Laura Has Me Going in Circles Miles 2260-2270 March 23

Laura Has Me Going in Circles Miles 2260-2270 March 23

Laura has me going in circles. She called me yesterday on the phone. In her soft little voice she said, “Papa, I learned to ride a bike today. Can we go for a ride?”

We were sitting on the living room floor when she was three. We had been building with Legos for a while. Laura looked up at me. “I love you, Papa. You’re so precious.” The whole family heard her say it. I remind them. Often!

Now Laura is seven. I’m 2200 miles into a promised 10,000 miles on my bike this year. Thirty miles a day I need to average. I had planned to do that today, this first Sunday of spring.

“You bet. After church, bring your bike over and we can ride. At two she comes. We take her bike out of the trunk. Her mother, my daughter, has dressed her in knee and elbow pads. Laura straps on her helmet. We pedal down the long block to the church parking lot, Laura’s mother right behind.

Wow! I’m amazed. Off she goes. Round and round in ever-larger circles. Pedaling strong and steady. Weaving fearlessly. More than two hours we ride. Playing follow the leader. First she leads; then I do. “Way to go, Laura.” “Lookin’ good Laura.” “Good job Laura.” She beams. And pedals faster.

“What will the winner get?” Laura asks. She has just proposed a race. “How about a bowl of ice cream?” She agrees. “How many times around?” She asks. “Three.” I say. And she wins. She always wins when we play. I let her make the rules.

We’re sitting in the patio swing eating chocolate ice cream back at home. “How far did you ride?” Laura’s mother asks. “Oh, three or four miles I guess,” I say. “More than that,” my wife says. You rode more than two hours. You ride 10 to 15 miles per hour on the road.” “Well, let’s say 10 miles. Laura and I rode 10 miles.”

“What can we do now?” Laura asks. “We could play basketball. “No,” she says. Croquoet?” “No.” “Draw on paper in my office?” “No.” “Watch TV?” “No. What else?” “I don’t know. What do you want to do?” “Let’s ride bikes, “ she says. And we do

I must have met thousands of people in hundreds of places on my bike. I’ve always said that people and places are not to be compared. Each stands alone as its own standard. Each is precious in its own right. But riding in circles in a church parking lot with little Laura will stand out like neon in the night when I write the story of my 10,000 miles this year on a bike.

Way to go, Laura.

A Cookie for the Hound Miles 2470-2535 March 31

When I see a railroad off to one side as I ride, I’m either passing through a river valley or across a plain. The road is flat and smooth and stretches out before me. When I hear that lonesome whistle sound far up the track and coming in my direction, I get ready to wave when the engine comes in sight. On those days when the engineer acknowledges my wave by sounding his horn, I feel confirmed and right with the world. That just happened.

Box Car Willie comes to mind. Before he died a year or so back, he was one of my favorites in Branson. His gravelly voice served up near perfect imitations of Hank Williams songs. Then would come his full-throated rendition of a train whistle. He grew up along the railroad tracks of north central Texas and used to ride the rails. His intimate acquaintance with trains prompted his stage name and gave him that rugged haunting quality that drew people to his show.

As I sit writing these words at the intersection of 210 Highway and Edwards Road, a mile or so east of Missouri City, a blue van pulls up and stops. “Need any help?” The driver asks. “Just making some notes of what I see and what it makes me think of,” I say. “You write for a biking magazine?” “For the Liberty Sun. Do you get it?” “No,’ he answers.

His friendly manner draws me to his window. He points to a house up Edwards Road about 250 yards. “That’s where I live. I was there in ’93 when the floods came. I left for several years. Now I’m back.” I tell him I live in Liberty and ride this way often to Orrick and Richmond. “You ride this road? These drivers even run other cars off the road. My name is Jeffrey Hamrick. If you ever need anything, you know where I live.” “I’ll write about you in my story. When it’s published, I’ll bring you a copy.” I tell him.

Jeffrey drives off and I sit to write again. From nowhere a little hound dog bounds into my lap. Wiggling like a sack of worms, he simultaneously licks my face and whips my leg with his tail. If he wagged it any faster, he would lift off the ground like a mini-helicopter. His energy and enthusiasm make me laugh. I jump up to find something to give him.

A chocolate chip cookie is all I have. He takes it gingerly between his teeth and prances across the highway. He turns to look back at me. His mouth is wide open. He’s holding that round cookie like a small moon, upright between upper and lower teeth. Dodging a passing car and truck, he comes back to me and places the unmarked cookie at my feet. He looks up at me, tail wagging. "Sorry, no bones.” I hope he has a home nearby. With small children to love. I bid him a reluctant farewell.

Out 210 past Missouri City to N, a left turn brings me seven miles later to Excelsior Springs. A quick stop at The Mill Inn for ice tea and a grilled cheese sandwich, then out H through Mosby and back to 69 to B and back through Jewell’s campus and around the square and out 291 to Southview and home.

I can’t ride further today. Missouri plays Kansas at one o’clock. To attend grad school at MU is what brought me to Missouri from Texas back in 1963. Now MU is playing KU today in Texas, not far from my hometown. They’ve played twice this year. KU won both. I’m hoping for a nail-biter that MU wins at the buzzer.

I told you all’s right with my world when the engineer sounds his horn. MU is behind by eight at halftime and trails until almost the end. Then they go ahead by one. Drop behind by one. Then ahead. And win by five.

In all the years we’ve been riding, Rich has never had a flat. This morning he does. We have finally come out of the fog and are about five miles east of Excelsior Springs on H Highway when it happens. And the tube he’s carrying is the wrong size. He calls his dad at home in Liberty to come in his pickup and get him. “You two go on ahead to the Mill Inn. Dad and I will join you.”

The fog comes back. Michael and I get separated, and we arrive at Mill Inn a half-hour later by different routes. We have just taken our seats when Rich and his dad come through the door. As we eat, we relive the morning’s excitement of riding blind and the 75 miles we rode on Rich’s dad’s 75^th birthday.

Our waitress is attentive and efficient. Not until we are leaving does she say to me, “So your grand daughter thinks your precious.” I know she has read the paper. “Then she says, “I loved your story in the paper this week about riding with your grand daughter. And I liked the one some time back about your mother.”

The half order of biscuits and gravy and the short stack I’ve just inhaled are reason enough to bring me repeatedly to this place. But the real soul food I find here is in their affirmation of my world. The most generous tip I could possibly leave would not fully express my gratitude.

The fog has lifted by 10 o’clock when we leave. Rich and his dad in the pickup. Michael and I on our bikes.