Where the Sidewalk Ends Miles 6770-6810 August 21

Where the Sidewalk Ends Miles 6770-6810 August 21

A first time visitor might wonder why the sidewalk ends in an open field. This guest to our town might have heard about the unwelcome visitor who came that May Sunday afternoon little more than three months ago. Staying only a few seconds, our visitor roared off, leaving devastation in its path. A student housing complex of three buildings stood then where the sidewalk ends. All is quiet and still today as I ride by.

Out H Highway I pedal. Several of the houses that disappeared in the tornado that day have emerged new and complete. Some are nearing completion. Some are still shuttered and wrapped in blue plastic. Some are foundations yet. The chewed up trees and housing debris have been hauled away. The line of trees then along the road is mutely missing.

St. Francis of Assisi Miles 6810-6870 August 22

St. Francis of Assisi visited a small college in upstate New York disguised as a freshman named Brian Palmeri. Last year this same person bicycled through Kansas City on his way from San Francisco to Washington, DC. This morning before sunrise he is with me as we board our bikes and set off for Kearney and biscuits and gravy at Sarah’s Table.

Brian graduated from St. Bonaventure with a major in religion and philosophy and took a job in financial services. He did well but wasn’t content. He signed on with Bike-Aid for their cross-country ride. Then he became a cook for an Applebees. Now he is driving from his home in Buffalo, New York to Denver, Colorado, where he will join Ameri-Corps for a year and work in a food-pantry, soup-kitchen.

Brian and his 20 Bike-Aid mates were our guests in Kansas City last July 23-24. Bike-Aid headquarters asked that we house the riders by ones and twos with families of other races and religions. As they arrived in KC, we all came together on the campus of Central Baptist Seminary. Hosts and riders were introduced. Brian went home with Mom McFarlane and Brother John. The next evening we all came together at William Jewell College for a Human Family Reunion, where who’s right is the wrong question and our sole (soul) agenda is to learn to like one another.

When the Bike-Aid team rode out of Kansas City the next morning, I rode with them. To Warrensburg the first night, Sedalia the second, Jeff City the third, Marthasville the fourth and into St. Louis the fifth. Brian and I talked often in route.

By email a week or so back, Brian told me about volunteering for Ameri-Corps. He would be driving through Liberty and asked to spend the night. When he comes, he has his bicycle strapped to the back of his car. He has time enough for a morning ride before he must go.

In a more perfect world, Brian could tarry with me long enough to visit all the small town cafes in biking distance of my house. I introduce him to Betty as she waits on us at Sarah’s Table. She is by herself and busy. We hurry on. Out Jesse James Road to the James farm. We wheel in for a quick look at the outside of the museum and the old home place just visible through the trees.

Then from the farm in the direction of Watkins Mill State Park. Over several imposing hills we hang a right and cross within a mile or so over 92 Highway and make our way south across 69 Highway to Mosby. A left turn brings us soon to H Highway and another left turn. Coming into Excelsior Springs, we plummet down a long and winding hill. At Cresent Lake B&B we turn right and make our way past Mauer Lake Assemblies of God Camp to the Mill Inn.

Brian and I take a seat at the counter. “They have great pie here,” I say. “With real meringue.” Brian has cherry cream. I have coconut. All the waitresses express concern for us in this heat. We assure them we will be home by noon, before the worst of it comes.

“I heard you on the radio,” Kay says. Kay Stewart is manager here at Mill Inn. She hasn’t let the leg she broke weeks ago keep her from her duties. The cast is due off sometime soon. “I told my husband that was you as soon as I tuned in. You sound just like that guy on Prairie Home Companion.”

At all the small town cafes I regularly visit, I have placed canister banks so that folks might donate to my ride. Back at Sarah’s Table I had lifted the bank to see how we were doing. I do so again here at Mill Inn. As I lift the bank and give it a gentle shake, the woman working the cash register says, “You’d be surprised who gives. Some you think would, don’t. Some you think wouldn’t, do.”

Out of Excelsior Springs, we climb one long, steep and winding hill over to N Highway and make our way to 210 Highway. With the Missouri River off to our left and unseen behind trees and crops, we make our way back home along a one of the very few flat roads anywhere about.

As I stand by his car watching Brian load his car. I see a giant picture of St. Mark’s Cathedral in Venice, Italy. When I ask about the picture, Brian says, “I made a pilgrimage there when I was a college freshman. I went with a group to learn about St. Francis of Assisi. Our assignment was to come back and create the spirit of St. Francis on campus.

JD Rides with Me Miles 6870-6880 August 23

I forgot to ask JD if he had a helmet. I think of this as I’m about to get on my bike and ride to Kearney. So I strap my bike to my car and put three helmets in the trunk. Good thing. JD doesn’t have a helmet. The very first thing I always say to grade school students when I teach bike safety is, “Always wear a helmet.”

I spot JD’s bike out front as I drive up. Good looking bike. Three chain rings up front. Five rear sprockets. I take a close look to see the device that allows the bike to be folded wheel to wheel. I’ve never seen one before. Sure would make it easy to carry in a car trunk.

JD has eaten when I arrive. He sits down across from me. “I had number three,” he says. Looks good: half-order of biscuits and gravy, hash browns and bacon or sausage. I order it with bacon. JD just started his eighth grade year three days ago. He tells me about his classes as I eat. I tell JD’s mother we will be back in an hour and a-half.

JD picks the yellow helmet. I adjust the straps several times until we have it right. Then away we go, bound for the four mile bicycle loop trail that Kearney was far-sighted enough to build as houses began to spring up in farm fields. We stop once to raise the seat so JD has a more efficient pedal stroke. Then another time to tighten his handlebars with the Allen wrench I always carry.

JD is a strong rider. Several times we stop so I can tell him things about his bike and about rider etiquette. He is attentive. And always polite. When we have ridden the trail we make our way along Washington Street and cross the railroad tracks near the old depot. We stop for another lesson. “JD, tracks can be dangerous. These run straight across the street, but some cross roads at an angle. When that happens, a biker must be sure to turn his bike so he crosses the tracks straight on. If your tire hits the track at an angle, your wheel will run along the track, and you will be down in an instant.” I’ve had many students. I know when they are attentive. JD is.

“When we get back, you can meet my grandmother,” JD says. “She lives in Lathrop.” She is working the cash register when we return. JD introduces us. I give JD some last minute instruction on the care and maintenance of his chain and how to strap his helmet through his spokes to discourage impromptu thieves. “Can we do this again?’ He asks. “You bet. Just let me know when you can,” I say.