Man of LaMancha
Arson at the Lumber Company Miles 8060-8120 October 8
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- A Clem’s Connection Miles 8120-8170 October 9
- Alaska and Texas Miles 8170-8200 October 10
- Rich Is out of Town Miles 8200-8260 October 11
Arson at the Lumber Company Miles 8060-8120 October 8Someone torched Porter Lumber Company last night. At two locations miles apart. One in Kearney along 92 Highway. The other in Mosby, along Highway 69. Not having a death wish, I never ride 92 Highway, known to bikers as Suicide Alley. I’ve seen that Porter’s location only from my car. But I ride by the Highway 69 location dozens of times every year. A pile of smoldering rubble and a mobile crime lab are all I see this morning. The smell of smoke is strong in the air. The morning is otherwise crisp, cool and bright. My intention when I leave home is to ride by Porter’s to check the damage and then head for Catrick’s in Lawson. Jenny Corn waited on me when I was there last week. She said they would have chili for their baked potatoes on Monday. Today is Wednesday, and I can taste that potato—bigger than any I find anywhere else—with grated cheese and onions covered with chili. I’ve pedaled for an hour by the time I come to Porter’s. Some mornings riding is not fun until I’ve been at it for an hour. Other mornings are magnificent from the moment I don my gloves and helmet and throw my leg over and put my foot in the toe clips. Almost always after an hour, time on my bike is heavenly and I’m feeling great. Not today! It’s all mechanical. No joy. I had planned to ride on by Mill Inn and through Excelsior Springs. As much as I love this place and as often as I have come for breakfast or lunch, I wanted today to ride further. With 2000 miles still to go and unpredictable weather coming, I want to get in 60 to 70 miles a day. But I stop. I haven’t been here in a while. I open the door. All the staff turns and calls a cheerful greeting. I feel better. I linger over a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of tomato soup. I’m reluctant to leave. Finally I do and pedal slowly away. I ride out Salem Road to the pasta plant and then back on 69. I spot a bench on the porch in front of Annie’s Furniture Store and wheel off the road to sit for a while. I stop several more times to rest before I finally get home. Fifty-five plodding miles closer to my 10,000. As tired as I am, I would have felt worse if I had ended this day no closer to my goal. A Clem’s Connection Miles 8120-8170 October 9A Clem’s connection! I found it today at Sarah’s Table. Naomi Hampton waited tables at Clem’s for 20 years. Now for two months she has been at Sarah’s Table. She works from 11-4. I usually come for breakfast and haven’t seen her. Today, though, it’s two o’clock when I come. “These are nice people to work for,” Naomi says. Today’s Liberty Sun carries one of my stories about one of my visits to Sarah’s Table. It mentions JD and Carl, and I’ve come to give them each a copy. JD is in school and Carl is at work at his other job. “Could you give these stories to Betty (JD’s mother) and Carl?” Naomi says she will. “How do I get that paper?” Sharon Allen is the afternoon cook. She lives in Holt. “I’ve heard about your stories of this place. But I don’t get the paper.” “I’ll ask Jack back at the Sun. See if we can get some papers up here.” I say. I have brought three copies of the paper with me today. I give one to Sharon. Today is a quintessential October afternoon in Missouri. I head toward the James Farm. But take Ragsdale Road before I get there. Over to 172nd Street. Then right to Old BB. Another right back to Jesse James Road. Another right would bring me back past the James Farm. Instead I turn left and drop to granny to pull the long hill. Rather than Jessee James the road is now called NE 164th and leads to Watkin’s Mill State Park. I take a right at the first intersection I come to and follow Cameron Road across Highway 92 to NE 140th St, where I turn right. Flaming red, burnt orange and burnished gold adorn all the trees. Ghosts, goblins and ghouls hover in yards and above porches. A season of magic to be remembered when darkness comes. Rhodus Road is the first cross street I come to. Rhodus Road is named for the farm that occupies the land hereabout and runs from Highway 69 along the eastern boundary of Clay County Regional Airport over to NE 140th where it ends. I watch a small plane practice touchdowns and take offs as I pedal toward 69 Highway. A tractor pulling a road-wide set of plows pulls left to pass me and turns into the farm yard just to my left. The new longer runway has just been completed and runs for hundreds of yards to my right. Newly plowed farmland and newly laid runway side by side speak mute messages of the traditional and emerging character of Clay County. Alaska and Texas Miles 8170-8200 October 10Sitting side by side in front of City Hall this morning is a van from Alaska and a car from Texas. From far north and far south they have come to our town. Have they heard? Did they come to find out how we do it? Its not a secret. Signs have been posted at our town limit on most roads coming into town announcing: Liberty--Dedicated to Community Excellence. We have a good thing going here. The tendency of home folks everywhere is to take their little place on the planet for granted. Not to be impressed. Outsiders are sometimes better judges. Our town square is a magnet. All the buildings are occupied and inviting. Build it and they will come. That was the plan. All plans should work so well. Out of all the places in America where they could be on this day, the occupants of these two vehicles chose our town. They chose well. The momentary sighting of their license plates as I pedal past on my bike makes me smile. They will never know I saw their vehicles. They will not know the speculations that paraded through my mind as I contemplated their mission here. They will not know that I rode an extra time around the square, imagining that I was seeing it for the very fist time, as I think they must be. Rich Is out of Town Miles 8200-8260 October 11Rich is out of town on this Saturday morning and 33 Highway beacons. Chandler Baptist’s new church is coming along nicely. Soon congregants will replace cows as pastureland becomes parking lot. Looks odd to see a For Sale sign in a church yard, but Chandler Baptist is selling their old building. Soon this will all be former farms and those who live in the new housing will need a new church. Sarah’s Table has drawn a crowd when I arrive just after eight. Pickup trucks occupy most every parking spot. Only one table is vacant. I seldom drink coffee. But this morning I order a cup with my biscuits and gravy. There’s just enough chill in the air to make coffee sound good. Lot’s of sugar and a full packet of Coffee Mate. I decline a second cup when my waitress comes by. I’m on the road again by nine, with no clear notion of where I want to head. The weatherman last night predicted rain starting at noon. I need somewhere to ride until then. Then the idea comes. A Progressive Breakfast by Bike. So I head for Excelsior Springs and Mill Inn. If I can get there before 10:30, they will still be serving breakfast and should have biscuits and gravy, though they sometimes run out before breakfast time is over. Even though I’m in a hurry, I don’t take the most direct route. It’s 10:15 when I arrive. I rush inside. “Do you still have biscuits and gravy?” I ask. “We do,” say several staff in unison. “I’ll have a half-order.” Then I hurry back to my bike to get my belongings. And my money. Sprinkles start to fall as I leave H Highway and turn onto Spring Street and head toward Jewell’s campus. I pull up in my driveway at 11:59. As I press the buttons to open my garage, the rains come. Precisely as predicted. We don’t often remember when the weather forecast is correct. But I try to give credit where credit is due. Thank you Bryan Busby.
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