Section 3 - Farewell Kentucky
Date - July 16th 2020
Current Location - Murphysboro IL
Miles Traveled - 1222.8
The Robinson Room
The Robinson room, oohh the Robinson room. To most it looks like a regular old conference room, but to us it was a free 5 star hotel room with all the amenities.
To understand this story, you first need to know about our rest day schedule. Once a week, we finish up our bike ride for the day, then check into a hotel or air bnb for the night. The following day is reserved entirely for doing absolutely nothing, which unfortunately is interrupted all too early by the check out time. Before we know it, our bikes are packed back up, just to sit in a park for 8 hours until it gets dark enough to sleep.
The night at the Boone Tavern in Berea KY was a bit different. They were kind enough to let us store our bikes in a conference room for the night, so when we checked out the next day, that was our first stop. We packed up the bikes, with the intention of heading to the town park, but then there was a moment of hesitation.
Why leave this private room with AC and outlets so soon? I’m sure we could spend another hour in here and they would just assume we were still packing up. That hour passed, and no one from the hotel came to kick us out, so we stayed another hour... then another. Before we knew it, we had taken over the Robinson room. It smelled like 4 dudes who had been sleeping in the dirt for 17 days, and our take out dinner containers were scattered across the conference room table.
The Robinson Room.
The gang. From left to right, John, Jake, Jason.
There is one amenity our private suite was missing, and fatefully the check in desk was between us and the public restroom. One by one we would make the journey, passing the front desk with a polite nod just hoping they wouldn’t question the fact that we were still in the hotel several hours past check out, and obviously still hunkered down in the Robinson room. Every time one of us would re-enter the room, there was a tense moment for those inside, unsure of whether it was a friend, or an angry hotel employee that was fed up with our squatting.
Finally, after 8 hours, the moment came. All four of us were in the room, and the knob jiggled. We looked at each other in that moment, knowing very well that we were about to be kicked out to the street, back to our lives in tents on the road.
The door cracked open. A hand with a box of masks emerged, followed by the rest of the hotel concierge. “Hey guys, I’m really sorry for the inconvenience, but I noticed that one of you forgot to wear a mask, so I brought a couple for you. If you need anything else just let me know!” Then the door closed.
Once more we looked at each other in disbelief. Wait, what if we just SLEPT in the Robinson room. They gave us a foot and we were itching to take the whole mile. We would do anything for another night in AC, it couldn’t hurt to ask, right? So Jake was headed to the concierge desk. With a brief hesitation and a deep breath to build up the courage, he left the Robinson room.
A few moments later, he was back. “He’s going to talk to the management, I have a good feeling about this.” And so there was hope. We jumped into action, cleaning up our take out meals and hiding beer cans, trying to look as presentable and professional as possible. The four of us were around the conference room table, hands folded, posture straight, bike maps unfurled on the table, waiting on the word from management.
The concierge came back in... “sooo, we cant let you sleep in the conference room... but, I can get you a master suite for a very discounted rate.” There was only one question, “how much.”
And that is the story of how we got a luxury hotel room with a king sized bed and jetted bathtub for $35. The staff at the Boone Tavern is as hospitable as they come, a huge thank you to everyone there for their generosity.
Sebree Kentucky Main Street - Photoshop Edit
Gone County Kentucky - Photoshop Edit
Free Lunch
Halfway through our ride for the day, we started looking for lunch options. The first place we saw was a deli and market. Closed. The second was a quaint little pizza shop, oozing the smell of fresh bread. No indoor seating due to COVID. They directed us to a diner down the road that would let us soak in their AC. Having a chance to cool down in the afternoon heat is crucial, and it was worth biking a couple extra miles.
We arrived masks in hand, and it was everything we could have asked for. Friendly staff, cool conditioned air, and ice cream. We started with a round of burgers, then chicken sandwiches, then more chicken. Every time the server came back, we placed another order. “I have never seen someone order and eat so much in all my years working here,” she said as we ordered our 4th authentic Kentucky fried chicken sandwich.
By the end of this feast, we were slumped in our chairs, looking at the pile of tickets we had acquired in our hunger driven frenzy. I stumbled out of my chair with sore legs and a full stomach, slowly making my way to the register. “Give em here,” I heard faintly. I turned around and noticed an elderly couple in the corner of the diner. Were they talking to me? I made eye contact with the old man, and he gestured me over with a wave, and a $100 bill shuffling in his hand. “Give those to me,” he said again as I approached. I warned the man of the absurd number of chicken sandwiches we ordered, but he insisted.
He said his name was Rogan, or maybe Roland. I couldn’t quite make it out between the echoing noises of other patrons, and his soft spoken demeanor. He commended us for being out, experiencing the world in our youth, and was passing on the generosity he had experienced through his worldly travels. Rogan and his wife have traveled through all 50 states, and his time in the air force brought him from his small town in Kentucky to the far off lands of Japan and Korea. Through his 91 years on this earth, the one piece of advice he had to share was to “always be true to your word.”
Before heading back into the heat, I left Rogan and his wife a sticky note with the url to this blog. “What’s this?” He responded as I handed it to him. “I am keeping a blog to remember and share the stories along the road, and I will certainly be writing about your generosity!” To that he responded, “Oh well, I don’t have a working computer.” Rogan, if you are reading this, congrats on getting your dusty, old desktop to work!
Friendly farmers that we met along the road.
The Dogs
Through Jake and I’s experience on the trip to Florida, and research on the route across the country, we knew dogs would be an issue. We are all familiar with dogs in the city, sometimes they bark, sometimes they are friendly, but they are always on a leash, or confined to a back yard. Out in the country, dogs are different. Home owners in the desolate parts of VA and KY keep dogs unleashed on their property after dark for defense. This becomes a problem when we bike down rural roads before dawn, and before the owner has a chance to bring the dog in for the day. These guard dogs will chase you for miles, sometimes just for the thrill of the chase, and other times growling with every intent to bring you down.
After scouring bike touring blogs, and getting advice from others that have taken the trip, we decided pepper spray was the best defense. Unfortunately, I had my spray a little too accessible on the front of my bike, and it bounced off without me noticing a couple weeks in.
Something about bicycles really riles up the dogs, they can probably smell us from a mile away, and they come running. As we bike through the quiet night, the faint sound of barking starts in the distance, then before you know it the sound is right in your face. Up to this point, we have had a few chases, but nothing too scary, until now.
We were all tired, looking for a shady spot to sit down. I was a couple hundred feet in front of the others, and as I crested the hill, I saw a lovely tree on a hill perfect for an afternoon rest. Eager to plop down in the shade I started to slow my bike. Out of no where, this peaceful scene turned into a nightmarish chase, as 3 gnarly looking muscular dogs sprinted out of the woods like some choreographed gang trying to take my lunch money.
My weary legs started pedaling as fast as they could take me but I didnt even have a chance to shift my gears up before they surrounded me. There was one snapping at my back tire, one to my left side, and one right in front of me. I kept pedaling, running into the front dog over and over as he lunged at my front panniers.
Luckily, this fateful encounter happened at the crest of the hill. With the downward sloping road as my ally, I was able to evade the gang, legs, panniers, and tires unscathed. Honestly, I don’t know what I could have done if I was climbing slowly uphill when the dogs came. Time to restock on pepper spray.
Abandoned car along the back roads of Kentucky.
Bike Hostel
After a long 84 mile day, we approached the small town of Sebree Kentucky at around 8pm. On the Adventure Cycling maps, there was a mysterious bike hostel icon in this town, which we haven’t run into before. We called the corresponding number during our lunch break, but there was no answer. With the COVID-19 pandemic still in effect, our hopes of getting in were low and as the day carried on without a return of our message, we had come to terms with the fact that we would be camping outside... again.
When we arrived, there was a phone number posted on the door accompanied by a note that read, “Pastor Bob - Lives across the street in the yellow house.” As I was typing the number in my phone when I heard a quiet yell, “you boys need some help?” I looked up, and it was Bob, an elderly man, standing on the porch of his yellow bungalow. He got on his bike, slowly pedaled across the street, and greeted us. We explained our situation, and asked if it was possible to stay inside, to which he replied, “only if you’re nice to me.” The four of us were silent and mildly confused, then with a big smile he turned. “Follow me.”
Sunrise Drone Shot.
He led us around back, then into the basement. The lights turned on to reveal a whole game room, with a kitchen on one end, and entertainment set up on the other. Then he walked us to a door labeled “Cyclists Room.” Inside was an oversized closet scattered with bike parts, pumps and paraphernalia. Maps covered in pins lined the walls, and Bob handed us each a pin to mark our hometowns. Best of all, there was a door marked “shower,” which needed no explanation.
The Bike Hostel in Sebree KY.
He handed us print outs, full of information about the route headed west from Sebree. It had mileage to each town, fun things to see along the way, and most notably an alternate route to get to Murphysboro that cut out 40 hilly miles. With the slow and steady character of an elderly man, he read this slip of paper line by line, interjected with the occasional joke. The four of us, barely holding on to our consciousness after the long ride, nodded to him while trying not to nod off. In our sleepy stupor and sore state we stumbled to the laundry room, where Bob gave a detailed introduction of the town. “Sebree is full of industry. There is a concrete plant, a Tyson chicken factory,” my eyes close shut for a moment, “a sheet metal factory, a metal truss manufacturer,” my eyes closed again briefly when Bob looked away. This list went on and on as he named every single business in town, then proceeded to give step by step instructions on how to spot a tobacco field. Our appreciation for Bob’s generosity was the only thing stopping us from rudely falling asleep on the spot. Eventually Bob departed, leaving us alone in this massive 3,000+ SF paradise.
Now, back to that alternate route. What was planned to be 3 hilly days through the country side of Illinois could now be a rest day at the hostel followed by a 100 mile ride down route 13, then a quick 15 miles into Murphysboro for the rest day. We all agreed on the Bob alternate, and after a whole day lounging in the hostel watching movies and playing ping pong, we were off again.
My geared up bike on the bridge crossing into Illinois. Right after this shot was taken, a truck flew by and the breeze knocked my bike over.
Jason on the bridge leading into Illinois.
Jake Goes Missing
The century ride was a breath of fresh air. Finally, after traversing the Appalachian mountains, we had our first truly flat road. It is interesting to watch the gradual change of the landscape. The mountains turned to hills, and now the hills are exchanged for flat farms as far as the eye can see. Traveling via bicycle allows us the time to soak in and experience each of these subtle changes, something you would miss in a car. We followed route 13 all the way to Carbondale, and the road was well paved with wide shoulders.
Through the beginning of the ride we had an aggressive pace and rigorous drafting schedule. Every 5 miles, the person in the front of the line would drop to the back, with a full rotation completing every 20 miles, followed by a quick granola bar break. A quick note on drafting, this is when you bike right behind the guy in front of you. The closer you are, the more effective the draft, and at high speeds, you barely have to pedal if you get it right. Of course there is danger involved in this, as you can’t see the road ahead of you. Last section Jason was drafting Jake down a hill, when last minute, Jake swerved around a pothole. Jason didn’t have time to react, and hit it straight on, popping both of his tires in one foul swoop.
Sunrise above the farmlands of Western Kentucky.
The drafting train on route 13 grinded to a halt when we lost Jake. Right after lunch, he started to fall back and yelled, “don’t wait, DO NOT WAIT.” Once we finished our drafting rotation, we ducked under a bridge to refuel in the shade, and left our bikes above as a clear signal that we were stopped. 20 minutes passed, but still no Jake. Could he have missed the bikes? No way, they were in clear sight. Maybe he is still behind us? What could have happened? Unfortunately none of these questions were answered when his phone went straight to voicemail. All three of us had service the entire time, and we knew Jake had plenty of power to charge his phone.
After some careful consideration, we decided to push ahead to the next town, Harrisburg KY. If he did miss the bikes, hopefully he would be stopped at the first gas station in town, but when we arrived there was no bike parked out front, and no Jake. We called a couple more times, but still nothing. With the phone line out, we had to get old school and crafty, recruiting a pair of gas station patrons to be our message bearing scouts. We had one heading East on 13 and one headed West, with their mission being, yell at any and all cyclists they see, “call your friends.” Frankly the plan was foolproof. A half hour passed, but still no word from our missing friend.
Foggy morning in Kentucky
Jason left, Jake right
We lost hope. Slowly the treacherous reality sank in, we may never see our friend again. Lost to the Illinois winds, but never forgotten. We had to push on, it is what Jake would have wanted. The loss was sudden and hit us all hard, but what else could we do but bike?
40 miles and a sombre 2 hours later, the impossible happened. We saw a geared up bike propped behind a gas station, accompanied by Jake wielding a bucket of fried chicken. “Did you see the note I left you guys?” He said as we approached. Turns out he passed us while we were under the bridge, and he too resorted to old school methods when he realized he didn’t have phone service. Using a rock he carved an arrow into the road with the message, “I’m ahead -Jake.”
