Entering Big 12 Country

"When show people come into what they call the sticks, they have contempt for the yokels. It took a little time, but when I learned there aren't any yokels, I began to get on fine." ---Steinbeck

I dipped further south than my destination called for to visit some places I had never been before: Missouri, Kansas and now into Nebraska. Janis had a bit of an epiphany when I was driving into Lincoln when she realized I was perhaps only a four hour drive from the Quad Cities. Yes, the same Quad Cities I set forth from three days earlier. Of course exploration is the mission, not expediency. Was it worth the detour? Yes.

Arriving in Missouri offered little promise. Light industry and agricultural businesses on wide divided highways replaced the old river town of Quincy, Illinois. but that gave way to nicer, smaller roads as I tried to find the angle from Quincy to Columbia that kept me off the highway, but on the path. A spot along the way that worried me, because I still don't know farming, or Missouri, was the village of Ladonia. The road forked there, and dirt alleys got longer connecting the tines as they spread southeast and southwest. Along these alleys were small white shacks on low stilts, and a lot of them. 500 yards down the road, there is more open space than one from east of the Mississippi can conceive , and yet some one needs to live in these close, soulless dwellings. Again, my ignorance: farmer workers? families? migrants? immigrants? displaced locals? I don't know, but I do know political correctness had not run amok as this little junction. Here route K joined with route KK, demanding signs in all directions that declared K KK, or KK K. A few miles down the road I saw a farm peddling "live bait" and "corgi puppies." I really hope they weren't from the same litter.......

Columbia was good to me, and physically impressive, but remains enigmatic. At a bike race the week before I arrived, the back of the pack was wiped out when thumb tacks were spread across the road. My older brother Nick works really hard to train for the Helluva Ride about this time each year, about his birthday. This year, rain ruined his day and he ONLY got in 70 miles, making him think about about doing another century ride later. This vicarious connection left me feeling for the riders, but I really wondered about the tack throwers. Thoughtless teens (guilty of stupid, hurtful, but unintended acts long ago, I know this happens)? Friends of some rider worried about a late charge? Anti bikers that arrived too late to wipe out the leaders? A 007 and "Q" fan that rigged his bike to wipe out pursuers?

There are an amazing number of Walmarts in this part of the world, and they come in many sizes. At school we often speak of Walmart, but here it is easy to see the profound change it would bring to a small community. For this trip, the biggest impact of the mega company was the 40 miles I spent behind a Walmart truck on a road too narrow to pass.

In Columbia we played frisbee and then walked the campus, and it was very nice. Luci had not yet announced her intention to keep me in constant company, but I still wanted to stop for a beer, and the Bengal bar on the edge of campus was happy to allow us on their patio, and supplied my friend with a big dish of water. The Bengal, in location, layout and purpose reminded me of the Linebacker bar in South Bend, but I was glad, with Luci, that I was not there the night before a home game. Anyway, Luci was popular, and I enjoyed the company of young people drawn to her, people that had no trouble with the term and concept of "goldendoodle."

Then to the hotel where Luci announced she would not be left alone during this adventure. After dark I headed into town and lucked into a joint called Booche's, established in 1884 or some similar year. Good beer, good, cheap burgers. and a great bartender. In the 1970's it was a men's club, and the activist women of campus staged a sit in. Booche's joined the decade and opened their doors to all. I suspect that every 3 or 4 days now, a woman actually takes advantage of that hard earned privilege. Actually a nice young woman named Sunny, comfortably looking like she was in costume for that long ago sit in, was there, and a welcoming presence for Columbia.

The bartender, a marathon running, world traveling, story telling historian recommended Ernie's (est. 1938)or breakfast, and a great diner it was, but not to be reached without some adventure.

I woke to see clouds that were altogether unfamiliar to me, heavy and gray, but drawn in long layers like fresh squid-ink pasta pulled through the pasta mills thinnest setting. I wondered if they were unfamiliar to locals as well. I suspected they held violence, but had failed to check the weather before leaving the motel. Luci and I arrived at the nature area Southeast of campus and the sky had greened, the wind now bragged and the light receded to a level where I now knew our minutes were being counted in the single digits. As friend Nord once quoted Gordon Lightfoot, "does anyone know where the love of God goes?" Nord said it when his good golf round disintegrated on the 13th green of Eagle Crest. Well, Luci and I felt the same dropping sensation as we ran back to the bridge (signed "flood area, impassible in high water," see picture) and were pelted by rain drops the size of seagulls.

We got to the car before the full deluge struck, and felt ourselves the lucky ones as we saw a young man, not dressed for exercise (but more for clubbing), jogging, walking and sprinting along the road. Kenny accepted our offer of a ride. Seems he was just dumped by his girls friend, who seems to have timed it brilliantly: miles from home, in a rising hell-storm, and before his college-mate friends had pulled themselves from bed. We took him the miles back to his place, luckily within a few blocks of Ernie's. He was a decent, respectful and good looking young man. I hold absolutely no judgment on the righteousness of his removal.

Ernie's was as good as advertised. I liked the help, I loved the "Boone County Ham" and thought the whiteboard of Dick Tracy longing for Ernie's (and produced by Chester Gould himself) was way better than the average homage. I need to learn Daniel Boone's tie to this area, but he got the county and a lot of schools named for him.

Back on the road, and racing a fright train to Lawrence, by way of Sedalia.