Day 8 - to North Judson, IN

Overconfidence meets reality:

Look, there are easy days and there are hard days on the road, and sometimes what you think will be easy will be hard and vice versa. You can sometimes predict the disposition, but for your own sake, hedge your bets.

At least that’s my sage advice that I clearly don’t follow.

You see, I can easily convince myself it’s fine, it’ll totally be fine, when a more thoughtful person might be like “hey bud, you sure you can do 84 miles? Like really sure?”. The second person, not me, is the one you want to listen to — disregard that me saying that creates a logical paradox for a moment and remember to hedge your bets.

Yes. I planned a route from Logansport that included 84 miles over the flattest flatness you could ever hope for, with infrequent hills the height of small buildings. Suggestions of hills. The lacroix of hills.

Over 84 miles I was only supposed to go up something like 500ft. Whoopdy-doo. And I had gone 67 miles the previous day so clearly I was up for it.

About that…

I was supposed to be trained up. I was supposed to be at the midpoint of this trek having done like 800 miles, what would 80 be to me and my glorious powerful, horse like lower body? Nothing, I would chew through it with gusto, a resplendent adonis on two wheels.

Instead, I knew about 10 miles in this was going to be a slog, and I was already planning my exit from the mounting pain in my hands and ass. I’m not sure if it was the first 300ft hill I had to climb up to get out of the dip that Logansport sat in, or a mounting calorie deficit, or if it was a change I made to the seat height and handlebar angle, but I was in agony.

The worst part of it all was that the weather was the best I could hope for: Overcast and almost but not quite with a chill. Great riding weather in other words.

I found myself taking frequent stops to rest my aching butt and try to get some energy up to go forward

Nothing I did made my predicament better but I knew there was a midpoint ahead that had to be the stopping point. I couldn’t bear many more miles on the saddle. Which is frustrating because the previous day had been fairly pain free.

So I followed my planned route across the prarie of Indiana cutting through farmlands, occasionally using a highway for a few miles to get to the next stretch of rails-to-trails multi-use paths that span this part of the state. In particular I took the Pulaski trail and the North Judson trails, which currently are unjoined, but will eventually be part of a huge line across the state of well maintained asphalt trails built over old, disused rail lines.

Overall while the surface was easy riding, there wasn’t much to see other than farmland to either side. Evenso my head is usually on a swivel, looking at the terrain as it marches by. Today, however, I spent a lot of time looking down. I don’t know what the reflex is, but I have a tendency to “shoe gaze” when the riding becomes uncomfortable and its something I’ve noted over time. If I’m spending a lot of time looking down, I’m struggling, and today I was struggling.

North Judson and the Mint Festival:

Yes, that’s correct the Mint festival. I’m certain you’ve heard of it, it’s only the longest running festival in Indiana, spanning back 47 years. I assume it started way back in the before times, nigh nineteen ought seventy such. You know ancient, when they would bring out giant men made out of mint leaves and then using handcranked cranes they would lower them into pots of boiling water to make a dark, minty brew in which they would all bathe in its scorching hot—and also shockingly cool minty goodness, washing away their unminted sins and pleasing the lesser mint gods, who would then bless them with a bountiful harvest.

Ok, Everything after 47 years was all fake, but I bet you were questioning reality for a second there beause I certainly was at the time.

I genuinely have no clue what Mint festival was about — but this area did used to grow it, and I’m assuming it was a harvest festival of some sort. However over the years it has morphed into a kind of non-descript middle American mish mash of hay rides, live music, bouncy castles, and vendors.

I got the impression from a lot of locals it was more of an “Oh yeah, that’s happening”, but that it was somehow an attraction to those outside of the community. An opportunity to show off their loud motorcycles, and have a car show while eating an elote and listening to a 2000’s alt-rock cover band.

Ok, fine, I did some research:

Mint festival was started in 1977 to celebrate the region’s historical farming of mint and spearmint used by brands such as Colgate and Wrigleys. Originally it was very much more mint themed than clearly it is today. But to be honest, I really didn’t try to engage with the festival as I was more interested in figuring out where to stay.

No Vacancy:

Earlier in the day I had contacted a potential warmshowers host that lives in North Judson, but I was declined because they rented out their house for festival goers. So I rode over to the only motel in town only to see a “No vacancy” sign.

At this point my battery was effectively dead and I had no place I could charge. I had found some outlets in the festival area but they were dead so I attempted the local park but the issue was the same.

Then I checked Indiana state law regarding camping, which is not legal outside of designated sites. So now I had two problems: Find Lodging, and Charge my battery.

Initially I called the Non-emergency line for Stark county but the dispatcher had no idea how to help. Sometimes they do, for example I stayed in a fire department one night, a homeless shelter another, and in a church on yet another by using this method. Rural folk know people, that’s just how it be most of the time. Just not this particular time.

So I started to search around with churches. I called and left messages with the Lutheran and the Catholic churches but to no response.

Then I noted there was a united methodist church in town and so I started sleuthing.

I found a name of the Pastor of the church on their local website, but I couldn’t find contact information. So I attempted to call the church line hoping that it would forward to the Pastor, but no dice — keep in mind this is a Saturday.

Then I do some further searching and find the pastor is on Facebook and message him directly — still no response.

I knew in my heart if I could just get a hold of him that my Methodist brethren would pull through.

I sleuth a bit harder and in the description of the Pastor I see that his hobby is to volunteer at the local train museum

THE TRAIN MUSEUM IS OPEN ON SATURDAY.

So I called and a woman picks up. I say “This is probably a bizarre question but do you know…” surely enough she was able to scare me up his phone number.

So I call. No response. But the voice mail says I could text…

So I text. No response.

At this point I’m kind of freaking out. I’m sitting under a tree in a random parking lot frantically trying to find a campground I could limp to… when all of a sudden an unknown number flashes across my screen:

After some back and forth the pastor gets me in touch with Dave Altman, a keyholder at the church who lives a few miles down the road. He’s on his way!

I settle in on the lawn of the church and wait for them to arrive. By that time it was around 7pm. Eventually I see a car pull up and two people get out. Dave, and his wife Lynn

We talk for a bit. Dave is a former farmer, teacher, and businessman who gets shoulders replaced as a hobby. He’s up to two now, he might make it to three some day. Lynn is a former home health Nurse and leads the sunday school — which you’ll hear about in tomorrow’s blog.

Both of them were amazingly gracious and helpful. And they have a link to our fair city, Winston-Salem in that two of their neices went to Wake Forrest, and Lynn’s mother has family in the area. So I asked what the familial name was: Leonard she says.

I remarked that name is a Davidson county name, and she told me to ask her mother tomorrow.

After a brief conversation I settled in for the night. Took me a ho bath in a sink, and set out my sleeping kit:

God bless the methodist church. I had a legal place to stay where I could use the bathroom, charge my bike and not be harassed by overzealous cops or mosquitos.

All in all, not the worst day I’ve ever had but it was certainly unexpected.