by Dave Malone
The sky shouted blue.
The sun poured down, and I took to the shade as I spun my back wheel and adjusted it to its perfect fit.
I stood alone in McKittrick, Missouri under the lean-to with information about the Katy Trail, the smooth gravel track near my feet.
My destination was Jefferson City where my buddy agreed to pick me up some four hours later. I decided not to know how far my journey would be, but guessing the mileage at thirty-seven.
I rode a hard ten miles, with backpack on shoulders, and my rack carrying, not panniers, but a mega-orange duffle.
When I got to Portland, I discovered my total trip was going to be forty-two miles.
I had thirty-two left. My longest ride previous totaled about twenty-five. I knew in seven miles, I’d be pretty damn comfortable. I had prepared earlier in the week with several long rides, including being on the bike for three hours just two days previous, then taking a day of rest. I had what I needed. Peanuts, bagels, water, and a helluva lot of chutzpah.
The Katy Trail sits where the old railroad track used to, so the inclines are never very steep; however, this also means there is rarely any coasting. The old track hugs the River at times and veers away at others.
No matter which direction the trail flows, it’s easy to take in the beauty. The swampy lagoons and trees nestled by the trail and the closeness of the Missouri River. The air cooler on my skin. The bluffs and fields of corn when the River sits more south of the trail. The agreeable smell of cow. The bluest of skies and the puffiest of clouds. The gigantic black snake slithering away on the trail once it spied me. The hum of the bike. The constant fluid motion of my legs like the beauty and simplicity of waves on water.
Before I knew it, the last eight miles of my journey looked head-on at my bike, and for quite a few moments, I didn’t want my trip to end. Yet, when I got to the last mile or two, and my legs took on the language of tired, I acquiesced to ready.
I emerged from a grove of trees and saw the capital building glowing gold in the late afternoon sun. Bikers and walkers appeared like sprites out of the woods as I neared the city.
I coasted in to the lean-to at Jeff City. Filled with glee after my long ride, I jumped off to calm the muscles of my legs and start up conversation with another biker about the best way for my buddy’s approach from the highway.
I didn’t say it to my friend when he picked me up in his gold Ford pick-up. But I thought it. When’s my next ride? I’m ready to do a half-century.
