Show Me

Missouri is the Show Me State and we are most eager the following morning to see the Excellent Coffee Shop advertised on the Bothwell Hotel marquis. Alas, there are some things we are learning about Missouri. One of them is about Sundays - everything is closed. There is coffee in the lobby (I always drink what I can make in my room), and muffins; but that is not a hearty enough breakfast for the 48 miles we have ahead of us. We are advised at the desk that Yummy's Donut is open; they may have what we're looking for.

We venture forth in hope.

This is one of those moments when I am grateful for my preparations. I can't eat anything there anyway, so I've brought with me hardboiled eggs, gf bread and a banana from the hotel. Though it is a modest breakfast, it will sustain me. My colleagues however, are looking forward to a breakfast at Yummy's. I feel for them. The muffin sandwiches contain a variety of mystery meats, the eggs resemble plastic platters. And the coffee? Watery, undrinkable. Even the addition of Starbuck's Via instant doesn't help. You would really have to work to make coffee this bad. Odd in an era when every Dunkin Donuts now serves fresh brewed. But that's how it is in Missouri. The Just are in church. Non-believers and tourists can suck it up. You have to wonder if maybe there isn't something else at work here...

That said, the people are always kind and helpful. Unbeknownst to us, there is a detour to get back to the Katy - and we can't find it. A wise local recognizes our confusion.

And sets us straight right away. Soon we're back on the Trail.

Passing farm houses and open fields.

Riding over bridges.

Passing through bowers of trees.

Occasionally we cross a country road.

No, this is not from the first day. This is the second day. Pay attention.

Yes, the Katy Trail is repetitive. But strangely, I'm having a great time. I don't hang with people my age much. I'm not quite sure why that is, but my friends are either older or younger. For the first time since my last High School reunion, I'm with people almost exactly my age. With smarts, and a great sense of humor. We share the music, the times, the sensibility. And they love to bike - how great is that? If the Katy Trail is repetitious, it is also an excellent opportunity to get to know people without distraction or the danger of cars. We can ride two by two, which you can't really do on the open road.

If only our rental bikes weren't such clunkers. KD mentions that her chain is slipping about every 10 pedal strokes or so - that can't be fun. Mine is beginning to rattle, and I fear I'm headed in the same direction. To drive home our misery, we run into this guy.

Or rather, his bike.

The first actual road bike we've seen on the Katy. We swoon over it (and secretly try to think of ways to get it away from him). All he has done to adapt his bike to the Katy is put on nubby tires. Well, we could have done that. "I wish I'd brought my road bike," says L wistfully. We heave a common sigh.

Twenty-four miles later, we arrive at Pilot Grove hoping for lunch. But Like Sedalia, the only place that's open doesn't really offer anything edible: Casey's, a gas station (the Just are still in church).

We stock up on junk food and candy (better than those mystery muffins). What else can we do? For everyone, this is probably the lowest point so far on this trip.

Except for me - I go lower. As I emerge from Casey's I see my bike has been moved. I'm in a hurry to catch up, so I just get on and start riding. But something seems really strange. The hand brakes are down by my thumbs, my seat seems way too close to the handlebars - everything is out of whack. Riding to the best of my ability, I call out to the rest in panic that something is seriously wrong with my ride. I suspect it fell when it was moved (the problem can't be me). I catch up with them, stopping with difficulty. L takes one look, comes over to me.

And turns my handle bars around. I'd been riding with the front wheel backwards. No one (including me) can figure out how I even did this. I'm not sure I can live it down - and my camera has recorded it all (would anyone notice if I just erased that footage?). But I'm the newbie on this trip; someone has to provide comic relief. Alas, the day isn't over.

Twelve miles later, we find ourselves in Boonville consulting on the path to take before making a right into town. Oops, face plant!

Unclipped on the left and lost my balance trying to unclip on the right. Like all descriptions I've read about these falls, I am more embarrassed than injured (the wrist is fine). Though it would be hard to surpass the day's earlier benchmark - no one I know has done that.

Meanwhile in Boonville, the search for the elusive lunch goes on. We look around cycling first to a casino, then deciding against what turns out to be a cocktail joint (we have that covered). Suddenly, out of the blue a beacon from home:

Yes, a diner. Like truckers who look for trucks as a vote of confidence outside eateries, we are comforted by the sight of these:

And in some ways, this is a diner from home. Except of course, when we ask for seltzer. The same blank stare. Sparkling water? Nope. Soda water? Nothing. After our waitress has left, discussion ensues as to the cultural reasons for this. Is it the lack of Jews, or the lack of Italians - or something else, we wonder? But it's a real lunch at least. We have just 13 miles to Rocheport. 

That's 13 miles too many for two of our number, who are beginning to liken the Katy Trail, with its gravelly surface, to "Waterboarding for cyclists." There's an option to ride with the luggage to Rocheport and they take it (perhaps the luggage makes better conversation). I understand the feeling. But they miss out on one of the great moments of the ride: a spectacular trip over the Missouri.

When we straggle in over an hour later, we are met by the host of the Yates B&B*  where for the first time on the trip, we are pampered royally.

And today, we really need it.

We all know that these will be the best accommodations of our trip, and they couldn't come at a better time. Furthermore, we have a 6pm dinner reservation at Abigail's, a local eatery of some repute.** We have just enough time to shower, watch a few minutes of women's tennis at the French Open over what has fast become a tradition (Tequila), before heading over to Abigail's.

No sooner do we place our orders (no seltzer), than the power goes out. But none of this matters anymore. We have finished our ride for the day, we have superb accommodations, and we figure the kitchen has a gas stove. A sort of camaraderie ensues. Candles are promptly brought out and our B&B host walks over with lanterns to help. We are impressed and touched at this simple gesture. It's what we Americans always think of when we think of the Midwest; people pulling together, neighbor helping neighbor. Our meals are sumptuous - up with anything we could have had in NY or CA.

Sated at last, we turn in.

*Yates B&B http://www.yateshouse.com
**Abigail's  http://www.abigails-restaurant.com