Joplin or Bust

So my last go at winter touring was February of 2011, me and Corinna and Brian went up to Smithville for an overnight in February. It rained on us going up (and my bike didn't have fenders back then, so I looked like I'd gone mudding when we got there and pitched a tent in the dark).

But I enjoyed that trip immensely.



My last go at touring at all, actually, was Memorial Day weekend of that year, when I rode to Big Lake and back via Atchison, also with Brian and Corinna.

All my 2012 attempts to go on bike tour fizzled out with changed plans and emergencies and whatnot. Part of the reason, I'm sure, why my cycling log shows fewer miles for 2012 than in 2011.



So I had a day and a half of 2012 vacation I needed to use in January anyway, so I mapped out this tour to Joplin and scheduled four days off. We'd leave Saturday and bike to LaCygne, camp at Linn County Park that night; Sunday we'd ride to Pittsburg, where I have family who can put us up; Monday we make Carthage to visit our friend Edward, then leave his joint Tuesday morning and loop through Joplin on the way back to Pitt.



I'm curious to see how Joplin is rebuilding at this point, is part of it. It's also an area I just haven't visited in a long time, and I'm sure there's plenty of historic sites and other things to see along the way.

Of course we'd be back at LaCygne to camp at Linn County Park on Wednesday and then Thursday would be the last leg to home.



I had a new mummy bag Corinna picked up for me at Mickey's, a military spec thing with a light bag that nests in a heavy bag that nests in a bivy sack that nests in a carrying duffel. Not as compact or light as her zero-degree goose down, but more effective than my cheapie 20-degree bag and smaller than the older mil-spec mummy bag I'd borrowed.



Come Saturday morning, Corinna didn't want to get an early start. I'm a lot slower than she is, but I was skeptical of her plan to do The Tortoise and the Hare with the hare winning the race.



I didn't get as early a start as I planned. I figured have wheels under me by 6:00 a.m., leave in familiar streets with street lights in the dark, find camp in the daytime. It was 6:15 when I finally woke up, so...



It was after eight when I was really rolling. I felt a little sluggish, but the weather was mild for January, low 30s with a south wind. That south wind being a headwind, of course. Corinna caught up with me and Brian just past Kenneth, where a guy told me we were practically at LaCygne. "I go fishing there a lot," he said. "It isn't more than maybe thirty miles."

Spoken like someone who gets there in a pickup truck. Part of it was the headwind, but I was really having to adjust to riding such a heavy bike. I carry too much stuff on my commute, but loaded for tour, my bike easily tips the scale past 100 lbs. Figure I'm carrying almost that much in extra body weight, and my curb weight with me in the saddle approaches 400 lbs.



We had a gas station pizza at Stilwell. Corinna and Brian gave me a head start since I was riding so much slower than they were, caught up to me pretty quick actually. On the Potawatamie Trail of Death according to the signs. No matter what goes wrong on this trip, I thought, it is bound to be better than what those folks went through.

Then at Louisburg, Corinna's stepdad met her with some venison for our campsite and I rode ahead by a route I discussed with Brian after consulting his Garmin. I should point out here, Corinna had the actual maps, Missouri and Kansas Gazetteers. Brian had a Garmin device. I had a smartphone that wasn't getting a signal much after Louisburg—and when it roams the battery dies quickly, so I powered it off to save battery after committing the route to memory.

Old Metcalf to 335th; right to 69 Hwy; take that Federal shoulder to 359th; west to Jingo Road, left to LaCygne. According to the Garmin, it looked like the town of LaCygne would come up on the right opposite the target park.



I rode on steadily, looking for a gas station to refill my water bottles at. There had been one in Louisburg on Old Metcalf, but I still had a full bottle at that point and I thought there would be more. That turned out to be untrue.



The miles on the shoulder of 69 were easy, the road is graded very gently and the shoulder is wide and relatively free of broken glass. Jingo Road, to my relief, is paved the whole way (I'd been bracing myself for slushy/icy gravel). But this town of LaCygne was not appearing on the right at all. Past 399th Street the street signs when to a different numbering system, one for Linn County, so I knew I had to be getting warmer. There was sort of a town, more of an RV park really, called Linn Valley, and I figured it was LaCygne's version of a suburb and rode on.



I was kind of worried that Brian and Corinna hadn't caught up to me yet, and I was getting really worried about water. Climbing some of the longer hills, I'd already had some cramp warnings in my thighs, and I knew the cold wind was dehydrating me faster than it probably felt. It had gotten dark, though, and approaching a farm house in the dark seemed a good way to get shot, and besides, I reasoned there had to be at least a gas station at LaCygne and I was practically there.

I got to the junction of Ullery Road and 152, Ullery being what Jingo becomes in Linn County. I didn't know if I should go right or left, and my phone battery was down to about 3%. Eventually I got ahold of Brian after getting no useful information from the one passing motorist I could get to try and direct me to Linn County Park.

Eventually, and barely, we all got hooked back up at the campsite. Corinna, her stepdad and Brian had been looking for a 'Lake LaCygne' or a 'LaCygne State Park.' Maybe if the guy who knew the name of the park hadn't gotten separated from the people with the map... I did pass a place my brother used to work in the summers, I think.

But we were having fun cooking venison and making camp and whatnot. Corinna's stepdad, Greg, was there with his van and I shot some pics of the power plant across the water and tried to shoot some star trails. I drank tons of water, ate about a half a pineapple and did other things to try and rehydrate before bed. I tried (and mainly failed) to shoot some star trails with my camera on a tripod as well.

When it came time to actually get in the tiny tent and get in that mummy bag, though, it all went horribly wrong. Trying to get in the tent I cramped up, and every time I tried to stretch out a cramped leg muscle, the opposite muscle would revolt. Even my fingers started cramping at one point, along with muscles on my rib cage.

I kept drinking fluids, trying to get in the mummy bag which had turned impossibly complicated in the dark, and every move I made seemed to start a cramp up. I hoped I could get to sleep and let the water soak into me for a bit, electrolytes recover. I thought about Greg's van, but mainly I thought of the bathroom house at the park, where I'd refilled bottles and how warm it was in there. I could take my bag up there, sleep on the floor and walk off my cramps without having to do tent yoga. Plus, I'd have access to more water any time I wanted it, and proper toilets without having to fight into boots and whatnot.

I've had cramps from dehydration before, quite a bit, but never like these. I was really suffering, and then Corinna said, "Greg's leaving, do you need him to rescue you?" I'd thought of it, of course, but I didn't want to scrub the trip and I knew that's what that likely meant. She said, "It's kind of a 'speak now' situation, ya know?"



Okay, I spoke. I wasn't having fun, and it looked like trying to stay I'd likely ruin Brian and Corinna's fun in the process. Greg mentioned maybe dropping me in Louisburg or at 152 Highway the next morning so I could resume, and I loaded my bike and gear in his van and off we went.



It was the right thing to do, because even with two quarts of Gatorade and a bunch of pickle juice form a convenience store on the way back to his house in the country, I was waking up with cramps in the night. My right leg got sore enough from it I wondered if I'd managed to tear the muscle or something.



Riding my bike further from home felt more and more like it would be a mistake, and I accepted Greg's offer of a ride back home instead of back to the tour. Brian and Corinna happily pedaled home from LaCygne (nee Linn County Park) and I got to spend a day hanging in the country.

I've known lots of people who say things like, "I always wanted to live out in the country." Greg is one of these, but I didn't know what all that meant. "Put another log on the fire" is not a funny Roger Allan Wade song in Greg's world, it's something you might do when you get up to pee in the middle of the night.

Feeling gimpy, I took a walk with his dog around the property. He'd talked about maybe sighting in a rifle (he has a 400 yard shooting range set up on his property) and I was excited to do that. I like guns, I just don't get that many chances to go shooting.



Greg wanted pictures of Maisy (the dog) pointing, which is something she does a lot. She's a hunting dog of some sort, I missed what breed. I got curious what all surrounded the property and started following the trail around the perimeter.

Maisy would point and I wouldn't seem to get the shot. She blends in with the surroundings pretty well. There was snow, which I thought would help highlight her, but that turned out to be tricky, too, photographically. I was pretty useless at most country life tasks, it seemed, so I figured I could at least try to get him that picture.



Then, all of a sudden, she really pointed. Obvious, very still, and I happily shot away. Then I looked over and saw what she was pointing at. Chickens. At first I thought there was some sort of mesh enclosure I wasn't seeing but pretty quickly I realized they were truly free range. The neighbor's barn was right there, and there was a low-slung strand of barbed wire running through the brush that showed where the property line was. Some of the birds were on our side of the line, some where over in the brush on the neighbor's property.

Maisy was transfixed. I shot a couple of pictures and then called to her to move on, but she moved closer to the birds, who huddled together protectively. I called to her some more, and she must not be trained to respond to 'Goddamnit, I said come on!' because the next thing I know she's chasing this big white rooster, who made some half-ass attempts to fly but mainly ran around and crowed.

I tried to get to her but the brush was way too dense to make any progress. I feared the neighbor would come out and be mad that Maisy was harassing the chickens. I thought maybe the rooster would claw Maisy's eyes out, and that would suck, too. But what I didn't even realize was a possibility was that Maisy was a deadly threat to the birds.

She tackled the rooster once, and he got away and tried to fly again, then ran on the ground until Maisy closed in on his neck. She didn't even shake him, just grabbed hold. The bird's forward momentum seemed to do the neck-breaking work, he just sort of rolled over and Maisy was carrying a dead rooster.

She ran off with it up one of the paths, and I guessed wrong on which one because it was about fifteen minutes later I got back to the house and she was there trying to eat the bird. I don't let our dogs have chicken bones, let alone whole chickens, so I made her drop it and took her in the house.



This is when I learned what a total city slicker I really am. Greg realized as I told the story that he avoided taking Maisy over to that side of the property because of the potential for this sort of disaster, he'd just forgotten to warn me. Did I scold her for killing the bird? I don't know, I told her to drop it. But since she's a hunting dog, she's supposed to be praised for killing birds. I thought the shotgun killed the bird, and I guess that's ideal but apparently a lot of times the pheasant is just knocked out of the air and itching for a fight. So these dogs do the dirty work quickly and efficiently (lest they lose their eyes). Did I take it from her? I tried to get her to drop it, like I say. She ran off and I didn't see which way. You can't let them get used to gnawing on the kill. Where is the bird? Out there in the yard where I made her drop it. Why don't you at least clean the bird? Glad to have you teach me, but I don't know how. You've never eaten chicken before? Sure, I have eaten lots of chicken, but the ones they sell at grocery stores don't have feathers, heads, claws etc.

I'm actually glad, after watching Greg clean the bird, that I didn't try to fake it from what I know cleaning a half dozen or so rainbow trout in my life (the extent of my field dressing experience). There was quite a bit to it and some tools involved I wouldn't have guessed.

Greg insisted I take the meat home with me, "Just invite me over for a chicken dinner sometime," he said.

This after he went and talked to the neighbor, in part to offer her own dead bird back to her if she wanted it. Naturally, the rooster was her favorite. Greg asked me if I liked country music because it turns out this neighbor is a country singer I might have heard of if so.

Hell of a way for me to pay back a rescue, eh? Two days later, my right leg is still sore from those cramps, so staying on the bike would have been a mistake I'm sure. But that rooster would be alive. Same if I'd just had Greg take me home Saturday night (which was offered). I didn't want to give up the tour at that point, when I got in his van I was still planning to ride to Joplin and Carthage.

Now, I'm getting ready to pack my automobile to finish off by at least visiting Edward and seeing some of Joplin and surrounds. Salvage what I can of this vacation and try not to cause any more mayhem.

Snowtrack, Ghost Kitty, New Year's Eve Guitar Shoot

I'm still a bit under the weather, so I didn't get to go ride, but Corinna and our friend Brian went out for a New Year's Eve ride in the snow.

Me, I got bored at home and got out the camera.

Standing outside wasn't working for me, so I decided to try some candlelight photography. Been reading a bit about it, how-to and all that.

The cats didn't miss an opportunity to be a pain in the ass. Something about setting up the sheets for backdrops got them all riled up and they wouldn't quit wrestling around under the sheets and around the edges, knocking stuff about and kicking each other in the head. I shot them with the squirt gun about a dozen times, but somehow my little studio just seemed to attract frisky cats. You can see Jello partially exposed in the above frame, the jerk. He needs to quit turning on the faucets, too.

The first subject I thought of was, of course, an enormous penis. It's a trophy Corinna won in an alley cat race a few years back.

Then I thought of my guitar, which deserves to be photographed almost as much as it deserves to be played a lot more than I've managed to do lately. My uncle built it for me, and it's one of the few earthly possessions I have I'd actually hurt someone over.

It's not what people envision when you say you have a guitar your uncle built you. Not unless your last name is D'Angelico or Benedetto or something.

Olympic Party

This all started when someone said to Corinna that nobody from Kansas was ever going to the Olympics, or something like that.

Corinna was on the women's Judo team for the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, of course, where there was more than a bombing. Corinna might not technically be quite 'from Kansas,' she could as easily be described as coming from a Gypsie caravan, but her answer was, 'Would you like to meet some of the five people I know from around here who've already been?'

She roasted a turkey for the dinner party, and I got to 'cheferize' (her term for when I cook).

I made my Papa Legba's Black Bean Soup, about four gallons of it, and about two gallons of Baked Potato Soup.

Papa Legba's is my name for a recipe that started when the artist formerly known as Frau Lobster and I were first married and decided to try a recipe we saw Caprial do on her cooking show.

It's evolved quite a bit over time, this recipe. Usually I add chipotle peppers to the mix, but the sausage was bringing enough heat and I've gotten a little bored with chipotle as a flavor, honestly.

Papa Legba's 

4 lbs Fritz's Andouille Sausage
4 lbs Black Beans
1 Smoked Pork Shank (sectioned in five pieces)
3 lbs White Onions (chopped)
1/4 cup Minced Garlic
1/4 cup Balsamic Vinegar
Generous amount of freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup Grapeseed Oil
1 lb Tomatoes (fresh, frozen or canned, it really doesn't matter)
Water


Soak the beans overnight while starting the stock. Stock: sautee onions in the oil until translucent; add garlic, vinegar, tomatoes, pork shank pieces and cover with about three gallons of water. Bring to a boil and simmer about eight hours while the beans soak.

Using a colander, strain the stock into the rinsed, soaked beans, picking out the bones with tongs. After you've deboned the mixture of onions and pork shank meat, add that to the pot, slice the sausage into one-inch pieces and add it to the pot, topping up with water. Bring to a boil then simmer for a couple of hours.

The baked potato soup was a first for me, though the aforementioned ex-wife used to make something like this when I made the black bean soup for New Year's.

Lobsterland Baked Potato Soup

8 lbs Baking Potatoes (I used Yukon Gold this time, but it would work with almost any variety)
1 lb Bacon
1 gallon Whole Milk
2 sticks Butter
12 oz. shredded White Cheddar Cheese 2 bunches Green Onions, chopped
2 tbsp Minced Garlic
1/4 cup Flour


Bake potatoes until done. Cut bacon into 1/2" pieces and cook until crispy, drain on paper towels. Melt butter in stock pot, whisk in flour until incorporated. Add milk, garlic and about half the onions. Cube the potatoes, your choice whether to skin them (I baked mine too long and held back some skins because they were leathery and tough). Bring to a simmer, add about half the bacon and cheese, reserving the rest of it along with the remaining onions for people to top their bowls with.

Bring to a simmer and serve.

As far as the party itself, I think we only had one other Olympian show up, Nigerian boxer Olanrewaju Durodola, who has since turned pro. Actually, I think his coach, Lawrence Abdalla may have been an Olympian, too, and he was there. But we had lots of interesting people come, including Wyatt Ohle, who has Olympic ambitions in Judo.

One of our guests commented that you always meet interesting people at our parties, and I realized this was no accident. It would never occur to me or Corinna to invite people we didn't find interesting. Rent liberated Cuban immigrant, roller derby girl,

And of course we made them all sign the 'guest book.' Whenever someone comes to our house for the first time, we measure them against the pantry door jamb and put their name and date on it so a future owner of the house might wonder if a hundred and fifty people grew up here all at once.

Em didn't want to come down at first, so I started sending people up to her room, figuring by the time ten or twelve people were up there she'd be flushed out.

The next day, Em asked me who the weird guy with the beard taking all the pictures was, and I was like, "That was me." She meant our friend Aaron, who I admit has a much beardier beard than mine. I'm not sure he's actually any weirder than me.

Jenga!

I got Jenga for Christmas from my brother and his wife along with a bunch of other party preparations from games to snacks.

Tonight, after dinner, we decided to play Jenga. By 'we' I mean my wife and I. My kiddos weren't really into it.

Though to her credit, Mo actually made moves when we told her to and almost got the notion that one hand means one hand.

Ghost of Christmas Actual

Of course I got a lump of coal in my stocking. How could it be otherwise? I'll never learn.

Actually, the part where I never learn is buying those Accoutrements branded novelty items: the corn dog mints that turn out not to taste like corn dogs at all, they're just mints. Supposedly Wasabi lip balm that doesn't have any wasabi in it at all, just wax.

No, I didn't expect my lump of coal to be actual coal, but I hoped it was licorice candy at least. That's usually the deal. But no, it's bubble gum flavored bubblegum, just black. Gross.

Maybe I'll have to behave better so I can buy myself something I'd like and put it in my stocking.

After we did Christmas morning at our house, we headed to my Dad's in the afternoon.

I have a lot of nieces and nephews. According to the decibel meter, I think it's around 308 of them.

Dad's house on Christmas Day is loud like a Flogging Molly concert mixed with a political convention and a prison riot.

It should stress me out, but I actually enjoy it. My brother used to wear earplugs to these events (might still, I'm not sure). But he has his own pint-sized horseman of the apocalypse these days, so maybe he just got used to it.

I made egg nog. From scratch. I've been experimenting of late, and I discovered that you can't just use cream. It ends up being too thick, even if you dose it liberally with booze (I do).

But put an egg in a bowl with maybe a cup of cream and a cup of whole milk, grind some fresh nutmeg, put in a dash of cinnamon, a pinch of ground cloves.

Oh, and then the brandy and/or rum. For Christmas I went with a combination, two parts Christian Brothers brandy and one part Captain Morgan spiced rum.

I heard a rumor that my egg nog might be on the strong side, but I don't believe it for a second.