Day 9 - The missing day

An explanation:

Because of how long it takes to edit photos, find time and space to write while juggling all the other things I’m trying to do on any given travelling day, it sometimes becomes hard to generate a post on the same day as things are happening. When everything fell apart yesterday it seemed like it was more important to get out my current feelings rather than wait until they were no longer fresh and real. And to be completely honest, I don’t think I could have mustered the focus to try to make a coherent and faithful retelling of what transpired the day before. So you get it, but you get it a day out of order.

Also, as before, if you’ve been following my journey and want to donate to keep me going as costs mount ($2000+ on equipment so far) please use the link below:

@TheMidlifeCryclist Donation page

Wonderful Wonderful Wonderful, Goddamn Goddamn Goddamn:

Those aren’t my words, but the encapsulate the entirety of this trip — a wild swing between the worst and the best that a tour brings, and often through the exact same circumstances.

I couldn’t have met Jeffrey without first breaking a wheel. I wouldn’t have been able to spend real time with my Sister-in-law and her wonderful kid and help her to remember just how amazing she is while she’s recovering from a difficult divorce and moving on, stronger. As my former teacher colleague John Fulton often said to students “There is value in the struggle.” Surely as I’ve stated before, we are the sum of those experiences, good or bad, and how they form us through the decisions we make and relationships that help us weather them.

So when Lynn Altman—one of the lovely parishoners who let me into North Judson UMC’s fellowship hall to camp out—said those words, quoting a former patient to whom that was her entire vocabulary, I deeply connected to the statement. I had never heard anyone say “Goddamn” in Sunday school, but it immediately proved that we all live in this superimposed state of light and dark. Don’t misunderstand I do not mean a gray area… Our circumstances and our being is often simultaneously blessed and base.

I know many of you are not Christian, but I am, so I hope you understand my meaning when I invite you into my own christianity: Throughout my life I have had one constant prayer “God, I may never be a good man, but let me be a man that is effective for your Gospel.” For many you may take that as me proselytizing and that is certainly not how I mean it. To me to be effective for the “gospel” (good news) is simple: Love others. I curse. I joke coarsely. I like things I’ve been told by Good Christians that I should never see or interact with. Put simply, I’m human. But at the end of my life, if there is a God, I think he will pull me into his presence and ask me hard questions about my choices in life, not about my foul mouth, and not questioning me like an interrogation, but as a friend trying to understand and empathize with another. And I hope in that moment he will remind me of the good I did, and wipe away the tears of my failures. I want very much to meet him with the confidence that I can say I loved people. I fought for the disenfranchised and those on the fringe. That my christianity sought to do justice, to show mercy, and to walk humbly to others, Goddamned be the four walls of some church.

This leads me to the second most frequent prayer in my life: “If this church isn’t doing what you demand, burn it down.” Partially that statement is very truly pointed at the brick and mortar building, but moreso its pointed at the people within, and especially me. I need my sons and wife to know I love them. I don’t need to sit in an oak pew. I need my friends to know they can depend on me. I don’t need a building. I need to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves. I do not need the comfort of a “christian” country club.

It was these sentiments I felt pouring out from the people around the table at North Judson. It was overwhelmingly confirming that I was surrounded by people that really wanted the sort of practical Gospel that the man Jesus spoke of.

This continued as I stayed through the church service and got to share the sort of rituals that set my alien heart at ease. When we all sang the doxology together it reminded me that through time and space there is so much of our human experience that is flatly shared. That we carry around touchstones that help to connect us and there is value in them that often we do not realize or honor when they feel so common. But the moment when we are outside of our normal they become small comforts that reinforce our connectedness. Even if you aren’t christian, I’m certain you have these sorts of little rituals or traditions within your own family or social circle. “I lova youa so mucha” is written on my back wheel because it is one of the small ritualistic phrases me and my wife repeat to eachother.

Leaving North Judson left me with a sense that even though I’m away from all the people I know and love, I am still surrounded by people that given the right circumstances, they would be my community and I would love them the same. They are people of dark and light at the same time, and they were a momentary refuge for me, a pearl to put along with the many others buildinging out the string of my being.

“Onward”, the Prarie calls:

Part of me wanted to stay with those good people of North Judson, but it was time to leave. So on went the helmet and riding gear and out I went in to the bright noon sun.

Saying that the flatlands are all the same does them a disservice. Every field has its own character and as they roll by they ever so slightly change. I found myself looking around rather than shoe gazing swiftly moving across the arrow straight rural grid roads, occasionally passing by a copse of trees or a small town.

It was a pleasant ride through the diffuse farmlands. I ate a late lunch at a cafe in Wheatfield, IN and enjoyed a few short breaks on the side of the road eating zucchini bread given to me by the folks at North Judson.

Eventually this gave way to me going down a major artery in the area towards the end of the day. If I were less experienced I would have felt extremely unsafe — and admittedly it felt a bit dangerous, but I think people were shoing extra caution because of the child trailer I’m using.

I had already contacted and arranged a host on Warmshowers.org named James. I let him know I was inbound for this evening.

As I arrived in Lowell my battery was at critical level, but moreso because I assumed at about 20 miles out with over 1/2 charge I could sprint the remaining distance at PAS 3, which lets me go faster, but uses more energy. It proved to be a poor choice because in the middle of Lowell the battery shut down. Just as I was greeted with hills for the first time in a while.

I struggled towards James over the last mile and eventually pulled into his driveway, thoroughly tired.

He greeted me in the back yard of his 1930’s Sears Kit house (he told me later) with gigantic red oaks surrounding it. He invited me in and I took a shower to get presentable and he offered to go get me some food. Again, if offered, I receive so I gladly accepted the offer.

As I stepped out of the shower he had a container of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and corn with chocolate cake ready downstairs. We shared a meal with conversation. James is a retired long haul trucker who in his retirement has become interested in touring but yet to do a multi-day ride. I encouraged him and gave him some advice about his current bike.

James struck me as a quiet and kind soul. His adult son lives with him in the farmhouse and they are renovating it, with the eventual hope to lease it out so that he can fund traveling.

I was only James’ second cyclotourist from warmshowers.

I ended the day by calling my wife and Mother to try to speak to my father, as it was Father's Day, but he was asleep, and then blogging in the bed until I couldn’t focus any longer.

All in all it was one of the best days I’ve had on tour. Filled with good people and easy riding (mostly).