After Berea, Kentucky, things looked up markedly. The strenuous climbs of the Appalachian Mountains gave way to rolling green countryside with beef cattle munchin’ and mooin’. There were no more coal trucks and, best of all, there were far fewer loose dogs. Those dogs that did give chase stopped in their tracks when they saw the can of “Halt” pepper spray in my hand. I’ve not even had to use it yet.
I saw the Abbey of Gethsemani on the map and went to see it. The abbey is a community of Cistercian monks – often referred to as Trappists. To my shame, I always thought the name “Trappist” came about because the monks observe silence at various times of the day, i.e they keep their trap shut. Having been a Franciscan friar myself for four years, I should have known better. They’re called Trappist after La Trappe Abbey in France. It was the perfect place to sit and ponder.
It’s funny how tunes enter my head when I’m cycling along. Today’s “tune de jour” was “We Love Sprinkles” – probably induced by the damp weather. I’d heard this tune at the Sprinkles cupcake ATM in Los Angeles. You insert your credit card in the ATM, select your Sprinkles cupcake, and out it comes in a nice box, accompanied by a choir singing “We Love Sprinkles”. And so the gentleman whose Jeep Wrangler had broken down on a back country road in rural Kentucky will never forget the day when a vision in hi-vis green rounded the corner belting out “We Love Sprinkles”. Shirley Bassey would have been proud.
Despite the bad weather, I’ve been making some great headway. A couple of days ago, I crossed the time zone from Eastern to Central, i.e. the clock went back an hour. Yesterday evening, I crossed the 1,000 mile mark. And today, I crossed from Kentucky into Illinois – my third state.
Throughout Virginia and Kentucky, I’ve been puzzled by the strange panels adorning many barns. Dan told me that they identify an Amish barn. That got me thinking: Is Amish a religion or a way of life? I think the answer is probably both, but according to the World Wide Web, it’s a common misunderstanding that these symbols identify an Amish barn. While some of the designs are inspired by the Amish, they’re properly called barn quilts. They’ve been around for hundreds of years, but it was only in the early 2000s that they started showing up again.
There’s no escaping religion in America. So far on this trip, there seems to be at least one church in every community – usually Baptist, sometimes Methodist, and occasionally Presbyterian. No idea how they differ, but I’ve frequently been grateful to them, as they often have a gazebo where I can sit out a storm or take a break in the shade. Some churches even let cross-country cyclists stay overnight or camp in the grounds. I’ve been touched by their hospitality and warm welcome.
Out front, the churches often have a billboard with a message, like the one I saw today: “Be Ye Fishers Of Men. You Catch ‘Em. And He’ll Clean ‘Em.” (I added the apostrophes to save the pastor’s blushes. Probably just as well I don’t have a red marker pen with me.) Here’s another great one in view of the forthcoming elections in the US: “Donkey And Elephant Not Working For You? Try The Lamb!”
Folks who’ve cycled across the country often say that Kentucky is challenging. They’re referring to things like loose dogs who love nothing more than to scare the bejesus out of a passing cyclist. Seems the dogs get more points the closer they get to the cyclist’s heels. I’ve confounded several of them by yelling “Treat” when they’re in full charge (bonus point to Leslie). But today, that failed miserably. Intercepted by two huge mutts, I slowed to a crawl to mitigate the chase instinct, but instead the ringleader sank his teeth into my rear pannier – my nice, new hi-vis panniers that had earned me the moniker “The Green Hornet” from the military guys. (I had been hoping for “The Flying Scotsman” or some such, but never mind.) Surveying the damage to my pannier, my blood boiled. No idea what I yelled at the dog, but I was in no mood to be messed with, and that mutt knew it. It slinked off, leaving me with an adrenaline rush that put a tiger in my tank. The other cyclists I’ve met swear by a pepper spray called “Halt”, which they aim at the dog’s face. I didn’t want to go that route, but the next mutt who messes with me is in for a big surprise.
Got to watch out for the coal trucks too. This is coal country, but it looks like it’s struggling – and has been for a while. A lot of folks live in mobile homes, often quite dilapidated, and they tell me that the coal industry is all they have. With mist hanging over the mountains and the omnipresent mining, it feels like I’ve passed from the Shire to Moria. Indeed, I even passed through a town called “Dwarf”!
Who knew that tortoises were native to this part of the United States? The rural idyll of the Shire gave way to strenuous, steep climbs through lush, deciduous forests, followed by spectacular descents that have left me quite euphoric, especially if, as on this day, I hadn’t yet had breakfast. And so it was that I came upon my first tortoise. No bigger than the palm of my hand, he was crossing the road. I pulled up and carefully put him safely on the grassy verge. Spotting a mom and pop diner down the road, I pulled in and mentioned the tortoise to the lady behind the counter. “Oh, we have to dodge ’em all the time”, she commented, in a tone that suggested that she didn’t hold with being inconvenienced by a tortoise.
Wondering whether a tortoise crossing the road would bring good luck, I didn’t spot the 3ft long stalk in the road until my front bicycle wheel was on top of it. To my dismay, the head and tail of the “stalk” whipped up towards my bare ankles. Clipped into the pedals, I couldn’t release my feet in time, but my rear wheel did the rest anyway. Sadly, the snake was done for.
I’ve been cycling on and off with the retired military guys (Bill, Don, and Dan) in the last few days. They invited me to share their campsite in the National Forest last night. Having dodged thunderstorms for the past few days, it was my first night camping. Aware of the guys’ scrutinous gaze, I was glad that I had practiced pitching my tent at home before attempting it in public. Chuffed with myself for pitching it with aplomb, my self-congratulations quickly dissipated when Bill casually commented that I had the flysheet inside out. (Deduct butch points for that.)
Today, I crossed the state border into Kentucky. Camping again tonight – this time in the grounds of the historical society. Besides the usual raccoons, there are also four bears hanging around. Hopefully, it will be a quiet night…