August 30, 2005
Isn't the Whippy Dip Ironic?
Monroeville to Wabash
Last night, after doing laundry (for which the people of the state of Indiana may award me a medal), I walked into downtown Monroeville. I cruised South Street taking in the small town ambiance. A group of six teenagers congregated on a street corner. Cyril and Moocher are alive and well and still upset by the developments in the Middle East. I stopped at the library to use the internet, but it wasn't open. As it turns out the library is open Monday nights from 6 to 9 eastern standard time. I'm still using eastern daylight time. Silly me. Eastern Indiana does not use daylight savings time, apparently in a coordinated, government-sponsored display of passive aggressive behavior.
Dinner was a fine cheeseburger, fries and malt courtesy of the exceptional staff at the Whippy Dip. I couldn't leave without a Whippy Dip t-shirt. I paid a visit to a small grocery in town and talked to the clerk and her daughter, who was doing her fifth grade math homework. In just a week, my daughter Lily will be doing the same thing.
Back at the biker's shelter I was fighting off sleep when the locked door opened. In walked Matt Howard one of the local folks who look after the place. We talked for at least an hour. He explained that the town has hosted over 700 guests since 1990, when it began a log book. He told me stories about all kinds of people from as far away as New Zealand and England. Matt told me of the town's huge old-time Fourth of July that draws people from all over.
It turns out the shelter is rented out as a meeting space for all sorts of events such as family reunions. Since everyone knows bikers are likely to drop in, what usually happens is the bikers get asked to join the reunion. Monroeville could find scads of reasons not to host bicycle tourists, but, instead, it bends over backwards to welcome them.
I spent the early morning hours looking at the weather on the television. I noticed that school openings were being delayed, not by Katrina but by fog. The forecast was for rain all day.
After fruitlessly searching for the tv remote (just like home), I did some bike maintenance and headed to the Town Cafe. True to form, everyone was just astoundingly nice. After eating, one of the patrons, Lois Ternet, asked if she could take my photo for the local paper. (She's going to send me a copy.) I rolled out of town wondering if there was something in the water. And wasn't that Rod Serling I saw standing at the side of the road as I crossed the town line?
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The road west was foggy and soggy. A light rain, little more than a sprinkle, cooled me as I spun past endless stalks of corn. If you want a working definition of infinity, come to Indiana and try to conceptualize how many corn or soy plants are in the field in front of you. I doubt I have ever seen a soy bean before, but here are literally millions of soy bean plants. Assuming there are several soy beans per plant you're talking about Carl Sagan numbers of soy beans here. This can't be good for the earth's rotation. Our planet is in serious danger of being over soyed to death. And nobody seems to be studying the problem. Surely there's a Ph.D. thesis in this for somebody.
I followed the Adventure Cycling Northern Tier route for most of the day. I did not see one eastbound cyclist. I rode through Hoagland, Poe, and Zanesville. I was detoured around greater metropolitan Yoder. I passed a Clydesdale farm, but saw no horses. Riding by the Shafer family farm, my head instantly recalled the Schaefer beer jingle. I haven't heard it in 25 years but could remember all the words. Sometimes I wonder if I have gray matter or just fly paper between my ears.
Speaking of songs, Tuesday songs are about as few and far between as Sunday songs. I could only come up with Tuesday's Dead by Cat Stevens and the Moody Blues' Tuesday Afternoon.
Irony Alert: After about 40 miles, it became clear that I had miscalculated my food and water situation. I was going to run out of each before the next restocking point unless I used them sparingly. Here I am in an ocean of soy and corn and a steady rain, and I'm hurting for food and water. Please note that this is nothing at all like rain on your wedding day. But what the heck do I know? I'm out here riding my bike in the rain for "fun" and Alanis Morissette is cashing $ million royalty checks.
Despite a rather strong tailwind, I was averaging only 15 mph. I could probably use a day off the bike, but that would be the intelligent thing to do and my fly paper would hear nothing of it. So with my I'll-sleep-when-I'm-dead attitude I rode on through Salamonie River State Forest as the rain and wind intensified. I replenished my water supplies at the Army Corps of Engineers office next to the Salamonie River dam. I checked my maps and realized that the only non-camping lodging in over 25 miles was in Wabash, eight miles away.
So I checked into the Holiday Inn Select where I stayed two years ago. Within 20 minutes I was eating spaghetti and meatballs at a nearby restaurant. With apologies to Maureen Kelly: Warm, dry, food, good.
Today's ride: 70 miles (113 km)
Total: 764 miles (1,230 km)
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