We were awoken early by mozzies trying
to infiltrate our tent-inner (we've been keeping the outer off, much
cooler and we figure we'll know about it pretty quickly when it
starts raining!) It was already hot and the mornings' ride was tough:
busy roads with no or little shoulder and lots of trucks. Thirty
miles later, we arrived in Chester, Illinois. Chesters' claim to fame
is that it is the home of Popeye. That is, the birthplace of Popeyes'
creator, Elzie Crisler Segar. Revealingly, he died in Santa Monica,
California... I can see why his commercial success would have lured
him away from this tiny town. In the absence of other visible merits,
Chester flogs Popeye relentlessly. Every store, restaurant and bench
features a reference; 'Rub-a-dub-dub laundry'; Spinach Can
Collectibles; Wimpy's original diner; Olive Oyls' Grocery...It's a
bit eery. We stopped by the library (no clever Popeye name but
features lots of framed illustrations)-to cool off and do some wi-fi
research of our route. Due to an absence of campsites on our intended
route (off our maps for reasons to be explained)- we had to blow the
budget and make a booking at a Best Western. The idea of air
conditioning and a pool takes the edge off the financial blow!
We are on an experimental detour from
our Trans-Am, because a guy in a bike shop a few towns back told us
about the Katy Trail in Missouri. What used to be the old railroad
has been converted to 230 miles of trail for bikes and horses; (and
here are the magic words)-'no motorised vehicles allowed'. Something
about the bone shaking rattle of a coal truck blasting past you on a
highway makes you go all misty eyed at the idea such a track. So,
thanks to Matts' genius d.i.y google-maps routing, we are bound for
the Katy Trail. Every passing truck spurs us on; the Katy trail even
ends in Kansas so it is our fantasy Yellow Brick Road.
Immediately beyond Chester is a big
iron bridge which crosses the Mighty Mississipi; the opposite side of
the bridge is Missouri. We bade goodbye to Chester (Ug-ug-ug-ug)-and
said hello to our 4th State, Missouri. The highway into
Missouri was long, busy and seemed to slant endlessly upwards. One of
its' grim features were plentiful road-kill armidillos. I hope we get
to see a live one on the Katy Trail, hell they probably wear little
waist-coats there, and invite us to tea.
Some hard miles later, we pulled into a
gas station for some water. Inside was a curious and irresponsible
mix of gas station and bar (on a highway.) There, we were embraced
(literally, in time)-by some bikers of the Harley variety. There was
'Uncle' Bob, Harry and Johnny – loaded with questions about our
trip (and, incidentally loaded on beer.) Harry and Johnny vacated
their bar stools and insisted/ordered that we sit and drink a
Budweiser. Being obedient, we did. The conversation was a tad
rambling but they appreciated our ability to 'suck down them beers!'
Finally a stumbling Harry called his mate Johnny the wrong name, and
Johnny decided it was probably time they hit the road. On their
Harleys. I repeat; its' an odd thing to have a bar on a highway!
After the self-described 'Weekend
Warriers...on a Tuesday' left the bar, we were eagerly addressed by
two middle-aged couples. The women were in matching pink golf attire,
and the men had matching baseball caps. They were enjoying a beer
after a hot game of golf, and wanted to know about our trip; England;
Australia; wasn't it too hot to bike; where we were headed today;
etc. It was hard to leave but we finally made it out the door (they
insisted on paying for our water.)
About five miles down the straight, hot
road, a truck parked in a driveway beeped repeatedly at us – we
turned our heads to see the golfer twin-sets; wildly beckoning us
over. Matt rolled ahead into their yard, where they were standing by
the truck drinking beers. Since we had left the gas station, they had
decided we should stay at their house and join in their bbq. 'Go
ahead and call your hotel – cancel the reservation. We've got bbq!'
Once again, I was so touched by the umprompted kindness of American
strangers. However I knew the booking I had made could not be
cancelled (plus a solitude swim was more appealing at this point than
socialising.) We thanked the guys profusely but backed away to the
road. More hot uphill, more dead armidillos, but finally we reached
Festus and our Best Western. The pool was glorious and worth every
penny; and after a few nights on the camping mats the bed was like a
giant marshmellow and therefore awesome.Day 19 Murphysboro to Festus 80 miles
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