Hey Scully, Skinman Is Calling Me From A Bubble Bath

July 20, 2023

DAY TWENTYFIVE

The parking lot of the Royal Motel makes the fourth arm of the highway intersection where the 67 and the 39 meet. From my window I can make out the traffic lights in the grey early light. Thick fog blankets the river and prairie on every other side and I eat another slice of last night’s pizza. Rain is forecast for Indianapolis at 1400 so I’d like to be in the city before that and tonight’s hotel is on the E ring of the 465 so I need to get through the city, actually. I booked a room for 2 nights! I’m finally taking a real rest day and I have big plans.

I set out into the day and immediately disappear into a wall of cloud as I cross the river onto the edge of Martinsville. My route cuts up another two lane road due N butI pull into the Circle K for one hot coffee and a breakfast sandwich. The lady is older, my age or more, with a blonde bob that you can barely see the streaks of grey cut through. She has strong hands spotted with age and sunshine and they work almost as fast as she talks. I amaze her and as usual she couldn’t imagine doing what I’m doing. I feel you. She asks my route and then recommends that I go back to the 67 and ride the shoulder N instead. She says the road I’m supposed to take is narrow and in this fog could be very dangerous. I sip my coffee and listen intently before taking her advice. The only thing I don’t like is crossing that bridge again. Otherwise I have a full shoulder like my own lane for nearly 9 miles.

SW of Indianapolis is an interesting mix of rural climbing hills, though nothing like the last 3 days, and two lane winding ways that thread through suburban and light industrial zoning like a ribbon. The fog slowly burns off and traffic grows a bit more dense as I get closer to the city, nothing terrible. I begin to follow the White River much closer before coming into the propers from the S. This is a heavy industrial area with dump trucks that own the streets through sheer force of will and speed. I catch my first whiff of sour milk on the air. The smell is sweet and putrid and comes in waves on the wind. The roads are filthy interchanges broken down by years of heavy tires rolling through and turning asphalt to rock to gravel and the fine dust. The mix creeps into corners and pull outs as the dumpers fly by creating clouds of particulate probable not suitable for long term exposure. I pass fenced in pipes that rise straight from the earth and grow cranks and spinning knobs for their foliage. Holes beside them shoot cloudy white steam into the air that spreads into a fine mist and dissipates. Sour milk dominates until I get the distinct aroma of fresh tennis balls, a just opened tube of three Wilsons, and I double cross a very bust intersection and find the White River Trail.

The trail is experiencing some type of makeover and for nearly a half mile I ride on top of what I would describe as a bridge loosely strung together of closely slatted pallets that jut up or down when they meet every 10 feet. When I pass crew they are blocking the entire path as they install a new metal pole into the ground. The pole is bigger than any tree in the area and stretches into the summer sky almost touching clouds. I cut around the crane through the grass and find pavement again. Here, the homeless encampments begin and I pass tents and shelters built into a small community vivid with the colors of trash and clothing spread about. A man at a makeshift table saws into a giant river fish with a serrated blade and gives me a toothless grin and a good morning. Feet poke out the door of another tent nearby, shoes on and laced tightly as if at any moment evacuation orders could come down from heaven itself.

One small climb and I cross a well kept pedestrian bridge over the river and into the grid of Indianapolis streets. The first order of business is to pee and check on IMAX tickets for Oppenheimer at the State Museum. Sold out. But they have a bathroom. The bike lane/path carries on straight through and a few moments later I’m pedaling around Monument Circle. I have arrived.

I’m farting around town waiting for the clock to drag me into checkin time at the hotel. I have 10 more miles to ride but the calls for rain are slipping further and further towards the evening. Everything down here is expensive and I decide to head out and E. My tires feel a little under inflated and I find a bikeshop in my direction to stop at. I carry a rescue pump but it’s very hard to get over 60psi. I like 80 for this load so we’ll see.

New York Street due E is an ugly stretch of road filled with potholes, racing cars and brown bottle glass. Poverty is entrenched and the small homes are run down and deflated against the horizon. Boarded up cornerstores marked by spray painted tags claiming the right to exist fall into disrepair, the front stoops crumbling into the sidewalk. Dogs seem to bark from every hidden garden as chain link fences overgrown with local milkweed and nettles return to the earth. I turn S and one block away I’m among well paved streets with manicured lawns that butt right up against replica Tudors and Mid Century Moderns. I can smell the fertilizer as dad bod men wearing bahama shirts and cargo shorts drag recycling containers past Teslas and Subarus to the safety of wooden slatted privacies I’ll never experience.

The Indy Cycle Specialist. OK, I fully endorse this shop, wow. A wide power sliding door opens to the cool afternoon AC and an indoor bike rack. Almost immediately a staff member greets me and telling me I can park right where I am points out the three most important amenities to any cycling tourist; The restroom, The water fountain, the resting chairs near the huge fan. I fill my water bottle and stand drinking the glorious substance directly in front of the fan before taking a seat and relaxing. Dude, come over and we look at a map together talking about my route and some of his and the shop’s most popular rides. He hands me a togo container with a few left over onion rings from their lunch explaining hem as the best in the city, even cold. I love this place. They even let me leave my bike there while I ate at the Mexican restaurant next door. Awesome!!! Again, Indy Cycle Specialist. What a great shop!

Rested and full I make one last stop at the DG for new readers before checking in right at the wire. An Indian man with short cropped black hair and a t-shirt celebrating the Indiana Hoosiers gets me squared away. He asks where I’ll park the bike and shrugs disinterested when I tell him I’ll put it in my room. I mention the ACA and his good reviews. This always perks up the staff and helps me get to my room a little quicker.

From here I have no real schedule until the overmorrow. I shower and snack my way into bedtime watching X Files and staring at my phone. I still need to brush my teeth and barely manage before turning off the tube and darkness taking me.

Today's ride: 50 miles (80 km)
Total: 1,003 miles (1,614 km)

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