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.
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