I was pushing the bike hard as I kept an eye out for the Dinsmore sign to show me I had gone 6-7 miles but it never appeared and, all of a sudden, I had crossed the border into Mississippi and was now in Macon (pop 2,396)…  twenty miles down the road.

Dusk was approaching fast and I started looking for a place to camp. I asked a woman for a recommendation and, pointing to a bridge, she suggested I sleep under it. After thanking her I kept riding, not even considering sleeping in a place where cars would be driving over me all night. Unfortunately, I wasn’t seeing much of an alternative campsite since there was only swamp on both sides of the road. 

I was feeling pretty low at this point, and continued scanning for a place to sleep. In the back of my mind I was a bit miffed at Mrs. Wells for telling me horror story after horror story about how terrible the human race was, intimating that I was going to die inside a white panel van.

A Mennonite church with a soft, plush lawn rolled past… that’s a possibility, and I’d keep it in mind. A little farther, a sign for Concord Baptist Church. I followed the sign but didn’t see a church-looking building so I went back to the house with the sign in the yard and knocked on the door. No answer. 

At possibly the emotional nadir of my trip, I started pedaling again. It was dusk now, and several blocks later I stopped to ask the first people I saw.… a middle-aged man and a woman with a dog talking to someone in front of a white clapboard house. In an amazing coincidence, he was the pastor of the Concord Baptist Church I’d been looking for, Reverend Haywood, who was visiting the family living in that house. 

After I explained my situation he was very accommodating, and said he’d offer his extra bedroom but currently had houseguests. Initially, he suggested staying with one of his parishioners, a widow like Mrs. Hawkins in Kansas, but on second thought decided the church would be a better option. 

I met him there, and as we entered the unlocked building I wondered if all of the churches left their doors open. He walked through some rooms, turning on the lights and the air conditioner. When he asked what I’m going to do if it starts lightning, I jokingly told him I planned to “sprint to your house.”  In reality, I was no longer afraid of lightning storms or heavy rain… apparently, I’m only afraid of imaginary evils when I need to eat.

I found a carpeted room and, as I lay down and felt the plushness beneath me and the air conditioner caressing my desiccated skin, believed I was in heaven. In the morning I wouldn’t even have to repack my tent, which would enable me to get on the road earlier and avoid some of the heat. 

When it was getting close to bedtime I turned off the light switch, but found that the air conditioner went off as well, so I just unscrewed the bulb and left the air on. This had been an exhausting day and I just wanted to lay down and fall asleep, but I managed to eat a sandwich, drink some water, and write a bit in my journal using my flashlight before slipping into unconsciousness. 

The belt on my odometer broke at some point today, stopping the cumulative count at 2,972 miles, so I wasn’t sure how far I actually rode.

The next morning, after being awakened at 6:45 by a tapping on the window, I asked  Reverend Haywood if he had a rubber band to replace the belt drive on my cyclometer. He found one and brought it over with some eggs, bacon, toast, milk, and pink grapefruit juice. We said our goodbyes and, just before he left, I asked how far Tuscaloosa was (my starting point yesterday). I was surprised to learn it’s about 90 miles.  

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Some people ask me if the following story actually happened. The answer is:  Yes. It happened exactly like I wrote it.