The heartland of the US is often called flyover country, and for whatever reason, I was sick of flying. Why not make it rideover country instead and just take it's shortcomings in stride. I'd seen much of this area before but this time maybe I'd see more than on past rides and drives. Surely there were discoveries waiting for me. God only knows how many wonders were out there. Daylight hours would be short so I'd have to stay at the pedals all day. Camps would be rudimentary, without much to offer beyond a thin screen of trees for privacy and a flat place to spread my tent, but in the dark all camps look about the same. Maybe, just maybe, flyover country, no, I mean, rideover country would surprise me. Suddenly I realized my ride could be more than just connecting point A with point B. I had a mission. I'd make this a voyage of discovery despite the unpromising prospects.
Before getting to the center of the country I had to get across Colorado. I'd start at my Telluride home and swing eastward toward Kansas. Working in my favor would be the weather. There was no rain and no snow apart from a few inches already on the ground around Monarch pass. Whenever the wind blew it was in my favor. Getting across my home State, which is famous for its tall peaks and deep snow, turned out to be pretty easy. This was my first surprise, not a discovery really, just a fortunate turn of events. By the time I reached Kansas, following the Arkansas river, my legs were well broken in for whatever was to come. I was riding strong and fast while enjoying the daily tailwinds.
In Kansas it blew even stronger, at first directly from behind then gradually veering to cross winds from the north. Riding against these ferocious winds would be hopeless, having them from the side was proving difficult. Making some route adjustments to avoid the 40 mph crosswinds took me straight into the heart of the Flint Hills range. Outcrops of chert, a very hard stone used by the first Americans to make arrow heads and tools, accentuated the higher hills and deeper gullies. The same stone, just under the surface of the prairie explained why this area of Kansas is so blissfully undeveloped. The rock is tough enough to brake plow blades. Instead of Kansas wheat fields, cattle have been brought here to fatten for over a hundred summers, replacing native herds of buffalo and preserving the largest stretch of tall grass prairie in the U.S. in all its primeval glory. That was a pleasant surprise, and the lack of traffic or towns and sweeping prairie views made for great riding.
Western Missouri was something else again. There was no avoiding the traffic. Rural roads were narrow and the frequency of small hills meant often having an unwelcome train of trucks and cars behind me on each climb. Missouri traffic wasn't just hard on me. I began noticing that the edge of the road was a slaughter ground for wildlife. Deer, raccoons, possums, even owls littered the verge. To be fair , the abundance of roadkill wasn't evidence of the poor driving skills of Missouri drivers. It was more a testament to the profusion of Missouri wildlife. One possum- like creature stood out among the carnage. It was scaled, and had an armored carapace . It was an Armadillo . I'd never thought Armadillos had a northern range outside of Texas and Florida, but here was one in far away Missouri. Was it someone's escaped pet? This pet theory was destroyed when I noticed others. None were alive.
If the rest of Missouri was going to be anything like the first twenty miles I'd be lucky to get out alive myself. Salvation came in the form of a trail. It was a new section of Missouri's famous rails to trails system. My state map confirmed that it was the Rock Island trail and following it would bring me to the Katy trail which crosses the state. Over 240 miles long it is the longest stretch of railroad right of way converted to trail use in the country, and still growing. The trails are not paved but have a smooth well packed fine grit surface. It would be slower riding, but wilder countryside would surround me, far more attractive and peaceful than anything the roads had to offer. As a bonus all the wildlife I'd now be seeing was still alive and not motionless and rotting.
I've got to back to those Armadillos, they're too wonderful to just leave flattened and stinking back there along the side of the road. I said I was surprised to see them in Missouri. For a seemingly slow moving beast they have nevertheless been on the move for the last century since showing up in Texas. They are in Florida too, but were introduced there like the Anacondas and Cockatoos that inhabit its swamps and palmetto forests. Texas Armadillos walked there from South America, by way of Central America, generation by generation. They also swam. Armadillos are unique in many ways, not least for their strategy to cross streams and rivers. To cross a river they suck air into their lungs and paddle across like a living inflatable. To cross a smaller stream they rely on the weight of their armor to keep them submerged while walking across the streambed. They're able to hold their breath for over six minutes. The more I learned about Armadillos ,the more they amazed me.
South America contains eleven species of Armadillo. One is able to roll itself into a ball exposing nothing but impenetrable armor to any interested predator ( all Armadillos have soft chests and bellies ). The only North American Armadillo is the Nine Banded. Their best method for avoiding a predator is to run into thorn thickets. If thorn bushes aren't handy they'll dig themselves into the earth with astonishing speed. They are also known for hopping when startled, and can jump four feet into the air from a standing start. This may confuse a bobcat or coyote and scare them away but against cars it's suicidal. That's part of the reason they are more often seen as roadkill than living creatures. Despite the danger of our highways and back roads they are thriving and steadily extending their range. Expect to see them soon in Ohio and Pennsylvania. Just don't expect to see them alive.
During the day there was only motion; spinning wheels, spinning pedals , spinning chain, and rushing pavement. Translating sustained rotation into forward motion becomes second nature. Perhaps I could do it in my sleep. I haven't tried that yet, but maybe. Meals were quick, whether something dug out of the saddle bags or ordered at a counter. I'd scoff it down then be off again. Every day was an effort to make as many miles possible before the sunset. Late season travel is like that. Sunsets come early. There's never any time to waste.
No surprises in Illinois or Indiana, not even when I had to take shelter from a looming tornado. I'll skip over them then. Ohio was nearly as unremarkable ,then came the Hocking hills. Tucked down into Ohio's southwestern corner they look nothing like most of the rest of the state. It's as if all the best scenery of the Appalachian mountains was miraculously dropped into the otherwise prosaic heartland landscape. Waterfalls, cascades, caves, cliffs, and magnificent forest surrounded me. The only drawback was the scale. There were no tall peaks or long ascents. The Hocking hills passed by in a morning's progress despite my best efforts to take it easy and enjoy it while it lasted.
Crossing the Ohio river brought me to West Virginia. If I'd missed long ascents in Ohio, or any of the rest of the heartland states, I was no longer missing them here. Soon I was wondering why I'd missed them at all. After a few days of climbing and descending, then climbing again, almost endlessly, I have to admit that I had thoroughly had my fill. Maryland offered something different. From Cumberland to the District of Columbia, one of America's earliest and most scenic canals follows the Potomac river from the center of the Appalachian chain to the tidal waters of the mid-Atlantic coastal region. The canal itself is no longer in use but it's towpath is now a National trail. It's easily rideable and avoids both hills and motorized traffic.
On the second day of C&O trail riding my weather luck ran out. The speed of the trail ,which is not great when it's dry, becomes far worse when it's covered by two inches of rain water. The amount of branches , late season leaves ,and other forest debris brought down onto the trail by the storm made conditions even worse. Night came early under dark storm clouds. I found a camping spot along the trail with a picnic bench and porta potty in a small clearing created for hikers and cyclists and apparently slept very soundly. I somehow managed to sleep through an epic tempest during the night without noticing it till the next day. Dawn's light revealed fresh layers of fallen branches on the sodden path. Wind felled trees blocked the way. One particular fallen tree was so forminable that detouring around it involved a quarter mile of backtracking then a long slog through the deep mud of a nearby cornfield.
Pennsylvania offered another challenge. The Pennsylvania Dutch countryside around Lancaster with it's quaint horse drawn buggies and old fashioned farmhouses gave way to faster traffic choking the roads , and complicated navigation to connect the easier roads. It helped considerably to be following a designated bicycle route across the southern portion of the state. Bike route signs showed the way to the more rideable roads, always the ones with the widest shoulders. Just before turning in for the last night I somehow lost the bike route. The last days ride through the northern suburbs of the greater Philadelphia area I'd have to rely on dead reckoning and careful map reading. Adding to the challenge, this was to be the busiest travel day of the year, the day before Thanksgiving.
Crossing the Delaware river into Trenton brought me to the last state, New Jersey. You can't enter New Jersey from the west without crossing the Delaware . That's a problem since most Delaware bridges bar bicyclists. I had to pass up many for this reason and jog far to the north. A sign on the Pennsylvania side of the Trenton Makes bridge insisted that cyclists walk their bikes on the walkway. I pretended not to see it. I was in no mood for walking. From here if I was to reach my family's home before dark I'd have to continue to hustle. My phone was out of power, and I had no other map to go on, just a distant memory of riding this way long before. That memory was almost useless. I was more often lost than found. The pre- holiday roads were even more crowded and busy on this side of the river than in Pennsylvania . I found myself racing through fading daylight unsure of the way and surrounded by hostile traffic. Close calls, impatient drivers, honking cars, and my own impatience to finish marked the journey. I sometimes have nightmares that run exactly like this. I pinched myself, no, I was still awake. This really was happening. I wouldn't arrive till after dark.
My story would be complete if I could report that instead of a Thanksgiving turkey I was served a scrumptious baked Armadillo the next day. Better still if this had been the first Armadillo to slip across the Delaware before being struck dead while crossing the Jersey turnpike when it made an illtimed leap into the undercarriage of a passing semi. Unfortunately life is not this perfect. I ate a turkey like most other Americans. I reflected on my blessings and considered all I had to be grateful for. That's what Thanksgiving is for afterall. At the top of my list, I'd managed to stay alive. I'd cycled some 2000 miles without accidents or incidents. I'd had some great exercise, seen some great places, had some wonderful camps, met a few great people, and had a few surprises along the way. What more could you ask from a quick ride over rideover country ?
