I pedaled over the bridge spanning the Ohio river and was now in Kentucky, my ninth state of this tour. 

Having sampled a number of Pizza Hut salad bars across several states, I was now becoming a connoisseur and decided to add Kentucky to the list of competitors to see how it fared. 

Iceberg lettuce… check, a small portion of which was greenish instead of white, and almost cold. Cherry tomatoes... check, a few were actually red instead of pink, and occasionally soft. Croutons... check, none of which chipped a tooth. All in all, just like the previous ten, Henderson, Kentucky, scored in the top ten.

The town didn’t do nearly as well in the bicycle friendly department. Everywhere I looked I saw a “No Bicycles” sign and had to backtrack several times. 

I found a grocery store where I bought more staples (i.e. peanut butter, honey, and bread) and got directions to the local City Park where I spent the next hour downing my PBH sandwiches (as I now called them), some raisins, a candy bar, and an RC Cola.

RC Cola, or Royal Crown Cola, was the preferred drink of my dad, and I can’t help but think of him when I see a reference to it. He grew up extremely poor, picking cotton in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas, and to him, being able to have an RC Cola was the height of prosperity. If he could have one every single day, he felt like a made man, living a life of luxury. It’s interesting, the way we all define “success” differently.

Just briefly, about my dad….

After I decided to take this trip I finally got around to telling my parents what I was going to do. If you’ve ever met my dad, you’ll know what a stoic person he was. In the 56 years we had together, I never once heard him raise his voice. At worst, when he was REALLY upset, he’d bring out the right index finger and gently poke us in the chest as he iterated something important, slowly pacing the words. “Don’t…burn…down…the…neighbor’s…house…again,” or “Robbing…banks…is…bad.”  You know, that kind of thing. When I let him know what I was going to do, he got that look on his face, and when I saw the finger come up I knew the situation was getting serious. With an unblinking stare he looked me in the eyes, poked me in the chest, and said, “No. Way.” That was a conversation stopper. 

I was noncommittal in my response. After all, I was 22 years old at the time and could make my own decisions. But I knew he was worried. Back then, riding across the country was a bit harebrained, so I got it. 

Only when I returned home at the end of my trip did I learn that he’d bought a US map, taped it to a large piece of cardboard, and put pins in every town I went to. At work, this Man of Few Words showed all of his coworkers what his son was doing, enthusiastically giving them updates about my progress.