It started drizzling shortly after I left the rest stop, and my knee began hurting a little. I stopped at the only shelter for as far as I could see, on the porch of an abandoned house, and tried to determine whether the weather was going to get worse or clear up. One of the methods I used to predict was to look at the windshield wipers of the cars. If they’re on, even if the car is dry, then it’s likely I was about to hit some rain. I would also look to see if their headlights are on. Yes, means it’s going to be a heavy rain. This seems simplistic, like, “Duh, of course,” but keep in mind that there was no real way of predicting the weather, and I’d take any assistance I could get.

Ten minutes later I used the most reliable forecasting method available, one which I'd like to see more of even now:   I stepped off the porch and, when I noted there were no wet droplets hitting my face as I looked up, determined that it was no longer raining.  I then climbed back on my bike and started riding.

After the bread delivery guy in Kansas gave me that loaf of bread, I started eating a lot of sandwiches. I would buy a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of honey. When I had eaten both jars about halfway down I’d combine them into one jar to save space. It worked well, and gave me the calories I needed. The peanut butter/honey section of my sandwich was usually about an inch thick, the bread merely a delivery device for them.

I rode hard today, and after a while my knee hurt pretty bad. Then it just stopped. It’s odd how that works. I’ve never been a believer in “No Pain, No Gain,” opting instead for “No Pain? Great!”   I just kept riding because it didn’t hurt bad enough to warrant stopping. 

The wetness had stopped, but the bugs took their place. They kept getting in my eyes, and it got so bad that I had to put on the sunglasses I'd found on the side of the road a couple of weeks ago. Sunglasses were somewhat problematic since it was now dusk and already difficult to see. 

It was time to stop for the day so I started looking for a campsite, but every time I saw one that was suitable there was a NO TRESPASSING sign in front of it. I continued riding and arrived in New Haven (pop 559) where I continued scouting. There was a man pitching a ball to his little girl…. should I ask him?  By the time I decided, I had already rolled out of earshot. I rode to the end of town and, not having seen a campsite or anyone else to ask about one, turned around and rode back towards the man and his daughter.

When I was almost there a truck with three teenagers passed, then backed up. 

"Where you comin' from?  Where you goin'?" 

I answered both questions, then countered with, 

“Where’s a good place to camp, where no one will bother me?”  

They conferred, then,

“Go to that corner and take a left, then go . . .ummm…   three blocks. Just past the yellow house there’s a good place.”

“And no one will bother me?”

“A cop lives in the yellow house.”

When I passed the yellow house there was a man working on a motorcycle in the driveway. I waved, and he waved back. The directions took me through an area with some muddy patches and my ultimate destination was a bit swampy but I found a dry spot. 

At this point, I have another vivid recollection from my trip, mainly because it just seemed so fascinating. When I got to my campsite the mosquitoes started SWARMING. When I say “swarming,” you should know that I grew up in the South, so I’m on intimate terms with those bloodsucking bastards whose purpose on earth I have yet to determine. (They’re the most deadly animals on earth, killing a million people a year. Seriously. Google it.) I grew up with them, yet never before or after had I seen them so thick, and so hungry. I did the Mosquito Dance, the frenetic gyrating movements where it looks like you’re insane as you try to keep moving so they can’t land on you. You’re continually swatting the ones that do land, all the while trying to grab your insect repellant. 

I slathered it on as quickly as I could, then set up my tent. When I climbed inside, I found that I had missed a spot just above my right knee. It was a tiny area, slightly less shiny since it had no insect repellant on it, in the shape of a triangle, with about the same surface area as a quarter. In that small spot I had THREE mosquito bites.

I started at it, fascinated.

Then scratched it repeatedly.

There was a small pond nearby, and until I was laying in my tent that night I had forgotten how amazingly loud bullfrogs can be. It’s quite impressive. I fell asleep listening to Dan Fogelburg and a bullfrog lullaby, a heavenly combination.