To Fubbler’s with Patrick Miles 7195-7270 September 4

To Fubbler’s with Patrick Miles 7195-7270 September 4

Patrick and I meet at the church. “New plan,” I say. “Let’s go to Fubbler’s in Orrick. Have you been there?” “I’ve never been to Orrick,” Patrick says.

South on Missouri Street, out 291 to Southview Drive. “I’ll show you where I live,” I say to Patrick. We make a right on Natchez and down the hill to my house. Then back up the hill and across 291 to Liberty Landing Road out to Old 210. Five miles out, Old 210 bends to the left and joins new 210. A long gentle grade and a wide paved shoulder on new 210 replaced the steep, twisting and narrow monster hill leading into Missouri City. More than once I was forced off the old road by 18-wheelers.

We exit new 210 to detour through Missouri City, past boarded up businesses, the post office, River Park, several homes, Missouri City School—“The Smallest AAA School in Missouri”, and out Old 210 for a couple of miles until it brings us back to new 210. The old road meanders and carries little traffic. It’s almost cathedral quiet. New 210 rumbles with the sound of commerce in transit. Riding on the shoulder, though, we are no hindrance to the prompt arrival of goods in the towns along this road.

Then we come to OZ. O goes left and 10 mountainous miles later comes to Highway 10, three miles north of Excelsior Springs. Z goes right and runs through Orrick and out across river bottom farm land to the Lexington Bridge across the Missouri River. Patrick and I turn right onto O and come in less than a mile to Orrick. As we cross the railroad track, we bend left onto the main street and come in a couple of blocks to Fubblers on our right.

“How many biscuits on their half order of biscuits and gravy?” Patrick asks me. “I’m not sure. Some places have one. Others have one and a half.” We each ask for a half order.

“Just one biscuit,” I say when they come. “But they’re big,” Patrick says. And the gravy is delicious. Perfect texture. Made with sausage. And with enough sausage grease to give it flavor. We both give it thumbs up.

“How far you guys ridin’?” It’s the man at a nearby table asking. “We left from Second Baptist Church in Liberty. We’re going to Excelsior Springs on O.” I say. “Have you ridden O. It’s hilly. Like being in Germany.” “I have,” I say.

By the time we make it to Wood Heights about an hour later, my legs are on fire. I’d forgotten how steep and how many the hills. We’ve stopped several times to gulp water and gasp for air. But Patrick never complained and never lagged.

A left turn on Highway 10 points us toward Excelsior Springs. Until we make it over the first hill there is no shoulder. Traffic stacks up behind us. But no horns sound. Then comes the paved shoulder. All the way into town and the Mill Inn.

Manager Kay Stewart fills our water bottles and brings us grilled cheese sandwiches. “That chocolate meringue pie is calling my name. Would you like some?” I say to Patrick. “Chocolate’s not my favorite. I’ll have pecan,” he tells the waitress.

“I don’t know your name,” I say to the waitress when she brings our pie. She was working the cash register when we entered. I hadn’t seen her before. “My name is Evelyn. I own this place.” As we’re paying our bill, Evelyn says, “When my husband died, Kay was managing this place. I told her to keep it open or shut it down. It didn’t matter to me. I’m not here often. I should be retired. All of my classmates are retired.”

Out of Excelsior Springs on H Highway, we make our way back to Liberty, with a detour through Mosby and then onto a quiet road behind Liberty Hills Country Club.

The MS-150 Miles 7270-7420 September 6-7

Every MS-150 stands apart from the others. One year it was Hungry Mother Creek. We crossed it in seconds, but I’ve wondered ever since how it came to be named. The images it conjures tease my mind every time I’m on a bike and come to a bridge. Then there was that bridge four years ago where Brian went down in a tangle of bikes. He was so white from shock that I didn’t know it was him when I flew down the hill. I caught sight of his bike and braked hard. He was bleeding and his bike was bent.

The German restaurant in Cole Camp two years in a row lured me to Sunday dinner when we wrapped up our ride in their town. Heavy rain all morning had me dripping wet the second time. I was a misfit with the after-church crowd, but they welcomed me and spread a feast before me.

My handlebars split in two pieces just as I entered a rest stop one year. I borrowed a bike to finish the ride. I’ve shuddered ever since to think what would have happened if the handlebars had split as I plummeted down a hill. Another time when Bilial rode with me, the pedal broke off his bike and he had to sag the rest of the way.

The weekend after Labor Day every year belongs to the MS-150. I write it in ink on my calendar and haven’t missed one in 17 years. I’m just back from the latest, and this is my story.

Flat Creek Restaurant didn’t make it. Joshua did. Last year’s MS-150 came through Windsor. Flat Stanley was with me. So I took him to Flat Creek Restaurant. I laid him on the table and told the waitress about him. “My niece, Katie Carlton, a third-grader in Humble, Texas, sent him to me and asked me to take him places and write to her about the places we went. So here we are. And I will tell Katie.”

Flat Creek wasn’t here two years ago when we came through this town of 3087 people. Then last year it was. Now it’s gone. Flat Creek Restaurant is closed and for sale. Flat Stanley I put in an envelope and mailed back to Katie. Joshua is with me this year.

Understand me now! Joshua is not with me in person as I ride into Windsor. Neither is Joshua a zeroxed figure on a piece of paper that I carry in my billfold, as Flat Stanley was. No, Joshua is a real, live, 11 year old boy. I met him just this morning at the check in table where we started our ride. I first knew about him a couple of weeks ago when Mark sent me an email asking if I knew a place where he could rent a bike for his grandson. I didn’t.

This morning when Mark comes, he has Joshua with him. He couldn’t find a bike to rent. He bought Joshua a bike just yesterday. Christie, Mark’s wife, has told Mark to be easy with Joshua. If he can’t make the hills, let him sag, she tells Mark. Joshua is a good looking little guy. I like him on sight, but I’m thinking that he’s so little he will never make it. I don’t see Mark or Joshua all morning. By the time I spy the now abandoned Flat Creek Restaurant, I can’t imagine how far behind they must be. .

South through Belton to Hwy 58, we have come. Then East on 58 through Raymore, Pleasant Hill, Strasburg, Kingsville and Holden, I see first-hand the new cash crops of Missouri fields: Caseys, QT’s, McDonalds, banks, churches and homes by the hundreds. In Holden we turn south on Hwy 131 to Hwy 2, then east on 2, we come soon to Chilhowee, a tiny town whose name conjures visions of Native-Americans in my head.

Gentle hills and winding roads have marked the 50 miles we’ve ridden when we come to Chilhowee. From Chilhowee to Leeton is not quite 10 miles, and as I mount my bike in Chilhowee and look ahead, the road stretches straight in front of me for miles. No curves now in the road. No hills to go around. I see the road on distant hilltops as far as my eye can see. Rather than around, we’re now going over.

For the five miles from Chilhowee to Hwy 13 the hills are magnificent. The road is smooth. Plummeting down the backside of one hill ordinarily carries me a good distance up the front side of the next. The hills of Chilhowee are close and steep. Labor up the front! Fly down the back! Biking the Outer Bank in North Carolina was fun. Biking the hills of Chilhowee gives an adrenaline rush. From Hwy 13 for the five miles to Leeton, the hills again are gentle. A hundred and fifty miles of Chilhowee hills would likely do me in. Many of the 1600 of us on the road today might decide not to come. Still, the thought of such a ride does not willingly desert me.

As I pull up to Leeton High School where lunch is ready, the line of riders waiting to eat is long. I spot John Anderson. John is riding with Mark, Joshua and me. Brother John, the professional storyteller and our HateBusters song leader, has eaten and is preparing to leave. I’m anxious to get back on the road. So I jump on my bike and hurry over to Casey’s to grab a slice of pizza and a cherry coke. Bob Atkinson didn’t want to wait in line, either. He gets chicken nuggets at Casey’s and we talk for the time it takes us to eat. Since I saw him last, Bob has left the church he pastored in Lexington and is now a conference minister and lives in Independence.

When I come to Widsor around three o’clock, I haven’t seen John since noon and haven’t seen Mark and Joshua since we left this morning. They must be hours behind. The Amish who live and farm around Windsor sometimes have set up shop beneath a tree when we come and we can buy cookies and cakes and jellies from them. A year or so ago, I bought a jar of strawberry preserves to take as a gift to Bill and Beverly in Sedalia. Bill is a former student of mine at William Jewell and has been for years a prosecuting attorney in Pettis County. His sister, Ann, is my eye doctor, having taken the place of her father when he retired. For years I have stayed with Bill and Beverly on Saturday night after we have ridden to Sedalia.

It’s almost 5:30 when I make it to the fairgrounds in Sedalia and check in. I ask about John. He’s not in yet. I don’t ask about Mark. I know he and Joshua aren’t here yet. Then I ride over to Bill and Beverly’s to bring them back for dinner. We leave a note on the door for John and Mark so they will know where we have gone.

Bill loves to cook and always prepares a gourmet dinner for us. This year, though, Leigh Reynolds and Liz Gaume have asked me to say a few words at the evening rally they have planned at the fairgrounds where most riders overnight. So I have asked Bill and Beverly to be guests of the MS Society and join us for dinner.

As we are having dinner we keeping scanning the crowd to spot John, Mark and Joshua. Half an hour goes by. We think we see John way up in the crowd. We get Leigh to call his name over the PA system. He waves. And comes to join us. John tells me he got in at five o’clock. He has eaten. Fifteen minutes later my cell phone rings. Mark and Joshua are at Bill and Beverly’s and wondering just where we are. A few minutes later they join us.

Leigh gives me a generous introduction. She tells that I plan to ride 10,000 miles and hope to raise $100,00 for MS and $10,000 for HateBusters. “And what he would like most is if 100,000 people each gave him one dollar.”

Our meeting place is cavernous. The acoustics are terrible. And everybody is tired. A short speech is in order. “Don Quixote says, too much sanity may be madness, and the greatest madness of all may be to see the world as it is and not as it should be. None of us suffer from that greatest madness. We all see the world as it should be—a place where people care about one another and work hard to help each other. That’s why we are riding 150 miles this weekend. That’s why we beg for money. Though I have MS, I can’t presume to speak for others who do. I ride my bike all year long so I can ride with all of you every September. You inspire me. Speaking just for myself, I must say that I admire you. I respect you. I love you. Bless you.” A little over a minute it takes me to say these words. Leigh gives me a hug. Several people give me dollar bills as I make my way to my seat. As we leave the building I introduce Bill and Beverly to every MS staff person I can find.

Turns out that Mark and Joshua got to Sedalia before I did. Joshua rode all the hills. He became the topic of conversation among all those who saw him. “Did you see that little kid go?” They marveled. And when they got to the fairgrounds, Joshua was riding around in the parking lot, saying, “Let’s go further, Grandpa, I’m not tired.”

Yesterday a hundred miles! Today, 50. From the fairgrounds this Sunday morning we head west on Hwy Y to Hwy 127 and turn south to Green Ridge. In Green Ridge we take Hwy B to Windsor, then Hwy WW north to Hwy 23. Follow 23 to Business 50 where we turn east to Washington Street in Knob Noster, then south to the high school. As we cross the finish line, crowds are cheering and all riders get a medal to hang around our necks.

When I turn onto my street and head down the hill to my house, I see the driveway and street lined with cars. Cars I know. My two sons, my daughter and son-in-law and grand daughter have come. The croquet set is up in the front yard. There’s gonna be a party!