Missouri (Part 1)

  Anytime I tell someone I biked through Missouri, without fail they roll their eyes and ask, “You mean misery?”  Minus the heat, humidity, and hills that feel more like mountains, it’s a lovely state and I met some awesome folks there. But I did have some of my worst days of the ride in central Missouri.  In fact, the only two days that I doubted what I was doing were there. 

  It was mid to late June and the summer temperatures were trying to hit their peak, but monstrous thunderstorms from the west kept them, and me, in check.  On this particular day, I woke up in a rented room above the bar where, the night before, I drank the best homemade margaritas I have ever had. (Still the best, hands down.) No mix, no sugar, just a pure unadulterated tequila-based libation that egged me on to have “just one more” even though I had already had enough to sedate a moose.  

  I stumbled out of bed and gripped the jacket I’d hung up to dry the night before.  It was still pretty damp. There is nothing worse than putting on wet clothes. Scratch that, there is one thing: after you put on your wet clothes, you find out the weather is unseasonably cold and overcast.  I set out that morning with the understanding that it would be another day of shivering with no hopes of sunshine or warmth.  

  I had been on the road for a little over a month and the weather hadn’t completely broken me in.  By the end of the trip,I rode in whatever the meteorological gods could muster, but I hadn’t reached that level of apathy yet.  My stomach, on the other hand, had broken me in, or was well in the process.  

  My gut was tossing and turning throughout the day and no matter how fast my little chicken legs pedaled, there was no escaping it.  Every meal was a battle. I knew I needed food to make it through the day’s long climbs but my stomach just wasn’t up to it. Just the smell of food made my stomach cower behind my liver.  

  Between the weather and my gut, I was a beaten man that morning, and it lasted most of the day, but not all.   

  When I pulled up to the all-inclusive diner/gas station, I received my share of side-eye and whispers from the locals and the not-so-out-of-towners that were there for a float on the Black River.  Towns like this don’t trust a man in spandex on a loaded down bike. Throw in a scraggly beard and a flamboyantly colored bandana and they will likely escort you out as soon as you arrive.  

  I ordered my food with my head down and took the only seat available outside.  About two bites into my breakfast sandwich, I noticed two people hanging out around my bike but I couldn’t see around the ice box that it was leaning on.  In the same moment, the rain started to pick up, so I used this as an excuse to get up and move my bike next to me under the awning. 

  “What? You think someone is going to steal your bike?” A gruff voice behind me barked.  

  I looked back and saw a man who looked like he loved Sam Elliot as much as he loved cheap beer and cigarettes.  

  “No sir, the rain is picking up and I am just trying to keep her dry.”  I smiled back. 

  “Nobody wants your god damn bike.” 

  “That’s good for me then, sir, because I like it just fine.” Again, I smiled.  

  The older men at the table with him chuckled and smiled back at me, which just made him resent me more. 

  Like a bull warning the farmhand who has gotten too close, he let out a puff of air and cocked his head to the other side.  I took a few more bites of my breakfast and could feel him staring at me. He wasn’t done.  

  Now, I should tell you this.  I don’t discriminate. No sir!  It’s not appropriate to treat someone differently because of their race, age, or anything else.  So it goes without saying, I will slap any mouthy son of a bitch that is running his suck. But this man was surrounded by six other locals and that’s enough for me to resort to my favorite small town mantra: Shut up and mind your business.

  “Aren’t you cold in those itty bitty shorts?” He started up again. “It sure looks it from here.”  He laughed at his own joke and clapped once or twice as he wiggled in the plastic white lawn chair.

  Cool.  A small penis joke before 7:30am.  This day is starting off just the way I wanted it to.

  “No, sir.  I will warm up once I start riding.” 

  “Well, shit! Which is it? No, you aren’t, or you are and you will warm up? Don’t make no sense to me!”

  “I guess you have me there,” I said with a playful capitulating chuckle.  

  I wanted to put this old fart on his ass.  I imagine getting whooped up by a man in bike shorts would be a story that haunted him for the rest of his miserable years. I knew this wasn’t personal though. I have met men like him before, men who just want to fight. And this salty fella decided that I was worthy of his wrath.  I know myself well enough to know that I needed to leave. If not, I would fight, and I would fight hard.  

  I wrapped up my half eaten sandwich and put it in my rear bag.

  “Aww, you’re leaving so soon, huh?” The corner of his mouth peeked out from his speckled black and gray mustache.  “I was hoping you would stay a bit longer, boy.”

  “No, sir.  I have a long ride today and listening to you isn’t getting me anywhere good.” 

  He leaned back and watched me tighten the straps on my bags and smiled.  

  I threw my leg over my seat, clipped my helmet, and was about to push off when I heard the sound of a cheap plastic chair slide begrudgingly against the concrete patio.  Soon after, a hand squeezed my shoulder. My whole spine went straight. I looked back with all the fury in my heart to a kind, round face with gentle eyes. Another man who had been sitting with the curmudgeon stood next to me. 

  “Please be safe.  The weather has been lousy these last few days and a lot of folks around here start their day a bit too early after a long night of drinking.”  He said with a soft apologetic smile.  

  I looked down. “Thank you, sir. I will.” 

  We shook hands.  The power of his grip and stocky build betrayed his compassion. And, given his confidence to approach a stranger with such kindness and warmth I assumed he must have been a pastor at a local church.  

  I pushed off into the rain and started my long ride through Missouri’s hilly countryside.  As the day went on, it started to warm up and get more humid. My stomach was still in knots and I was fighting to get the water I needed in between my bathroom stops.  At the top of every climb and at the end of every downpour, I prayed that it would be the last, and it never was. It didn’t help that I couldn’t get that old bastard out of my head.  His cocky retorts followed me throughout the afternoon until I had enough.  

  It snuck into my head quietly at first, unnoticed, but then spread like an infectious disease that has no cure.  

  What am I doing out here? Maybe I made a mistake.  Grown men don’t take bike rides. They get jobs. Start families. And raise kids.  You’re an idiot.  

  Doubt and negativity grabbed the reins.  It took every ounce of unconscious strength to keep my legs turning around the crank.  

  Seriously, just stop.  This is stupid. You’re riding a bike across the country.  Oh, wait! You’re not just going across the country. You’re going all over the damn country because 4200 miles isn’t enough for you! When are you going to grow up? 

  “Shut up! Just shut up!” I yelled at the white line that marked the side of the road.  I closed my eyes and continued to pedal harder up a long, undulating climb. “I don’t want to hear this crap! My stomach feels like shit and you’re worse than the old dried up turd at breakfast.”

 I spotted something purple in the long grass along the side of the road and began to chuckle.  Surely, that’s not what I think it is. But, to my surprise, it was.  There on the side of the road in the middle of Nowhere, MO, was a huge fat purple dildo.  I stared at it in utter amazement. With the mixture of rain and a retreating sun, it almost glowed.

  Before I could even come up with a plausible story of how it got there, I passed another one. This one was long and narrow with an egg-like shape at the end of its extended reach.  I chuckled some more and told myself to grow up and keep going, but no amount of forced maturity could help me when I passed two more and a small can of lube. I stopped my bike and climbed off.  

  I stood over the sleazy lot and had so many questions that I knew would never get answered.  I got a stick and mustered them together for a family photo and felt bad for the dejected dildos.  All alone on the side of the road with no warm place to call home.

  We bonded.  

  For the next thirty-seven miles, I narrated short stories about how the cluster of cocks found its final resting point.  My favorite involved a jealous insecure boyfriend who couldn’t compete with his girl’s toys, so he tossed them out of his small rusting pick-up truck before returning back to the trailer park. 

  Then I wondered if someone else would find them, and if they did, what would they do with them?  Would they take them home and use them? Or would the Dildo family make an appearance on craigslist?  Whatever happened, I just hoped that they would get to stay together. No doubt, they had already seen so much. 

  By the end of the ride, I had forgotten all about the old man at the gas station diner and couldn’t stop laughing to myself about a big purple rubber phallus reflecting the sun’s splendor. 

  (More to come from Missouri next week.)

Where I initially spotted it while riding by on Sybil.