Into the Mystic: A Venture From East to West: Missouri

As soon as my pupil's cones and receptors stopped staring at the blackness within my eyelids, my brain immediately jumped to the fact that it was Christmas. Well, it might as well have been. Today, I was going to the post office to see what kinds of things people sent me. I climbed down from my top bunk in the small shelter that the Eagles so graciously allow cyclists to stay in. I got onto my bike and cycled off down the few blocks toward the post office.

The beer from the night before hindered my advancement toward the gifts under the tree but I eventually made it. "I'm Ralph Johnson, I'm here to pick-up some of the mail left for me!" I said, unable to hide the excitement in my voice. "Ah, so you're the guy. Debra, you got those packages? Alright chief, I'll just need some I.D."

I didn't have it. It felt like Santa hadn't come at all. Or worse, I'd been given coal. Well, not really. It was like someone put all your Christmas gifts in a room, locked the door, and said, "The key is 4 blocks away. Fuck you."

I didn't argue with the guy or plead with him. I understood he was just doing his job but damn... I was bitter. I wouldn't go back to the post office for another hour. Back at the Eagles Bar, Beth and Erin were waking up. Now they looked hungover.

Eventually, I went back to Ebeneezer Scrooge, pulled out my I.D., flashed it on the countertop, and said rather cooly, "Merry Christmas."

"And a happy New Year", retorted the postman. I told him my story about it kind of being like Christmas because I'd been on the road. As soon as the words "Merry Christmas" blurted from my mouth, I felt like an asshole. I attempted to appear tired and disgruntled after that, maybe the fact it was still early morning was accounting for my rudeness. But, I had gotten the key, and opened the door containing my presents. Aunt Dede, Uncle Wayne, Mr. Stan, Miss Dot, Ma, Pa, and my friends who wrote me letters: I love you forever. That was one of the greatest Christmas' ever.

I spent a fair amount of time in the little town of Chester, IL. Located right on the border, it was the location of the man who created the Popeye comic strip: E.C. Sager. Actually, the town was rather eerie. It was like a shrine, completely dedicated to this creative piece of a man's imagination; an almost fictional place devoted to creating an alternate reality. I stopped in on the "Popeye Museum" but there was no historical information, only a ton of memorabilia dating back to the 1920's.

I would spend a bit of time at the library before I got ready to enter the next state, less than a mile away: Missouri. I crossed a small bridge and took a picture with the state sign with a little extra pizazz because I try to make each one special. The geography for the next 10 miles was absolutely flat. Actually, the last 40 miles have been the most flat since New Jersey and the coastal areas of Delaware + Maryland. Then, all of a sudden, I saw a sudden incline after all of that rather monotonous topography. To tell you the truth, I was happy to see my old friend, the hill. I climbed up him and then experienced the bliss of the downhill again. I realized why I was grateful to be reunited. Even after 40 more miles of this, I enjoyed every bit of it.

Biking through Missouri was quiet and social moments were minimal. In the town of Ozora, I found a beautiful tree to shade me from the blistering sun. I decided it was a serene place to sit down and have one of my new gifts; a Clif bar. Sitting under this tree in front of a small playground, I began to get extremely sleepy. Glancing to see it was 4 o'clock, I decided that biking into the Western-setting sun would be a delightful and appealing way to arrive into Farmington, MO. So, I fell asleep for an hour and a half under the caring limbs of the old elder.

When I got up to leave, there was a middle-aged couple directly across the street smiling very keenly toward me, knowing I'd been resting. There was a wave that followed the genuine grin that required full torso movement as well; indicating I'd been more than welcome to catch a snooze under a tree and hadn't been regarded as a vagrant. I biked onward.

On the way to Farmington, I saw very few cars but a profusion of vineyards. About 3/4 of the way to the town of 14,000, I looked down at my tire and noticed the despairing wobble effect. I had broken two more spokes in the back wheel... two days after getting it fixed. Shit. Eventually, I made it to Farmington around 830 and found the nearest McDonalds to use my new gift card courtesy of Aunt Dede (thank you!). From there, I called the local police to let them know I would be camping in the city park.

When I got to the city park around 10 o'clock, there was a small gathering of children and parents playing tennis. One man came up to me as I patiently waited to be alone.

Ron Piper was a retired police officer who'd lived in Farmington for most of his adult life. He explained to me all of the sites and areas of the city to check out. In particular, he mentioned there's a really interesting Civil War area in Irontown, which is a ways off route but right up my alley. The vineyards that I'd seen were all owned by a man by the name of Joe Scott. Apparently, the native of the city owned property on what is now Disney Land in Florida. Selling this land made him extremely wealthy for the building of the theme park. He used this money to invest in a bunch of different business ventures around the area. From what I gathered, he sounded like a man infested by the pleasures of making money (greed?). Asking if he invested back into the community... the response was a rather emphatic no. Ron told me that camping out here was all well and fine but there was a hostel a few blocks away specifically for cyclists. After a description involving a computer, shower, television, and dryer; I no longer planned on camping. Ron then offered the remains of his group's little cookout; chocolate chip cookies and barbeque galore. I respectfully declined while my mind chastised me for my idiotic attempt at showing respect.

Knocking on the hostel, I expected Beth and Erin to be there. Instead, I was greeted by Zhang Quian; a middle-aged psychiatrist from Beijing, China. He is coming from from San Francisco, and going East. We had lots of common ground. The man totally erased any source of nervousness remaining about the Western Express route and replaced the previous anxiety with pure excitement. Everything out West sounds to be, as Zhang would say with his eyes absolutely glowing, "Beautiful...Ralph, I mean... beautiful, so beautiful". Pretty soon, as he told stories of Lake Tahoe, Yosemite, and other sights, my eyes were sharing the same twinkle. Zhang and I ended up staying up very late, talking about adventures, making some late night snacks, and chatting over a small bit of whiskey. It's about time I went to bed though. I didn't get much sleep last night and tonight doesn't look to be much different. Oh well.

Sleeping quarters behind the Eagle's bar. Awww yyeeaahhh.

Cool mural for the man, I respect that.

Aight, a little bit creepy but I get it. The overkill came with Popeye watching me around every corner and his name finding its way into every single local business. I found sanctuary in a Subway.

The local library had a man from South Africa educating the children and creating a ruckus. I accidentally stumbled into here looking for the water fountain.