Day One-Hundred-Eighty-Seven, Wimoweh

Golly, but it was cold last night.  I woke up every few hours.  To curse my lot and pity myself.  And rub my toes together.  I still managed almost twelve hours' sleep.  I was haunted by awful nightmares.  A band of cycling Girl Scouts pushed me off a high bridge.  They were singing The Lion Sleeps Tonight, with sound effects, in three-part harmony.

Now I know how I'm going to die.  I knew there'd be a bridge involved.  The rest was a revelation.

They say it will be even colder tonight.  I am inclined to believe them.  It is plenty cold now and dropping fast.  It will be my coldest night yet.  But don't worry about me; I expect to be fine.  I'm wearing every layer I can.  Except for my raincoat.  That's the nuclear option.  For when I really want to fry.

I did not make remarkable progress today.  I was not on the road until ten.  And was slightly hobbled.  Shin splints, don't you know.  I've been fairly lucky with them.  Cause they sure do hurt.  It's like I've been whapped, hard and right on the shin.  And not some coquettish tap with a Japanese fan.  Something harder and more thuggish.  Like an iron bar or a billy club or those biscuits I had three days back.

It feels like I have broken a bone.  The pain is in fact muscular.  Which is good.  Muscle aches can be ignored, unless you're some kind of a sissy.  So I gritted my teeth and limped forward.  I got lots of ride offers.  Americans are a good people at heart.  We hate to watch each other suffer.

Unless of course there's money in it, or it takes our minds off other things.

I am walking on the wrong side of the road.  I keep my thumbs to myself.  I still feel bad when people double back, or when some poor trucker gives up all his momentum.  It's a bitch to get those things rolling again.  They've got a lot of gears to work through.  And schedules to keep and diesel to pay for.  Thank you, gentlemen.

Today a guy in a black pick-up pulled a dangerous U-turn.  And risked his life and that of his bride in an effort to help me out.  But I wasn't too sorry to turn him down.  He looked like an absolute fiend.

Less than a mile up I found store in Deer Park, Alabama.  It is a town of a dozen houses and, I'm told, a post office.  It is all packed in amongst scrubby pines.  This too is timber country.  The store itself is a plywood box.  They sell T-shirts and bedazzled handbags.  And donutty things in cellophane.  I had a "honey bun."  And a packet of cheese crackers.  And an icy Coke.  It wasn't exactly biscuits and gravy.  It cost almost as much.  I don't quite blame them.  I was glad they were there.  I needed the snack.

I limped another ten miles to Citronelle, or at least the north edge of town.  And stopped for a while at a gas station.  I don't remember what brand.  I had a Coke and plugged in a bit, for all the good it will do.

I'm sure Samsung hires some good engineers.  I'm sure they're all doing their best.  To push the far edge of technology and Make the World a Better Place.  No doubt they love their mothers and give to charity.  I'm sure they're the very best sort.

But they suck.

I met some friendly dump truck drivers.  They've seen me over the past few days.  And were all most encouraging.  A Mr. Rivers paid for my lunch.  And then some.  Bless his generous heart.  I've been a little cash poor.  From overindulging in the indoor life.  Not tonight.  I'm out in the cold.

Brrr.

I lunched in central Citronelle.  It must have been three by then.  I found a somewhat dingy cafe.  I hoped they might make me breakfast.  I wound up with a hamburger.  I've never been a great hamburger fan.  But they do give value for money.  They did not have any pie.

I like to tell people that when I'm done I'll never walk anywhere again.  But it ain't true.  I like walking.  I'll still take the odd ten-mile stroll.  But I'll never eat another hamburger.  Or speak to anyone who does.  Blech.

Unless it's a really good hamburger.  Never's an awfully long time.  I am hungry now and all this talk about hamburgers is really just making it worse.  Breakfast, though, is yet my favorite.  Breakfast is good food.  Mr. Kellog did us a disservice.  Cereal's not where it's at.

After lunch I met a drunken hitch hiker with blood crusted under her nose.  She greeted me like an old friend.  Turns out we had met before.  She was the woman in the black pick-up truck.  The guy driving was in jail.

"He crashed his truck on purpose and punched me in the face."

What a rotten guy.

"Why'd he do that?"  I ain't Oprah, but it's polite to show some concern.

"Because he's an abusive ------------."

They will behave that way.  I was glad I wasn't riding with him.  At the same time, I should have been.  I couldn't have stopped him from crashing his truck, but if I'd lived I might have stopped him from punching that poor drunken woman.  Punching her twice, at any rate.  Sometimes I'm slow to react.  I've had people punch me five or six times before I knew I was in a fight.

It's embarrassing.

Of course I might too have got myself stabbed.  Or shot or gnawed on or something.  There are lots of hillbilly stereotypes.  Some folks just choose the wrong ones.  I like the one where folks are kind, uneducated but with good common sense.  Proud but at the same time neighborly, and can play the banjo real well.

Anyone can shoot meth and beat up a girl.  The five-string banjo takes skill.

I just stepped out for my evening pee.  Damn it's cold out there.  I mean, Jimminy.  It's almost humorous.  It's like a practical joke.  But the stars are pretty.  The air smells good.  It was a very pretty day.

I am in some trees behind a church.  I found this spot in the dark.  I wanted to squeeze in a few extra miles.  I was ashamed of myself. 

I've rejoined Highway 45.  The one I'd been walking for weeks.  If I'd had any sense I'd have never left it.  I would be in Tampa by now.  And I never would have been locked in a patrol car.  Damn that still pisses me off.  But I had to go and get creative.  I guess I was addled by rain.

Tomorrow I'll get close to Mobile, Alabama, at least as close as I can.  And still find a decent place to camp.  My tent will be sopping wet.  From my expiration, but I won't mind.  It will be a balmy thirty by then.

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Day One-Hundred-Twelve, Shrouds

I woke up betimes but did not leave my tent. It was not cowardice; it was calculation. I was sure the sun would come out. It did not. It was another blustery day. I set out in search of breakfast.

Across the Trail I found the Udder Cafe, or Shoppe or Place or something. You'll know it when you see it; it's on Highway 275 and painted to look like a cow. And they put up a fairly impressive breakfast. The people are friendly and kind.

I sat down to a mere breakfast and a half. I was not in a two breakfast mood. I chatted some with Don and Scott, local Republicans. Gosh, but it was cozy in there. I was willing to stay there all day. There were lots of old folks who are always so kind. Friend Scott it seems paid for my breakfast. Thank you, sir.

I quite liked Tilden. I can't say just why. It is just a nice little town. There are maybe a thousand people or so and every one of them was nice to me. And the very next day was the Ribs Festival, a great barbeque in the streets. I imagine there would be beer, as well. I was offered a warm place to stay. But the road, the damnable road, has its first claim on me.

Winter.

I continued on my Cowboy trail. I couldn't say what time it was. My one watch died just east of Wenatchee and the sun was nowhere to be seen. There were roiling black clouds, low to the ground. It kept things pretty dark all day. It was as if it were perpetually seven p.m. and just about to get dark. It is disorientating. I did keep me moving. I was sure it would very soon rain.

It did not. Nor did it snow. I would not have been surprised if it did. There was no smell of snow in the air but it did have a grey snowy feel. What houses I passed had bedsheets and blankets spread over their vegetable gardens. I suppose it is just a matter of time before they place such a shroud over me.

Five miles on I passed Meadow Grove. I couldn't say if I stopped. With all due respect to the good people there, these towns are quite running together. Ah, now I remember, another nice little town, very small indeed. I asked if they had a laudromat. They did not. I moved on.

I am down to my last pair of shorts and the socks that hurt my feet. And, as everything has been damp, there has been a most unpleasant smell. A mustiness, overlayed with ammonia. I am hesitant to claim it as my own. Yet I am sure other people assign it to me. It precedes me wherever I go.

Stinking Across America. Please follow my adventures.

There was a laundromat on the east end of Tilden. I knew I must not stop there. I was in danger of spending the next six months there. It was all so cozy and warm. And I was determined to make it to Norfolk, Nebraska, twenty-two miles away. I'd had a very late start but that mattered not. There was nowhere to rest on the trail. Nowhere out of the wind and cold. There was nothing to do but walk.

You work up a sweat whether it's hot out or not. You have to keep that heat going. If you stop for more than a very few minutes you'll be very cold indeed. You'll get cranky. You'll feel sorry for yourself. You, I mean. Not me.

The Cowboy Trail split wide from the highway and took me to Battle Creek. I was surprised to see it was thriving town of some one-thousand souls. It is well off the road, kind of hidden back there. They don't much seem to mind. They have got a bustling seed corn plant and a brand new library. And a new high school. Folks from Norfolk are moving there to escape from big city life.

I should have stopped and had some lunch. But it was by then four o'clock. And they had fed me so very well in Tilden I didn't need any more. So on I went in the grey and gloom, with twelve more miles to go.

Five miles later my trail died. I guess a bridge was out. They spend a fortune maintaining the thing and I'm the only one who uses it. I found myself on a narrow farm road. I had no idead where I was. The corn was so high beside the road that I could not see anything.

I figured it out. I asked directions. I took good advice from Google. And made it to the edge of Norfolk, where I was detained by the law. Pulled over, rousted, forced to explain. Looked on with broad suspicion. I tell you it is disheartening and no proper welcome to town.

The guy was real nice about it. Someone had called me in. A red raincoat and a yellow hat. It suggest terrorism. Deputy Schmitz, I think he was called. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and a special pin that made him a firearms instructor. He was self-effacing and very polite, like the Canadians you see on TV.

Still, I object. I don't like producing ID. Pedestrianism is not a crime. And I was headed to a motel. Those Law & Order reruns aren't going to watch themselves.

I checked in to the EconoLux some time later. It is nice to be indoors. I enjoyed a three-minute swim in their very small pool and sat a bit in their spa. And had three baths and five showers and spread out my gear to dry. Life's good.

And I took full advantage of their generous Walking Across America discount. Let's give 'em a small plug here. EconoLux. Norfolk, Nebraska. The finest hotel in the world.
Goodnight.

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