Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Three, Naughty Rock

I spent a comparatively sleepless night, listening to the owls. And what may have been an elephant, or a heartsick deer. I suffered somewhat from a hacking cough. I had inhaled a great deal of dust. It had mixed with the moisture of my lungs to form a sort of slurry.

My second-best knee had its own complaints. Poor sad suffering me. It was hard to get up the steam I needed to hike to the next town. Corydon, Iowa was eleven miles off. I stopped once for bagels and cheese. I wish I could have enjoyed it better. It was a nice stretch of road.

The trees are pretty and I shared my shoulder with a number of Amish kids. In black hats and bonnets, piled into buggies, out there raising hell. They all waved. They were friendly. They looked content. They handled their horses well. It looked like more fun than going to school. I wish I could have spoke with them some.

I was not well served by a strong headwind. Twenty-five miles an hour. Which is not enough to knock me down, but it can be discouraging. It was as if all of Nature wanted me to sit down. Or take a forty-year nap.

On the edge of town I had a hearty lunch at the bowling alley/Baptist church. The woman at the next table belched and scratched and bragged about her new trailer. I ate my burger but could not finish my french fries. Christ watched me from the wall.

Find me now at the Nodyroc Motel, pride of Corydon. I took a long shower and did some laundry. It all needed to be done. But I feel guilty. I hate to waste a fine day. Even one with gusts up to forty. Not least because this soft living robs me of my poetry.

Goodnight.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Two, Leadbelly

As has been my habit this last couple days, I woke before seven o'clock. 6:58, or thereabouts. It really was dreadfully early. But I am going to sleep earlier, too. My whole schedule has gone mad. I once calculated that I am very best off when I sleep until just past eleven.

But my hobo lifestyle will not allow it. I am sleeping on borrowed ground. And have more or less committed myself to walking a bit every day. This is one of those projects that demand steady effort, like saving for retirement. Or so I'm told. It is nothing to me. I've never had a job.

I hear they suck.

My back did not threaten revolt today. I still fear for my second best knee. I thought I had pulled a thigh muscle but I guess it was just a cramp. My nose still snoofles but I'm used to it. I can remember no other time. All in all I'm remarkably healthy for a boy of my age and experience.

Six comparatively painless miles took me into Lucas, Iowa. Or outside of it to a gas station just up the hill from town. I grabbed a seat and plugged in my computer. And ate a burger that tasted like fish and some fries that tasted like paste. And two donuts, the second one for luck. They weren't so very good either. And it all did something strange to me. I have not been hungry since.

I think I've been stoppered or bricked up somehow. I am filled too with some dread. Dams burst and fortresses crumble. Disasters happen every day. Consistent and predictable digestion is the key to a happy walk.

No one should eat at gas stations. A good many people do. Truck drivers, the younger ones, eat there as a matter of course. I sat there for two hours, watching them poison themselves. I almost wanted to say something but my moral authority was gone. And will be for as long as I carry that burger, perhaps for the rest of my life.

I could I guess have had bagels cheese. I still carry them in my pack. But other than that I didn't have any choice. Lucas ain't much of a town. I'm certain it means well but there isn't much there. I might as well have been in Nebraska.

I liked Nebraska. Nebraska was good to me. No hard feelings there.

From there I marched another ten miles, onward to Chariton. I was walking tall and strong. I still wound up covered in dust. It is these blasted gravel shoulders. They are hard on more than my feet. A great column of dust follows every truck like some malevolent djinn. There is not a thing I can do to avoid it. It even goes up my nose. And into my ears and hair and mouth. It filters right through my clothes.

It was my further misfortune to catch up with a dump truck that was applying more of the stuff. I was worried even for passing cars. He had quite obscured the road. And was rolling along at about my pace. I was in that cloud for half a mile.

About when I hit Chariton the sun went behind a cloud. It wasn't cold but it looked like it was. I thought of checking into a motel. I have been ten days without a shower. I had grit in my pants. But it was expected to be warm tonight. I would hate to waste that indoors. So I resigned myself to a wet nap bath and went to a Hardee's restaurant.

Hardee's, for our international friends, is a fast food burger restaurant. I think they only exist in the Midwest. I liked them when I was a kid. But they have changed the menu and I wasn't hungry. I ordered some fries to be polite. And a great big Coke and sat in a far corner where I could plug in my computer. I left after an hour or so. I think I was creeping them out.

Then it was to a HyVee, that's a supermarket, for a few more jugs of sports drink. I didn't need anything else, though I do worry about my cheese. It was fairly warm today. It's gone a little bit squooshy. I'll have a slab for breakfast tomorrow and let you know how it turns out.

Next door I found a Pamida, a Walmart sort of place. So I was told; I didn't know. It was started by Pam and Ida. I went in and bought six pairs of socks and tried them on in the parking lot. The socks I was wearing I threw away. All of my old socks are dying.

My new socks were made by Fruit of the Loom. I am not wholly impressed. They are rough and thinnish. I should have known. I had one of their t-shirts once. And their briefs never fit me right. Something about the fly design. I always tended to escape. Like a naughty monkey from a flimsy cage. With mischief on his mind.

From Chariton I turned south. I am letting the season choose the course that I take. Whenever I have a good road south, that's the way that I'm going. It is not so cold now, and hasn't been, but I cannot afford to get complacent. As soon as it gets below freezing I quit. My whole trip will end in failure. It will at least be delayed until spring. I am nobody's snowman.

I put in another eight miles. I was walking until after dark. I cut it fairly close but I was sure I would find a pretty good place for my tent. I sensed it; I could not explain how. You'd need to have hobo skills. Which I do. I am camped comfortably between trees, on the edge of a meadow.

At least I think so. It was awfully dark. I may be in someone's front yard. All will be revealed in the morning, whether at gunpoint or not.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-One, Darkness

You'll remember I met young Anthony, under a bridge in Montana. He was walking west from Long Island on his way to Oregon. I expect he finished weeks ago. He was making pretty good time. He could walk as many as thirty-five miles in a single day.

It astounded me at the time. I was at something of a low point that day. But I'm better now and if I had more daylight I could do the same thing. Not every day, don't be a goose, but now and then I feel strong. But with these short days it is all I can do to put in a mere twenty miles. I worry that after a month or so it will be closer to fifteen.

I could wake before daybreak but that hardly seems right. I know it's done all the time. But I don't think the spiritual damage to me would be worth the extra hour. And I need to tent up before it gets dark if I hope to know where I am. Which leaves me twelve hours to eat and rest and recharge my little computer.

And walk, of course. I guess that's the point. But it's not all that I hope to do. I like talking to people and reading plaques and visiting small town museums. And staring into rivers and taking naps in the sun and crashing the odd church picnic. If it were all about walking I wouldn't have bothered. That would be no fun at all.

This morning I woke before seven o'clock but I was not on the road until nine. At Meggers farm I had the chance to recharge my little computer. Which really is a thorn in my butt, if you will excuse that expression. It's an obsession, a compulsion, a gnawing fear; and fairly necessary, at that. I like a nice type at the end of a day. It gives me a purpose in life.

I spread out my gear on the Meggers' lawn. I've been packing rather haphazardly. It was good to get everything back in its place and get my tent folded right. I spoke briefly with the family dog, a fireplug of a blue heeler. Short and squat and muscular, she smashed her skull into my face.

As a friendly gesture, I'm certain of it. She's overflowing with love. But it made me shy about meeting the horse, another muscular beast. If he had decided to head-butt me it would have left a dent. He was friendly, though, and at least as scared of me as I was of him. I patted him on his silly nose and brushed away some flies.

He looked a little sad when I finally left. I was wrong to make him my friend. These separations are hard on me. I no longer look cows in the eye. Whoever said it's better to have loved and lost did not have my regrets. I will make of my heart a stone, cold and hard and heavy. And covered all over with lichens and moss, a shelter for earwigs and grubs.

I had a ten-mile run to Osceola. I was in no kind of shape. I had an undefined pain in my back and my second best knee had a click. My small breakfast had failed to satisfy. I had to stop several times. It was a nice stretch of road. Winding with plenty of improving hills and not too too many cars.

And autumn leaves, perhaps not yet at their height. They still make a pretty good show. Not untinged with melancholy. Such is the Nature of Life. Or Beauty, in any case. Beauty will break your heart. Or you, its. It does not really matter. Everyone's feelings get hurt.

Osceola, Iowa is a town of some three-thousand souls. It wasn't where I thought it would be. In my effort to conserve my battery I had neglected to check my map. It was at the top of a hill and too far away. I was by then fairly hungry. And so I was cranky. I soon decided I did not like Osceola.

I liked it much better after lunch. I had an expensive hamburger. It was that or Mexican food at a place that looked, frankly, unclean. I did live in India for a few years. I'm no stranger to dysentery. But there are some experiences you need only have once. Much more than that is just greedy.

I had too a piece of chocolate pie. I was not impressed with the crust. But I felt it was important to stuff myself. I would only eat once today. Supplemented of course with bagels and cheese. I restocked at a grocery store. Fareway, if it at all interests you. I bet they can sell you an S.

I loitered a bit in the city park, still trying to juice my computer. It was full of screaming kids, out on a field trip. They were writing down the names of all the businesses in town. It was a lesson in consumerism. One place was called Clarks Furniture. Everyone wrote it down. What does the new generation care about the lowly apostrophe.

Did you know that every time I type an apostrophe or a semicolon or a question mark or a hyphen, I pretty much have to call up a menu screen? But I do it. Because I care about you.

My afternoon walk went a lot more smoothly. I put in another ten miles. I'd have been glad to give more but it was getting dark. I found a spot in a hayfield. There was a barbed wire fence but it wasn't so high. It's hard to believe they were serious.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty, Balm

My greatest anxiety on starting this trip was where I would put up my tent. I was committing more or less to homelessness. You might say it frightened me some. Truth is I've been homeless for the last five years, in this foreign land or that. Living out of a suitcase, I did have a bed. I was never so very bad off. But out here I never know where I'll wind up. It takes both courage and faith.

It has in fact been much easier than I had ever dared believe. In Montana, for example, very few people care where you choose to put up your tent. In Nebraska I camped in city parks. In South Dakota I camped in the woods. But Iowa has been more difficult. Iowa is a civilised state.

I have thermals and furry pants. As of yet I have never worn both. I want to leave myself somewhere to go, a chance to be warmer still. It never pays to live your life with your amps cranked up to eleven. By the same token I have never knocked on doors and asked for permission to camp. I knew it would come to that sooner or later, but I've had luck with clever spots in the woods. I did not want to ask too much too soon from Fate and the Kindness of Strangers.

Last night I seiously thought about it. It seemed to get dark awfully fast. I wound up climbing a rusty fence and camping in an odd sort of hell. A forest, a swamp, a briar patch. I did manage to stay hidden. And off the road and out of the way but, oh, what was the cost. I skewered myself and endangered my tent. Everything I own was wet. My warm shirt got covered with prickle burrs. I torqued my second best knee. And in the morning I had break out my knife to carve a path up to the road. For all I knew I might perish back there, the Legend of James at an end.

As I've noted, it gets dark quickly these days. I try to squeeze out those extra few miles. Tonight I passed up several good sites in an effort to meet my quota. And when the sun disappeared I found myself among a number of houses. I thought, what the hell; I could just make out the shadow of a man on his porch. I heard a dog but it didn't sound big. I went and introduced myself.

He seemed to be almost waiting for me. "I heard about you," he said. From whom, I did not bother to ask. But he had not let it prejudice him. He gave me a gracious welcome. And a space for my tent on a soft green lawn, right in front of his house.

He is Dennis Meggers, who with his wife, maintains a beautiful farm. Their house looks very much like a barn but it was purpose built. They grow hay and raise horses, great monsterous things, not lacking in playful vigor. They are not Clydesdales but they are almost as big. I don't remember just what they are called. It sounded to my ear vaguely French. I think it began with a B.

They are too both high school teachers. The wise farmer diversifies. Just up the road in the town of Truro. He teaches agriculture. Which sounds so delightfully Iowan. My school did not offer the course. I don't know what his wife teaches. Not English, I hope. It is my very favorite language but she's bound to find fault with my prose.

I offer my thanks to both of them, and blessings on their generous hearts. I'd have understood if they did not want a hobo camped in their yard. And I am so remarkably comfortable. It is in fact warm outside. There's a breeze perhaps best described as balmy. All credit should go to them.

It was a day that did not start out very well but got better with each passing hour. When I clawed my way up to the road this morning I could barely walk at all. My legs were weak and my back all but hurt. I thought I could do with a nap. I took several breaks in the first seven miles. I was in no real mood for a walk.

But with some effort I reached East Peru, known as Peru locally. That's PEE-ru, if you are curious, home of the Delicious Apple. It was invented by a grumpy old quaker whose neighbors thought he was nuts. But that's always the way with artists and prophets. They honor his name today.

I'll be damned if I know what it is, but that is not the point. The slightly improved Washington Delicious apple is the pride of my state. Of course we've got timber and fisheries. We could have got by without it. And between you and me I haven't liked apples since I lost my first tooth in one.

In Peru I enjoyed three healthy Cokes and another pork loin sandwich. They are all the rage around here. I guess they're an aquired taste. Or my nose is still snoofly. I am certain the fault lies with me. Everyone speaks quite highly of them and I'm inclined to trust their opinion.

I was treated to lunch by one good Mr. Kooker. I did not get a chance to thank him. I hope he'll accept my belated thanks here and extend my regards to his gal.

I spoke too to a gentleman farmer. I think his name was Bill. If I am wrong please do understand that I would have rather been right. He has worked all over the world, even Iraq and Afghanistan. Setting up electrical something-or-others, I think to do with communications. His fondest hope is to move back to Idaho, though Iowa ain't such a bad place.

I'd be willing to bet that an alarming percentage of Americans make no distinction between Iowa and Idaho. And Ohio, for that matter. There are so many states to learn.

I am grateful for this opportunity to meet so many people, but I do suffer some regret. Most of them, if I had the chance, I'd be glad to talk to for days. Inventors and world travellers, farmers and teachers and loggers. Football players and ex-convicts. Bakers and salesmen. I met an old man, you may recall, who had Walked Across America. Almost fifty years ago, long before it was cool. I could learn all sorts of things from them. Things I cannot otherwise know. But always I have got to keep walking. I guess that's part of my charm.

I was feeling a great deal jauntier on my way into Truro. It was six miles but felt like two. I stopped only one time. And not to rest but because it was a pretty spot. I quite like Madison County. Cornfields have a stark beauty but it's nice to be among trees. And what fields there are are not rectangular but moulded to the contours of the land. With patches of trees here and there. Each farm is something different. With apologies to my friends living elsewhere, it is my favorite part of the state.

So far.

In Truro I stopped and ate again. It was a chance to recharge. I still ain't there but I did enjoy talking to one Miss Shonna. Or Shawna or Shorna or something like that. She was spectacularly kind. I did not come right out and accuse her but I think she's a Democrat.

I expect to sleep very well tonight. Thank you again to the Meggers. And their noisy dogs and their friendly cat and the second biggest horse I've ever seen.

My balmy breeze has become a balmy wind. "Balmy" though is the key.


I HAVE, in the last ten days, experienced multiple sock failures. How long does a new pair of socks last? To the middle of Iowa.

I HOPE TOO to be spectacularly kind for a few years before I die. I will need decades to build to it, but I think it's a pretty goal.

DISCOVERED: a new brand of snake, small, about four-inches long. No doubt they have been there all along, in their tens of thousands. Eww.

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Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Nine, Alps

There was no frost on the ground this morning. It felt like there ought to be. Damn, it was cold and my tent got soggy, windows open or not. There were trees between me and the morning sun. It did not do me a lick of good.

I spent a good twenty minutes blowing my nose. You'll never guess what I found in there. Green and gooey with a consistency not unlike peanut butter. Smooth, not chunky, be glad for small favors. And there was a lot of it. You would almost think it would be worth something as an industrial lubricant. Or dried and fashioned into salad bowls or maybe unbreakable combs. All I'm saying is that there's potential there. This idea is my own.

I clawed my way back up to the road, past a NO TRESPASSING sign. Strongly worded with all kinds of threats. I had not seen it before. I had angled in from some ways up the road. They have got to place their signs better. Or invest some money in landmines and dogs. I can't do all the work. But I picked up my litter and honored the place. One day there'll be a plaque. A sort of historical monument. James Harry Pierce Slept Here.

Among other things, but I buried it. At least as well as I could.

In a couple of miles I found De Soto. There was no place for me to eat there. I had two ghastly sandwiches at a mini-mart, and two great big cups of coffee. And sat there for hours, charging my computer. I met a pretty girl from Virginia. Who was travelling with her German Shepherd dog, that symbol of romantic love.

It was warm when I got back on the road. It was by then about noon. And my road continued straight uphill, for miles and miles and miles. It would dip now and then just to keep me sharp but up, uphill was the gist. Today I scaled the Iowa Alps, nasty steep little things.

Shy of De Soto I'd passed under I-80, a sort of hillbilly line. It is said that the bottom third of the state lacks sophistication. But it is pretty here and noticably different. There are trees and hills and a lot less corn. There are a number of rivers. It is more or less what I always imagine when people talk about horse country.

I am still I think now in Madison County, famous for its covered bridges. This is where Clint Eastwood filmed The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. I haven't seen any of these bridges myself. You are directed to them by signs. But they are always five or ten miles off the road. I'll look them up online. Or not. I have a number of interests and never have time for them all.

But like I said, it was a pretty walk. A bit too pretty perhaps. I too often wanted to sit on my pack and stare off into the trees. It has been a while since I've seen autumn leaves. We admire them in Japan. But there you have sake to keep you warm and I was younger then.

I made it eventually to Winterset, birthplace of John Wayne. There still exists his actual house but it was half a block out of my way. Had it been a covered bridge I would have taken the turn. I got a look at the neighborhood. It looks like Duke grew up fairly well off. I'm certain they had a maid. That and his actions in WWII made him a Republican.

I had to move through Winterset fast. It was getting dark. Which in the summer it does slowly and by degrees. Now it's just on and off. I had just enough time to stop at a supermarket and buy bread and cheese for the road. And sports drinks. I would have bought donuts but they did not have any maple bars.

Maple bars are Nature's Perfect Food. In the future when I am really rich, I'm not going to eat anything but maple bars. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, maple bars. Go ahead, see if I don't.

I shopped at a FAREWAY. I have passed several of them. They occupy abandoned SAFEWAY stores. They have only to purchase an R. Which is noticably shinier than the other letters. This is the first one I've been to. I had been under the mistaken impression that they sold golf equipment. Power of suggestion and all that. I feel kind of dumb.

I raced out of town, asking directions of a man with a German shepherd dog. Ever since yesterday morning I feel really nervous around these creatures. But I found my road and here I am, in the worst tentsite imaginable. I climbed an evil barbed wire fence for the privelege of camping in weeds. Prickly weeds on lumpy ground, punctuated with sticks. But it was late and beggars don't choose. I'm cold and sleepy. Goodnight.

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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-Seven, Ab

There was frost on the ground when I woke up. My tent had stayed fairly dry. I was hoping it would. I took a chance. I slept with my window open. I expel a lot of moisture overnight. I verge, almost, on the steamy. It is, you might say, my passionate nature. It does get the better of me.

My throat is sore; my nose still drips. My legs are a little weak. But it would have been worse if I'd been compelled to put away a wet tent. It is worth a little extra chill at night for some extra comfort in the morning. Some very little comfort, that is. My tentpoles snap at my fingers.

Heated tentpoles. Seriously. All credit will go to you. That is if you can get them into production some time in the next three weeks. And send me a set. Keep your riches. Money will not keep me warm.

People do ask me where I'm going. I've never known what to say. Anywhere on the Atlantic coast would make this trip a success. But Florida is sounding better and better to me. Cuba, better still. Rum drinks with little parasols. Palm trees and steel drum bands. I can frolick in the surf and show everyone my ab.

"Don't you mean 'abs'?" No, I don't. Shut up. Stop trying to hurt my feelings.

I had thirteen miles to Panora, Iowa, named I guess for Lake Panorama. Which is in itself a funny name. I was not consulted. But that is where my breakfast was. I set out in a hurry. More than anything I wanted to wrap my hands around a warm coffee cup.

It was not a spectacularly cold day. The sun was out and shining. But once I convince myself that I am freezing it takes a while to change my mind. And I was hungry. Nothing will restore your good health like a heap of hash brown potatoes. And biscuits. And a couple eggs. And some sausage if no one is watching.

Halfway there I saw Yale, Iowa. I'd been told there was nothing there. But it looked like a good enough little town, about a mile out of my way. I flagged down a farmer and asked him if there was a restaurant in town. There is, he said. Right on Main Street. He drove off before I could kiss him.

I was too late for breakfast. I had a hamburger. Everyone was real nice. The kindly waitress gave me free cake, icy cold from the fridge. That's the way to serve cake, by the way. Try it, you'll see that I'm right.

I got too some very good news. I could pick up the Raccoon River Trail. Which was headed more or less the same way as me, at least for a day or so. And is paved just like the last trail was. There are no half measures in Iowa.

On my way out of town I met Emily, a very pretty girl with glasses. She has a blind dog called Lizzie who very much liked how I smell. Emily may have been less impressed. I guess it does not really matter. She was too young and what's left of my heart is somewhere in South Dakota. In a USFS evidence bin, guarded by one pretty ranger.

I beleve she is in fact a hydrologist, a perfectly honorable career. But making her a forest ranger appeals to my poetic sense. It is my heartbreak, after all. I'll interpret it however I please.

The Raccoon River Trail is lined with trees, at least as often as not. I had a fairly good walk to Panora, blowing my nose as I went. On the edge of town was a little hut with an outlet for my computer. I sat there for an hour or so, contemplating my navel.

'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve.

I found too a grocery store where I bought some bagels and cheese. I may or may not have some long stretches coming up. When I can I like to keep fed. And then I went across the street and had another burger.

I wasn't so very very hungry. I just wanted to sit down indoors. People do sometimes die of exposure and I feel sorry for them. It just sounds so lurid, the sort of thing men are arrested for. If overeating myself can save me from that indignity, I say it must be done.

It was PJ's, one of these 1950s diners I run into from time to time. The food was OK, I guess. But I was very impressed with the man working there. He was spectacularly cheerful. And energetic and better than that, he had fantastic hair. Like Einstein if Einstein rode his motorcycle to work, putting on his helmet halfway there. I don't think I've seen better hair on a man. I should have taken his picture. To show my own barber next time I go in. "Make me look like that."

I continued down the trail through the town of Linden, which I did not stop to see. And moved on just as much after that as I needed to to make my quota. No heroism today. I have a drippy nose.

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