Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Seven, Riding a Buck

My tent was on top of one high bank where the road had been cut through a hill. I was on the edge of a clover field. There was a golf course across the way. The grass was cut short all around me. I had a fine view of the sky. In between rains I'd poke my head out and commune a bit with the stars.

It was a very warm night by recent standards. The moon was all but full. And I had that odd sort of energy that comes from too many Pepsis. In fact I had some trouble falling asleep. The traffic was fairly loud. And amplified by the walls of my hill. I was nonetheless up by six.

Six. I worry about myself. The sun was nowhere to be seen. But it was warm and the rain had stopped. I stared a bit more at the stars. And a fog came rolling up the hill, faster than I can walk. A Dickensian fog, most impressive. You couldn't see thirty feet.

It was neat but impractical. It would not let me dry my tent. And made me just a tiny bit nervous about heading back down to the road. The human reaction to a very thick fog is to drive as fast as you can. To lessen the time it takes you to get to a place where you can see.

I am now on Highway 63, really a pretty good road. I am all but ready to retract my remarks about highways in Missouri. The shoulder is wide and beautifully paved. I did not walk very far. At the top of the next hill half a mile away I found a BP station.

With tables in back where the locals gather to have their morning coffee. They were all very nice to me. They're getting harder to understand. I ain't exactly in Dixie yet but I am noticing a shift in accent. One old man told me that when I get done I really should "ride a buck." I thought it was some sort of hillbilly slang. I was ready to be offended. I made him repeat it, to see if he dared. Write a book, he meant.

I don't know much about book-writin'. It looks hard.

It is pretty here, rolling hills; they cut the grass short by the road. The fog steamed off and left a beautiful day. I jogged on to Queen City, Missouri. And had the meatloaf special at the diner/grocery store. There I met the sheriff. He was twice my size and carried gag handcuffs. And an enormous pistol. He was introduced by a crazy woman who did not seem so crazy at all. She was awfully friendly. That is bound to make you an object of suspicion.

I had now enjoyed two long breaks but it was early yet. I walked on past Greentop, a very small town, and Sublette, which I didn't notice. The plan was to stop on the edge of Kirksville. Plans can come undone.

On the edge of that town I found a fine spot. But the sun was still high in the sky. A little ambition is good, they say. I thought I'd put in another five miles.

But I misunderestimated Kirksville, Missouri. It's a metropolis. Seventeen-thousand people; it doesn't sound like much, but I tell you it went on for miles. And miles and miles and soon it was dark. My eyes aren't what they once were. Images blur in my little computer and I cannot see well in the dark.

I tried to walk where the headlights weren't. I thought for sure I'd be squished. My glow-in-the-dark hat has passed its half-life. Eventually I found a sidewalk.

I quite like sidewalks but not this time. Kirksville was refusing to end. I just wanted to get back out in the country and find a place for my tent. I thought the moon might do me some good. Last night it was plenty bright. But here it was obscured by clouds. There was lightning on the horizon.

I did see a few possible spots, behind some boarded up businesses. But my hobo sense warned me off. It may have been cowardice. But hobo skills are as much about instinct as they are about being bold. Something about the scene warned me off. I decided to give it a pass.

So, forgive me, I am in a motel. And barely three days stinky. And so blasted sore and road weary it will be a trick to start walking again. There is a bathtub but I was too tired to soak. It's a damnable waste of money. Goodnight.

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