The Smallest School Miles 710-760 January 28

The Smallest School Miles 710-760 January 28

“The Smallest AAA School in Missouri” That’s what the sign says in front of the Missouri City School. The handsome white limestone building sits at the intersection of old 210 Highway and Route J on the eastern edge of Missouri City. Highway 210 climbed a long and winding hill and came through the town until a couple of years ago. New 210 by passes the town. The only east-west road through Missouri City is now traveled only now and then by the couple of hundred people who live here.

The businesses along side 210 were shuttered years ago. The school, a post office and two churches are the only signs of community life remaining. But that school is a magnet. With the guidance of Jay Jackson, Missouri City School was featured in Reader’s Digest a few years ago as a shining example of all that could be right and good in small town education. That good publicity enticed a big city school to lure Jay away. But his heart didn’t go with him, and soon he was back.

“Is Jay in?” I ask the young woman in the office as I step inside from the cold. “He’s gone to drive the bus,” she says. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she adds, “He’ll be back about 3:30. Would you like to wait?” I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. It’s 13 miles here by bike from my house. I need to pedal on toward Orrick before I turn back toward home today. It’s three o’clock now, and dark will come shortly after five.

“No, I must head on down the road. Would you give this Mickey Card to Jay? He’s a friend. He will understand.”

“Yes, I will.” She reaches for the card. And smiles as she sees it.

Huge flocks of Canada Geese wing through the gray sky as I pedal east. Wave after wave of V-formations come from the south and disappear into the low sky way off to the north, my left. The stubble of corn stalks and the bare branches of trees against a leaden sky expose the gothic beauty of winter and make me glad that I have ventured this day from the comfort of my basement study.

Dressed in thermal layers and wearing insulated mittens, only my toes are cold. I can ball up my hands inside my mittens and restore warmth to my fingers. And I have tried various shoe and pedal covers to keep my toes warm. None work as well as I would like, and for a while when I dismount the bike, my feet feel like ice and I clomp around like Frankenstein.

I am strangely grateful for these physical sensations that come from biking in all kinds of weather. Heat, cold, burning sun, rain, snow, fierce head wind, buffeting cross wind, welcome tail wind, life-sucking humidity, parching dryness: I love them all. They prove I can feel. That I am sensitive to what’s around me. That I’m alive.

Ice! The only condition that can keep me off the road. On winter mornings vigilance is required. And prudence. If there is a chance of black ice, I don’t venture out. I’ve been laid low too many times and put out of commission for too long. I choose not to challenge ice on a bicycle. Balance and traction are the basic requirements for biking. Neither is possible on ice. And black ice comes with no warning.

Shortly before dark I am home. The aroma of supper greets me in the kitchen. After we eat, Bobbie and I make our way to the downstairs family room. I put an old 1940’s movie checked out from Mid-Continent Library into our VCR. I take my usual place on the floor with my legs drawn up under me. Bobbie sits in her chair with the remote control. Why is there not great literature that has as its theme the comfort and satisfaction that come late in life? For me, Robert Browning’s Rabbi Ben Ezra had it right when he said: “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be; the last of life for which the first was made.”

Dorothy Comes to Mind Miles 900-950 February 2

Dorothy McClain died several years ago, but I have reason almost daily to remember her. Today was such a day. A 60-degree February day in Missouri seldom comes in a human lifetime. I have just biked from my house in Liberty to Trinity Lutheran Church in Kearney to drop in on the Kueck’s 50^th wedding Anniversary celebration. Charlie Kueck is a biking buddy.

Leaving the church, I turn north on 33 Hwy, intending to ride through Kearney and out 33 about a mile, where a left turn and several miles of hills will bring me to Plattsburg Road; another left turn and more miles of hills will bring me back to Liberty. But a few hundred yards from the church, I spot a road to my right. I’ve taken this road many times on other days but had not planned to do so today. But I do! Suddenly. Without thinking. Why? I spot two bicycles far up the road, coming in my direction.

I swing left at the first corner, heading me back in the direction I had intended to go. I’ve ridden a long block when a biker pulls alongside. I turn. “Bill, I need to talk to you.” I shout! It’s Bill Kiely, a former student of mine at William Jewell. He was a member of our HateBusters team to Florida in 1991. We are planning our 15^th anniversary reunion for this April, and I had been intending to call Bill and ask him to be in charge. His name and number had been on my desk for weeks, and I had not made the call. Now here he is.

And Dorothy comes to mind. Dorothy told me more than once: “Nothing is ever just coincidence.” She also said, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” Before I knew Dorothy I would routinely dismiss the mysterious coming together of good things in my life as simply coincidence. Now I do not. I’ve decided never to describe a thing as coincidence, forcing me always to search for some more profound explanation.

Bill asks, “Will you turn around and come back with me? My daughter is waiting at the corner.” Nine-year-old Lauren is waiting when we return. Three-year-old Brice is strapped into seat behind his dad. “I spotted you from up the road. I knew that had to be you,” Bill says. “I told Lauren to wait while I caught up with you.” Bill and Lauren had been pedaling those two bikes I spied in the distance when I veered right without thinking off 33. Bill had spotted me before I quickly turned left again to resume my planned route. But that was enough to bring us together. What’s up, Dorothy?

Bill invites me home with him for a drink of water and some quick planning. He said yes when I asked him to be in charge. His wife, Michelle, also a former student, has flown to California on business and will return in a couple of days. Bill’s mother, Connie, is on staff at William Jewell, and had given me Bill’s phone number. Before I leave, Bill gives me his email address. I will email him the names and addresses of all HateBusters alums. I give Bill, Lauren and Brice Mickey Cards and tell them about my Greater Liberty dream ride.

All the way home along the route I had planned my mind is on that one block impromptu detour I had taken that brought to this day’s ride a magical and mysterious dimension that will occupy my thoughts for some days to come.

I’ve now ridden 950 miles since January 1^st as I arrive home on February 2. Another 50 before February 5th and I will be on schedule to ride 1,000 miles every 36 days this year.