pour into my water bottle, and in a few minutes returned to the counter with a glass of ice water.  I thanked her for going the extra step of giving me ice, but there was nothing to thank her for: she wanted thirty-five cents for a simple glass of water.  Luckily, refusing a dehydrated cyclist water is an almost unheard of occurrence.

To balance the grim picture I just described, I have to mention two other incidents.  At the very same lunch stop, I had chatted briefly with another customer buying lunch.  A few hours later, I met him again on a small country road where he was repairing a Verizon telephone line.  Dave asked me where I was headed for the day, and when I told him it was going to be a long day to make it to Fremont, he told me I could shorten my day if I wanted to stay at his place.  This was another beer-and-pizza opportunity, and I was all for it.

The other great thing was the entire town of Monroeville, Indiana.  The town has dedicated a portion of the city park building for traveling cyclists.  They installed a bathroom with hot showers so that cyclists can clean up at the end of the day, and if that weren't enough, they purchased a brand new washer-dryer for cyclists to use.   You can put your sleeping bag on an Army cot for comfort, and watch videos on the color TV they have also provided.  All of this (including detergent for the washer) is provided at zero cost.  They have been hosting cross-country cyclists for more than twenty years and take a lot of pride in their hospitality.  Monroeville was also one of the few places I've seen where people of all ages can be seen riding bicycles.  The middle aged folks usually ride the white-walled balloon-tired variety.  They have quiet tree-lined streets with virtually no traffic that make the riding experience idyllic.

Blessed are they who travel west

... for they shall inherit tailwinds in the summer of aught six.  Too bad that doesn't apply to me.  When I was in Minnesota and in Iowa, I traveled south and I had winds out of the Gulf of Mexico blowing in my face.  Then I turned east, and had headwinds from the east.  Last winter when planning my trip, I envisioned 100-plus mile days in this part of the country, breezing along over flat terrain, pushed by westerlies. Instead I usually struggle to move forward at a snail's pace using "Granny" gears.  A 75-mile day takes ten hours of cycling rather than than seven.   With tailwinds, 75 miles would only take four or five hours.

If adversity builds character, I am slowly developing some.  I suppose it's about time.  You're probably tired reading about this, so I'll try to make this the last time I whine about headwinds.  Publicly, anyway.

For pictures of the last ten days, click here.