Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Eight, Old Age

There must be dozens of men, Larry King comes to mind, whose day began just like mine. The aching back, the hacking cough, a slackness about the jowls. The weak muscles and wobbly knees. The cruelly misshapen toes. And pruny fingers and baggy eyes. I was never a handsome man. But what beauty youth offered is now lost to me. I'll have to get by on my wits.

Such is life, such is life. It could have been worse. At least my tent stayed dry. I've taken to sleeping with my windows open. It's worth whatever it costs. Let the frosts whiten my beard and take all the snap from my skin. Let peeping squirrels and curious raccoons catch me in awkward positions. I've been outdoors too long to care. I've earned my every wrinkle. So what, who cares, I'm almost glad that no one will ever love me.

I hiked into Redfield by ten o'clock. When I got there no one was home. The streets were deserted; the restaurant was closed. It was a little bit spooky. I finally met Larry and his shy smiling wife. "Everyone's in church," he explained. He had had enough of that business when he was just a kid.

They were having a yard sale, waiting for that post sermon rush. And just after that the shops would open. I went to wait in the park. There I could plug my computer in. I spent some time looking at my map. I'll be damned if I know where I'm going any more. There are too many roads to choose from. Montana made most of my decisions for me. The Midwest puts it all on you.

The reason I stayed north as long as I did is that I had hoped to visit Dubuque. Dubuque, Iowa on the Mississippi. I spent my childhood there. It was not such a very happy childhood, but that is not Dubuque's fault. I thought it would be fun to see my old house, to maybe visit my school. I wanted to borrow a bicycle, to spend some days riding around. I wondered if it might not be cathartic, in one sense at least.

In fact I'd half planned to winter there, to pick up my trip in the spring. But spring comes slow to Dubuque, Iowa. I'd have been there six months. And while I have taken a day off here and there, much more would seem like cheating. Anyone can Walk Across America if they do it in little chunks.

I still might have managed a day or two. In the end I chickened out. It wasn't nostalgia that frightened me. It was this chill in the air. It is cold now but bearable. I couldn't endure much worse. Or I could but I certainly would not care to. Now I am headed south.

Just to where I could not say. Maybe Arkansas. I have not heard of it anything good. I could go to Tennessee. There are 1,352 guitar pickers in Nashville. Some of them must be nice.

They don't eat breakfast in Redfield. I settled in for lunch. Pork and extra mashed potatoes. Broccoli salad with bacon and raisins. Some kind of casserole. It did not much move me but the people were nice. Soon Larry turned up. He brought me a warm shirt and a pair of gloves. I gratefully turned him down.

We talked a bit. Larry's a giant. He's maybe six-foot-five. And laughs all the time. I wish I were as cheerful, even just once in a while. He was a mechanic for a lot of years but had to quit because his hands cramped up. Arthritis, the doctors call it. He's two years younger than me. Worked harder, though, I don't doubt it. He has too some medical training. First-aid stuff, slapping on band-aids. He stalks the Raccoon River Trail. When people crash their bikes he's there to help them. I guess it happens all the time.

In summation, he is a big laughing giant of a man who gets his greatest joy from helping people. Cyclists, no less, a detestable class. I am yet only me. Cheers Larry, you're an American hero. We're lucky to have you here.

Leaving town a German shepherd came very close to, how shall I say it, making me the last of the Pierces. A rope stopped him short, within a fang length or so. He meant to snap them off. I do not exaggerate. It left me rather shaken. Not that they're of any real use to me. It's the principle of the thing.

My trail was especially pretty through here. The path is lined with trees. The leaves are changing color and the air is fresh. It was really a pleasant walk. Here and there was a bench where I'd stop and stare at the trees just a little too long. I was spoiled only by the vast number of snakes who had come out to enjoy the warm day. And dozens of like-minded cyclists, vermin of a kind.

As a sort of social experiment I greeted them all with a warm hello and a smile. Maybe a third of them greeted me back, but you could tell their hearts were not in it. Most just rode on with a look of disdain, as if I were the one wearing foo-foo shorts. Does riding a bicycle make you a jerk, or are jerks just drawn to the sport?

There were some old folks on shopping bikes. I'm not referring to them. I mean the ones who take themselves seriously, who think they are better than me. When someone says hi you say hi back--that's just a Law of Nature. Especially when you are sharing a trail or the shoulder of some remote road. They think they're so blasted heroic for riding their bike twenty miles.

"But, ooh, it's so hard! Our bottoms are sore!" I'll just bet they are.

Excuse me.

I dillied and dallied, as they used to say. I juggled walnuts and watched the red squirrels. But in spite of myself I eventually made it to Adel, Iowa. It is a bustling town of some three-thousand people, big in the brick industry. And farming, of course, and the equipment for that. There were very few places to eat. All I really wanted was a coffee shop. I needed to recharge my computer. I had been to long studying maps and reading about Tennessee.

I finally wound up in a Subway. I had a tuna sandwich. Which could have been worse but honestly, I really hate the place. I weep when I think of all the good sandwich shops Subway drove out of business. And I am disgusted with the American people who just cannot tell the difference.

The secret to making a good sandwich is this: balance. So too is the Secret of Life. Not too much gin, not too much vermouth. It is as simple as that. Subway overloads their sandwiches with watery, flavorless vegetables. Their bread is doughy and the annoy their customers with a series of impertinent question. "Do you want this flavorless vegetable or this flavorless vegetable?" With no thought as to proportions. And their seats are hard and their soda fountains get the mix all wrong.

Their marketing is deceitful and offensive (see Product Placement) and their franchise agreements are exploitative of the American Dream. Hey, Subway! Sponsor my walk! I'll go from town to town telling everyone how much you suck.

But the girls behind the counter were pretty. It's all part of their Evil Plan.

At Adel I left my trail. That's always so hard to do. But from there it was headed straight into Des Moines, where I do not want to go. It may be in Iowa but it's a metropolis. It would take me two days to walk through there. And big city folks are not hobo friendly. They think I've come to rob them.

So I took off south on Highway 169, up and over steep hills. Which there are all kinds of in Iowa, no matter what anyone says. And stopped well short of a twenty-mile day. I had found a nice place to camp. I'm a bit snuffly. I thought I needed the rest. Every little bit helps.

My little computer promised me it would not be as cold as it was last night. My little computer lies. It is evil cold out there. But I've got the place to myself. I dug through some woods and found myself on the edge of a motocross track. Which has not been used for a couple of weeks. You can tell by the state of the grass. I like to be well off the road on cold nights, so no one can see my shame. Suffering robs you of dignity, ask any poor person you know.


THESE RAGBRAIers, a different class of cyclist, come up in conversation from time to time. The word most often used to describe them? "Maniac." By far.

COLD NIGHTS make the stars beautiful. I noticed when I went out to pee. If I had had an empty Gatorade bottle I never would have seen.

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Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Six, That'll Do, Pig

There are a number of mothers who worry about me. Not all of them are my own. I hope none of them are too awfully put out to learn that I have a cold. Another one, yes. I enjoyed a week of good health, or very nearly so. And a good healthy twenty-year run before that. Perhaps I was overdue.

So extend to me your sympathy but there is no cause for concern. I have a rather drippy nose. That never killed anyone. And what do you expect for Heaven's sake. I have been four months out of doors. Sweating and filthy, I eat in saloons. I live on society's fringe. Bugs crawl on me. I poop in the bush. It's no life for a gentleman.

Not one of my fragility. I am a delicate flower. A hothouse orchid. A china doll. It's easy to hurt my feelings. I need to be cared for like a princess. I like marshmallows in my cocoa. The great big ones, you understand. The little ones melt too fast.

But before anyone organises a cocoa party, I can in fact do without. All I've got is a runny nose and a slightly upset stomach. I'd rather be in bed at home, but that's almost always the case. A little suffering will make me strong and take my mind off my heartache.

It will be in the thirties tonight. I do manage to stay warm. I've got a hat that ties under my chin and a new pair of furry pants. And a good heavy shirt and two pairs of socks. My hands are just a bit cold. But only because I'm typing this nonsense. A man suffers for his art.

It's the morning I'm not looking forward to; my tentpoles sap my strength. They are blasted cold and my tent will be wet. There are all kinds of clips and zippers. And every one of them hurts my fingers. It cannot be done in gloves. I've suffered much worse otherwise, but it's just such a pain in the ass.

That said, I did have a fairly good day. I put in twenty-two miles. And maybe two more hiking this way and that, looking for good things to eat. I should look upon my wooze as a good way to save money on food, but feed a cold, they say. And there's always this business of getting recharged. The brave pioneers had it easy.

I debated long ago a solar recharger, but I wasn't sure it would work. And it cost rather much and it would by now be smashed into all sorts of bits. My poor backpack has a rather rough life. I think it will last the trip. But then it goes into storage until we raise enough funds to open the James Museum.

"His actual backpack. Ooh. Ahh." We'll sell replicas in the gift shop. And James T-shirts and picture post cards. I think it will pay for itself. The real money will come when we open the theme park.

You Must Be At Least This Tall to Ride the Wild James.

Seven not wholly unpleasant miles took me to Coon Rapids, Iowa. I probably would have enjoyed it more if I wasn't so terribly hungry. It's the pizza I had last night. Pizza never fills me up. Pizza and bananas, I don't know why. They are two foods that make me hungry. Beer, too, gives me a powerful thirst. Love always makes me lonely.

I was disappointed with Coon Rapids on a number of counts. To begin with, it was well off my highway. You'd think they'd have the decency to put themselves in my path. And, while no one was really mean to me, they weren't all that friendly, either. As if somehow it was this traveller's fault that they live in Coon Rapids, Iowa.

It is a town of some 1200 people, with not much to show for it. Their one restaurant was a sandwich shop. I could have been better impressed. It was better than Subway, that's all I can say, but Subway, as we all know, sucks.

I have made a lifetime study of sandwiches and, while I don't expect anyone to come up to my level, it really isn't that hard. My friend Elsie made me a sandwich the other day and it was fantastic. But you don't see her opening her own sandwich shop. Not yet. She's content to be twelve.

And they had some cartoon for three-year-olds blaring on the TV. Like Barney, but squeakier. There wasn't a kid in sight. The walls were a tribute to their high school teams, covered with old uniforms. I hope they washed them, was all I could think. It was like eating in a locker room.

I did, I think, get some clue as to why I have good days and bad. My best walking days are the ones where every couple of hours I meet someone who's nice to me. I need that positive energy. I'm sorry; I guess I'm just weak. Kwai Chang Caine walked all over hell and everyone treated him rotten. But he was a lot more centered than me. He had better teachers.

From there I hiked to Bayard Iowa. I liked it much better. It's a much smaller town but friendlier. I walked into Shack's, a bar. But not a bar. It's a restaurant. You can buy it. It's for sale. One-hundred grand, or quite a bit less, depending on how much they like you. You get a big old building in the center of town and a stream of steady customers. A number of whom are cribbage players. They can be trouble but still.

It didn't seem like they were very glad to see me, but I was soon befriended by Marilyn, the boss. She made for me her famous pork sandwich. We're getting into pig country now. I've been eating sausage, it's easy to forget, but as a rule I don't eat pork. This stems not from any religious conviction but from a fine documentary I once saw.

It was about this baby piglet who lost his mama and was adopted by a quiet but good-hearted farmer who taught him how to herd sheep and he was really good at herding sheep even though he was just a little pig and in the end he won a sheep herding contest and everyone was really impressed even the old dog who didn't like him very much at first and the farmer's wife who wanted to eat him but then didn't.

It was a fine sandwich, I'm inclined to believe. They're popular around here. Truth is my stuffly nose had by then made it impossible to taste anything. It chewed up pretty well. I said it was delicious but I was just guessing. I'll come have another one day.

I did enjoy talking to the folks there. I did learn something interesting. This RAGBRAI, the famous bike ride across Iowa with its tens of thousands of participants, is maybe a bit different than I imagined. I thought it was a bunch of stuck-up jerks in garish jerseys and foo-foo shorts who never say hi to anyone. No. It's a bunch of drunken maniacs riding from bar to bar, causing trouble wherever they go.

"It's like the Hell's Angels rolling into town." Those are in fact my words, but I thought it would be more effective as a quote.

Golf, fishing; even hunting, I'm afraid. It's all about drinking beer. Hey, remember that time Dick Cheney got drunk and shot that old man in the face? Good. Never forget.

I learned too that yesterday was a bad day for harvesting. Poor Billy Bergman got sand in his eye and there were something like seven big fires in the state. I guess all combines, especially the older, gas-powered ones, spit out sparks from time to time. Usually the farmer will just climb down and stomp them out. But yesterday, with the big wind, these fires got out of control. The state finally put a ban on harvesting until the wind died down.

Today was better, or so I'd suppose. Damn cold now, however. Thank you again for tuning in. I bid you a good night.


"That'll do, pig" means "I love you." Not enough people got that.

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