May 17-22

Today I'm celebrating a milestone. I'm in my hotel room in St. Louis, enjoying the view up 4th Street and of the Gateway Arch as I observe my completion of Bicycle Route 66. The official route continues to Chicago — as the song says, "It winds from Chicago to L.A. / More than 2,000 miles all the way . . ." — but this is where I get off. 

Tomorrow I switch to exploring The Great River Road, which will take me north along the Mississippi to my hometown area known as the Quad Cities. But before I do, it's important to take advantage of this transition point and reflect back on the experiences I've had and the lessons I've learned — some as recently as the last few days. Just as the arch signifies St. Louis being the Gateway to the West, maybe it can also represent the gateway to the next segment of my journey.

Since I left Santa Monica on April 1, filled with the excitement and anxiety of not knowing what I was getting myself into, I've pedaled nearly 2,000 miles on The Mother Road, or The Main Street of America. (Both of the trackers I've used had occasional glitches, so I don't have exact mileage.) I have experienced physical and mental challenges unlike anything I have dealt with previously in my life. I've learned to temper my personal expectations, although I probably could still be less hard on myself. And I've come to appreciate the myriad ways people experience life in this country, the choices they make, and the situations imposed upon them simply because of where they were born. I've benefited from amazing acts of kindness, and I've also seen people make false assumptions about me because I rode a bike up their driveway, or rolled it into their hotel lobby. I've also shown some gumption, or chutzpah, that went beyond my usual behavior because at those times I was totally vulnerable, needed to do something to save myself and couldn't worry about whether I was overstepping boundaries.

Because I've stayed almost every night in a hotel or motel on this trip, I have also formed some opinions about the hospitality industry. I've stayed at motels that appeared to be doing great business but were complete dumps because the owners obviously didn't care to keep things clean and repaired; and I've talked with motel owners who have poured themselves and their resources into renovating Route 66-era motels into struggling operations simply because they have been captivated by The Mother Road story and hoped they could make a successful living from it.

The last week has been mostly uneventful, with a few notable exceptions. The terrain, vegetation and surroundings across Missouri have been consistent — lots of lush fields and forests, lots of relatively short hills (especially compared to the multi-mile climbs of Arizona and New Mexico), towns with convenience stores dotted about every 20 miles or so along the route, and each day's total distance right around 60 miles. The cycling has been great. The big variable that has been difficult to figure out has been the weather.

I've written about the drivers in New Mexico and Oklahoma who came to my rescue when either my bike was broken down or my spirits were beaten down by brutally high winds and difficult terrain. Yesterday, as seemingly unpredictable rains moved through the region, their selfless actions seemed to be balanced off by a golf-course worker who apparently didn't care that he was locking me into the course's maintenance yard where I had sought shelter, and a woman and her husband who ignored my plea to help me get out of the rain and intentionally forced me back out into a downpour. 

While I was in the basement of the building pictured below (behind the white door) in the maintenance yard at the Birch Creek Golf Club, the worker in the pickup (above) flashed his lights, honked his horn and then drove away. I was pretty sure he saw me duck into the building when it had started raining hard an hour or so earlier. I only found out when the rain stopped that he had locked the gate on his way out. Luckily, I was able to lift my bike bags and then my bike over the gate, which I then climbed over.

After I had waited two hours in the maintenance building (which, by the way, had a heating vent that kept me warm and allowed me to partially dry some of my clothes), the weather app on my phone showed the rains dissipating. I even received a notification that said the skies would be clearing. So, I figured it was time to get back on the road. About a half hour later, however, near the town of Gray Summit, Missouri, a couple claps of thunder gave me only about a minute's warning that more heavy rain was about to fall. I came upon a housing subdivision and hoped I could find a covered porch or someplace to get out of the imminent downpour. I spotted an open, attached garage and zoomed over to it. I pulled in behind one of the residents' cars, only about two feet inside the door, as the skies opened up. A woman soon opened the door that led into the house and gasped. I apologized and asked if she could let me stay there until the rain let up. She didn't respond and closed the door. Her dog started barking. Next, her husband came out and stood near the car. I apologized again, saying I was sorry if I had scared his wife.  He didn't acknowledge that I had said anything. His wife then came out of the house, got in the car and started to back up. I stepped outside, in the rain, to get out of her way. I thought I might go back inside the garage when she drove off. But she had already started closing the garage door. I was screwed. And getting totally drenched. All I could do was ride off in the rain. Fortunately, it started to ease up. Not that it mattered much. I was totally soaked.

Not only were all my clothes drenched, but the temperature was dropping into the 50s. I was starting to shiver and was worried that I might get hypothermia. I still had 35 miles to go to my hotel in downtown St. Louis — about 3-4 hours. I rode for about 15-20 minutes and was surprised to see a convenience store and gas station, Sam's Market, as I rounded a bend north of Pacific, Missouri. I went inside to get warm, got a hot chocolate from a machine, and spotted a couple of guys playing video poker. There was a pickup truck in the parking lot, so I figured they went together. I asked them if they would be interested in making some money — more than they were likely to make playing poker. I was desperate. I offered $100. They took me up on the offer. Their names were Mark and Greg. I'd guess they were in their 50s or 60s. Mark said he had worked on a Chrysler assembly line in Detroit for a long time. I never found out what Greg did — although we had a sometimes harrowing ride with him at the wheel.  He had a tendency to drift out of his lane and almost hit a car on the interstate. We got into downtown St. Louis unscathed and stopped at a business with an ATM a few blocks from my hotel so I could get their cash. (I was nervous leaving my bike and bags with them when I went to use the ATM, but they were still there when I returned!). They unloaded my stuff and I rode the few blocks to the Hampton Inn, where I was staying.

As I approached the hotel's front desk, I'm sure I looked awful. I was literally dripping on the floor. The clerk's attitude was indicative of the reception I have received at almost every hotel or motel on this trip. The usual line from a hotel clerk when you approach the desk is something like, "Checking in?" Or, "Hi, do you have a reservation with us?" Or, "Staying with us tonight?" For me, despite my smile and attempts at being jovial, I've usually gotten, "What can I help you with, sir?" Or, "What can we do for you?" When I tell them I have a reservation for the night, their tone changes. Sometimes I've rattled on about my trip just to impress upon them that I'm not some nut who just wandered in. I'm a respectable, 62-year-old retired journalist who has ridden his bike from Los Angeles, dammit! (And even after that I have been asked numerous times to fill out the paper form with the make and model of my car, and to put my initials on the line where I promise I don't have any pets.)

OK, so I do duck into people's portable garages when heavy rains come — like I did last Thursday on my way to Rolla, Missouri — but that's an exception.

I'm still absorbing my Route 66 experience, but my impression is that the bicycle route is helping to bring a bit more money and attention to the communities and businesses along the way. There are plenty of motorists driving the route as well. Maybe the highway that helped so many people follow their dreams will help to make some dreams come true in the future. (While I've been writing, I've had the TV tuned to the PGA golf tournament — played in Tulsa this year. The opening sequence of the broadcast was tied to Route 66 and how The Main Street of America, as announcer Jim Nantz exclaimed, "runs right through the middle of Tulsa!" Maybe it's catching on!)

So, now I'm on to The Great River Road. I have overnight stops planned in Pere Marquette State Park near Grafton, Illinois; Louisiana, Missouri; Quincy, Illinois, (with rain in the forecast for Louisiana and Quincy); Fort Madison, Iowa; and Muscatine, Iowa; before staying for a few days at my sister Rita's place in Eldridge, Iowa. And after that, we'll be eastbound for New Bedford, Massachusetts.

Contact me: Thoughts or comments? Email me at richardridesusa@gmail.com.

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