Date - July 25th 2020

Current Location - Fort Scott KS

Miles Traveled - 1,700

Rest day

Section four started per usual, with the rest day. These are a crucial component of our trip, and suprisingly, a late addition to the plan. While it is nice to give our bodies a break from the beating, the rest day is actually more psychological. When embarking on a massive journey like this, it can be overwhelming to live day by day, with no end in sight for months. When we have a destination to look forward to each week, our vision is narrowed to the rest day. We don’t need to get all the way to California, we just need to get to Murphysboro!

Naturally, we start day dreaming about our next rest day the moment we check out of our accommodations for the week. During nights in the wild we end up sitting around our stinky makeshift campsite covered in sweat, sharing hotel and Air BnB options while raving about the amenities. This was the case when Jake discovered the perfect place in Murphysboro, a lake side cabin with WiFi and AC. It was the thought of diving in to that blue lake that got us through the tough days of section three.

Immediately upon arrival we began inflating our sleeping mats with the hope of turning them into pool floaties for the day, and they worked perfectly! The afternoon was spent drifting around the small lake, half asleep, fulfilling all the dreams that had been bouncing around our heads the past few days. Pure bliss.

Tornado

Our luxurious lap’ o’ lux lake side suite in Murphysboro was contrasted heavily by the events that unfolded the next day. After checking out of the Air BnB, we headed to Dairy Queen to wait out the heat before finding a spot to camp for the night.

A bike packed like a donkey is one of the best conversation starters and anyone who walked into the DQ pinned us as the cyclists immediately. With blizzards in hand, we began talking to a women in the booth next to us, who turned out to be the owner of the store. Among other things, she gave us a stern warning about a storm approaching that night.

I’m not sure if it was ignorance or intentional denial of the misery to come, but we did not heed her warning. We left the DQ set on our plan to pitch the tents behind a church down the road. In hindsight, this would have been disastrous. We do have rain flys, but strong winds could rip our flimsy tents apart. Enroute to the church, we stopped at a gas station, and again the curious scene of four dudes on overly packed bicycles led to a conversation with a local. We explained our situation to him, and again, we were warned about the storm. He suggested setting up shop under a pavilion in a nearby state park, and we began to realize the severity of the situation. We know east coast thunderstorms, but had no clue what Midwest weather could bring.

The man at the gas station gave us some vague directions that were quickly forgotten, then we located the park on google. Side note, whenever we tell a local where we are headed, they give us detailed turn by turn directions. While it is a nice sentiment, acknowledged by our accepting nods, all we really need is the name of the destination to plug into google maps. It is one of those relics of the past that the older generation holds on to, reminiscent of the days when we relied on people not technology. With each mile the sky darkened and the reality of the storm sunk in. After a few wrong turns, we found the pavilion and adjacent bathroom structure.

As the storm approached we were all running around the parking lot snapping photos rather than hunkering down. There was an eerie quietness surrounding the increasing frequency of thunder, and gentle sway of the trees, which was gradually filled by a tornado siren. It was a surreal moment, watching the darkening sky with this omnipresent low hum warning us of what was so obvious and inevitable. One by one, our phones buzzed with tornado warnings, once again confirming what we were seeing with our own eyes. Oh shit...

Not what you want to see when all you have is a pavilion and glorified porta potty.

With the first few drops of rain, we ran our bikes into the safety of the cinder block bathroom. Quickly, the drizzle turned to drenching downpour and we were stuck in a flatulence fume filled bathroom. Essentially it was a glorified porta potty certainly not intended as a storm shelter but there we were, four bikes, four dudes, waiting out the storm.

St Louis

Now a note on the upcoming section. Over and over we have heard that the hills in Missouri are like no other. Some have called this section of the Trans Am a rollercoaster ride, as the planners of Missouri run roads directly up hills with ridiculous grades just in spite of cyclists. After a great tip from Dustin Venn (@strangerphilly), we decided to detour from this madness in favor of the Katy trail. It is a beautiful 240 mile stretch of railroad turned nature trail and best of all it is totally flat. This detour has another advantage, taking us 100 miles north to the gateway of the Midwest, St Louis.

Our first destination in St Louis was the Gateway Arch. We had all seen pictures of it, but the magnitude of the structure wasn’t apparent until we were standing right under it, looking through our own eyes. By means of an amazing coincidence, we ran into a pair of young cyclists headed East from San Diego by the names of Jimmy and Sasha (@smokestax1998). We spent the afternoon sharing stories under a shady tree by the arch, quelling our fears of the unknown through countless questions of what they experienced out west.

“Everything is sharp out west, we were getting multiple flats every single day” Jimmy said. Luckily, they found a solution for their dilemma in the form of Stans, an inner tube sealant that will fill a small puncture before you even realize it’s there. Since putting just an ounce or two of this magic liquid in their tubes, they hadn’t got a single flat. The catch is that you need a removable valve inner tube, which can be hard to come by, but I’ll elaborate on that later.

To explore the city we first needed to find a place to store the bikes for the day, and the underground parking garage at the Hyatt Regency was perfect for the job. In small towns we almost never lock our bikes but in the city I know from experience that a bike can go missing very quickly, even if it is locked. The garage kept our bikes and gear out of the public eye, and we had tentative permission to take up one of the parking spaces.

There is not a single block in St Louis that isn’t littered with electric scooters, they are in the bushes, in the middle of the road, and occasionally parked properly on the sidewalk. “I am getting on one of those scooters,” Jake said with a nonnegotiable tone. The boys turned from cyclists to scooterers, burning rubber on the city streets. We pushed those scooters to the limits, Going off roading in the parks, and slamming on the breaks at top speed to fishtail around corners.

Eventually rain brought our city tour to an end, and we were back at the Hyatt. The garage is what you would expect, a hot, dirty, fume filled concrete shell, with one exception, the garage suite, or at least that is what we called it. It was a mysterious oasis complete with high end finishes, paintings on the walls, vending machines, AC and outlets. We always say home is where the bikes are, so we took off our shoes, kicked back, and relaxed in the garage suite for as long as the hotel staff would allow. The valet walked by… look causal… he turned his head, saw us, then turned around and left. What! No questions asked. The suite was ours. Staying well past our welcome has become somewhat of a theme of the trip, but the garage suite was short lived when we got the passive yet clear signal from an employee to get the fuck out.

The Katy Trail

By the time we reached the Katy trail, we were in desperate need of the so called Stans as we too started flatting every day. We each carry two inner tubes at all times, but it came to a point where John and I were running on patches before we had a chance to restock. Our current flat tally is as follows:

Chris - 5

John - 11 (ouch, more than all of us combined)

Jake - 2

Jason - 3

Jason in a tunnel along the Katy Trail, MO.

One of the many perks of the Katy trail is the lack of navigation. Besides a couple detours, the route is simple, head west on the trail for 240 miles. Typically we regroup at every turn, but now we were free to travel at our own pace, only reconvening for lunch and at our destination for the day.

I was riding down the trail, when I got a text from John...

It is usually easy to spot where someone is stopped, with their very identifiable “life on a bike” parked out front, but this time, there were five packed bikes, and the other two guys were behind me. Each bike was broken in, and told a story of their rider, one had an ash tray mounted to the handle bars, and another with tires so thick you could ride in the sand. One thing that unified the gang was the penis shaped valve covers standing proud and erect. Who are these guys? I swung open the poorly marked bar door to see John, belly up to the bar in a cloud of smoke, elbow to elbow with his four rough and tumble new friends. His excitement was palpable as he introduced me, and regurgitated all the things he discovered in the past 15 minutes.

“Yo this guy over here has a PLAQUE with his name on it and a special chair at the bar, also there is this dude named Aaro that will just drive us bike supplies for free with no questions asked, and like 15 miles down the trail there is a bike Hostel with SHOWERS.” Whoa whoa whoa slow down, what? Who is Aaro? “These guys met him on a bike forum, and he drove some supplies out to them. When they tried to pay he wouldn’t take it, I’ve got his number. Oh! Also, he carries around a bunch of cow bells.”

Bike Hostel #2

Our SOS message was sent out to the mysterious Aaro, and we eagerly awaited our delivery of Stans, removable valve tubes, and a new tire for John. In the meantime, we made our way to the hostel down the trail. We arrived in the “town” of Tebbetts MO, complete with 3 buildings, one with the descriptive four letters B A N K pasted above the door, a post office, and our home for the night, the Turner Katy Trail Shelter Hostel.

The closest thing to a convenience store was the old Coca-Cola vending machine outside of the hostel. After drinking plain warm water all day, there is nothing better then an iced cold sugary beverage. With two crumpled one dollar bills in hand, Jake Stepped out of the door, determined to get his Mountain Dew. He yelled from out of sight, “it won’t take my ones!” I came out to see Jake feeding the bills in, and the machine repeatedly spitting them back out. In frustration, he started jamming his hand over the slot, refusing to let the bill back out. “JUST TAKE IT!”

Dollars are a no go, time to search for change. After a moment searching through bags, we all returned with a hodge podge of change in hand, taking no time to count if we even had the $1.50. The first few quarters went in as the display on the machine counted up. 25 cents. 50 cents. John puts in a dime. We heard the clink of the coin diving into the machine, but no reading. “Oh now that’s just messed up,” said John as he fed a couple more dimes in the machine. 70 cents. Crossing his fingers, he slid a quarter through the slot. *clink* the display held steady at 70 cents. At this point, all four of us were gathered around the machine illuminated by its red light, yelling in celebration when the machine accepted our payment, and a collective “NOOOO” when a quarter went to waste. If anyone heard our cries they must have thought Super Bowl 54 came early.

Jake has lost all hope of getting his Mountain Dew while John and Jason eagerly insert coins hoping the machine will read them.

Finally, after nearly $2.00 of miscellaneous coins inserted, the machine read $1.20, and we were out of change. Jason set off into the darkness to search the gravel for quarters while John and I flipped every mattress in the hostel in search of a messily $30 cents. Mid mattered flip I heard a jingle as Jake walked out of the bathroom. “I found $50 cents in my pocket. I’m getting that Mountain Dew.” With eager anticipation of one sodas split 4 ways, we reconvened at the vending machine, and our hearts broke when we saw the little screen blank. The $1.20 was gone, stolen by the evil Coca-Cola empire. “That’s messed up man,” Jake said with his head down as we returned to our plastic hostel mattresses, broken and defeated.

The following images are from a field of abandoned cars found along the Katy Trail

Jefferson City

The day after the hostel we traveled 15 miles down the gravel trail through the rain and mud. By the time I reached a pavilion for shelter, my legs were caked in dirt, and everything was wet. John pulled in shortly after with yet another flat, and a finicky derailer. Our plan for the day was to reach Boonville MO, another 55 miles down the trail, but with Johns bike issues, and the conditions of the trail I really wasn’t feeling it. As I boiled water for ramen, I noticed a massive capital building looming under the dark cloud covered sky. Jefferson City, only 4 miles away. I’m sure they have a bike shop. I pulled out my phone and found one. It couldn’t hurt to look at a few hotels too right? Ohhh this one has a pool and hot tub. Hmmm. I looked out to the distance and slowly said, “55 miles, that’s pretty far, what if…” The gang knew exactly where I was going with this, and once they saw the pool they were in. Thanks to an incredible donation of $200 from our friend Jake Noecker, we could afford it too.

Oh so quickly the plan had changed. The dreaded 55 miles was exchanged for a lavish night at the Double Tree hotel in Jefferson City. That night at 9pm we grabbed a few beers and hit the spa. I expected an employee to come down to kick us out for drinking beer in the hot tub, but no one came. The spa officially closed at 10pm, but still, not an employee in sight. 10:45pm, 4 dudes in a hot tub, silent and poised, following a guided meditation that echoed through the tile covered indoor pool room. The peace was only broken a few times with held back laughter as we imagined the staff walking in to the peculiar sight. Just a few minutes after we departed from our meditative state, a women walked in. “The pool closed an hour ago.” We all stood up, and muttered different thing fully aware of our misconduct, “oh I lost track of time” “what, it’s already 11pm?” “Oh the pool is closed?” Once again we had shamelessly overstayed our welcome.

The next day, our wait for the mystery man Aaro was over. John got a text, “I’m here.” Jake and I stayed in the room, while Jason and John ran down, excited to meet him.

Here’s John’s perspective:

Walking out of the hotel with Jason we had no expectations but that of awe and amazement of this ethereal being, sent down from the bicycle heavens to aid us in a moment of trial and tribulation. We walk around, looking for a white SUV when from the corner of my eye I see a pair of white and black Doc Martin oxford’s hanging off the edge of a white SUV’s trunk. In addition to the styles of which I only thought my father could rock, a hand-gestured peace symbol and a smiling face greeted us. Automatically we knew, this was our guy; Aaro Froese. He greeted us, and everyone who passed by while we spoke regardless of if he knew them or not, with hand still positioned in a peace sign and a “Hey there!” We immediately hit it off, with back and forth questions about general bike touring to Aaro’s costume store to Marilyn Manson and beyond. Without skipping a beat and continuing to tell us tales of racing with Lance Armstrong and his sponsorships with Trek he whips around the side of the car, returning to our round table (more triangular than round) with a brand new Specialized Tire and a bag of gifts only someone who had racked up a 12 flat-tire tally on this journey could truly appreciate. Three more inner tubes (specialized) and two full bottles of Giant tire sealant. He jumped to explain that our money was no good to him, and to offer support, hear some stories of adventures past and future are more than enough to assure him we were overly-appreciative. He started telling us how, at 19 years old, he had been given 1,000’s of dollars worth of equipment and to pay-it-forward so to speak was his way of continuing the ideology of the biking community. (Thanks to Cycle-Ex for supplying the gear to Aaro!)

It’s hard to explain coincidence in writing, so I won’t because this wasn’t a coincidence. There are so many generous and supportive people we have run into, but Aaro’s appearance in this account of our U.S. travels was nothing short of inspiring. With Jason and I thanking him more than a dozen times, we began to wrap up the conversation, but before leaving, I couldn’t leave without asking him a final, critical question. “We were told from three guys at a bar that you enjoy making some noise.” Aaro paused, a slight confusion could be seen in his face. “What I’m asking is… where are the cowbells?” Aaro jumps in delight and rushes back into the car only to return 5 seconds later with 3 cowbells. His signature musical instrument, we each hold one up and shake them, maybe as a sign we also like to make noise, maybe as a calling card to remember we met one cool-ass dude, maybe just to signal us meeting another cyclist with a wanting for adventure. And as quickly as he appeared, he was gone. Leaving that lot was inspiring, as I began to think far into my life, hoping when I grow old I would be able to capture some of the enthusiasm and happiness of supporting riders with stories, bike parts, insight, and a peace symbol.

Mudding

Once again we were back on the Katy, slowly chipping away at the 240 mile long trail. Jake was pretty far ahead, and we all got a message in the group chat.

His words were just descriptive enough for us to imagine the worst case scenario, wading through waste high water with our 100 lb bikes held above our heads like soldiers holding their guns away from the water as they trudge through Vietnam. Just as we were warned, at mile 43 the trail was blocked by orange reflective fencing, and we could see jakes tire trail leading off to the left. We pushed through the trees and saw the river. Oh, sure Jake, “major obstacle” yeah right. One by one we rode our bikes through the stream without issue. Easy. Then there was the hill, and things got a little more challenging. It was hard to get footing on the steep muddy grade, and half way To the summit, our tires locked up, immobilized by large clumps of mud jammed between the wheel and frame of our bikes. It was a mix of carrying and dragging this useless piece of steel to get to the top, and it didn’t stop there. We took shelter from the rain under an overpass, removing huge clumps to get the wheels spinning, but the other end of the trail was still hundreds of feet way. The bikes rolled for a few feet before they locked up again and again. In10 foot intervals I lifted my bike, weighed down by mud, and finally reached the gravel on the other side.

(See Jake’s IGTV post @jake_casmay for a full account of his experience in the mud)

Detour on the Katy trail ended in a muddy mess.

Century with Lowell

Early in the trip, I got a message on Instagram.

“Hey, I’m very interested in your ride, and you’ll be passing near me. I hate to intrude, but I am very interested in Photography, and I love cycling.”

Right away I responded, “Yo!! For sure, that would be awesome if you joined us.”

This started a long conversation with a 17 year old kid named Lowell from Missouri. We were passing right through his home town of Sedalia, and he planned to join us for 15 miles to the last stop on the Katy Trail, Clinton MO. At 6AM we met him outside of Casey’s general store, and his father kindly bought us breakfast.

It was a beautiful morning ride with Lowell, chatting about photography, biking, and his plans for college, but quickly we reached Clinton. Under the last pavilion on the Katy Trail, Jason, Jake, John and I began planning the rest of our day. Feeling ambitious, we decided to push all the way to Fort Scott, for a total of 110 miles on the day to make up for the 15 mile day to Jefferson City. Half joking, Jake leaned over, “Hey Lowell, do you want to come to Kansas?” At first he was skeptical,

“You really don’t mind if I join you?

”Of course not man! Let’s go to Kansas!” Said Jake.

”Let me make some calls.” Lowell said as he pulled out his phone. After running it by his dad and grandfather, he smiled… “I’m in.”

The ride was blistering hot, and the longest of our entire trip so far. It was awesome to have a new member of the gang for the day, and it was his first 100+ miler. Great to meet you Lowell!

The gang makes it to Kansas. From left to right, John Lowell, Jason, Jake, Chris

Section 4 - Katy Trail