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Kansas City Irish Festivals, Music, Pubs, & Events by an Artist in Ireland

Assault on Kansas City

Part 40 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)

The next entry in the journal is taped, and both tape and transcript are currently in long-term storage in a Dublin industrial estate. But because I love the loyal 3 readers of this series I’m going ahead with the entry anyway - from memory 12 years later.

Expect a lack of detail so, in this first non-contemporaneous entry, but I don’t want to skip this day as it’s an important one. It is the day I intend to cycle into Kansas City, where my 1 week halfway rest, of the entire Trans-American cycle, has been planned for months.

And also because if I make it then it will become the longest single day’s cycle on the trip so far - beating the previous longest of 110 miles from New York to Philadelphia, all the way back before I was knocked down.

Elsmore is in Allen County, the first of 5 counties in Kansas I’m planning on cycling in before entering Kansas City in Missouri. 120 miles seems absurdly ambitious, and will be impossible with any kind of wind.

In somebody else’s home I move quicker to get on the road. And I start earlier. My host is cooking breakfast. Pancakes. I have 7. And 4 eggs. And more. His eyes seem to widen as he watches the speed I put food away with, and he asks if I’d like another 3 pancakes. They and the rest of the table of food are devoured.

More food is put into my bags and then it is time for goodbye.

Back over railway tracks by the old grain elevator and along Main Street. I wouldn’t call it Main St except that is its name. In a town of surely no more than 40 buildings there are a 3 or 4 buildings joined together on either side of Main St. And they appear closed down.

Then I am back out onto Highway 59 and and cycling north about 9 miles to the bigger town of Moran. Before I get there I pass a bobcat on the road. He looks perfect. Except for the being dead part.

[This is long so I’ll stick the rest of this entry below the fold]

Again I see the trees, that I learned over dinner are called Osage Orange or Hedge Apple trees, dotted along, and their bright green hedge apples scattered around.

At Moran I go into a gas station to buy a drink. Before I speak I am asked “Are you Eolaí?” I admitted I was, but didn’t ask how this was known. America must not be as big as it feels, I was thinking before I remembered that my host in Elsmore was a mail man.

There was a back road east so I could avoid Highway 54 for 5 miles. In the early morning sun there’s a gorgeous stillness about the land and about me only a few miles into my ambitious day.

Before the road joins up with 54 I see two ladies ahead of me walking along the road. I lack that American confidence to project my voice and wish them good morning from a distance that won’t startle them. So although I have slowed down to 5 mph they are unaware of my presence until I reach them.

Watching 2 women leap and scream in fright in the Kansas landscape wasn’t what I had wanted to see but it did at least encourage me to cycle on that bit faster the 2 miles to Bronson and my turn to the north.

I was turning into what appeared to be a very large expanse of land with very little population and a long way in any direction to any major road. In the 50 miles north to Osawatomie and its main road to KC, there appeared to be only one town of any size, and a couple of those tiny towns where you would be lucky to find so much as a vending machine.

It’s flatter than the land to the south. A barren scrubland. The trees with the hedge apples are less and less though I still recognise posts made from their branches.

When you turn a corner in rural Kansas it’s so definite. The road ahead is straight and with every turn gets ever more lonely. That doesn’t happen so drastically on roads that bend. It is 12 miles north then turn right and 3 east and Blue Mound is around the corner.

To the left I see the main street. I see murals and I see life. It’s over 30 miles since the great pancake festival that was breakfast at 7am. I need food.

I walk into a cafe, possibly called the Feed Lot Cafe. A man is drinking coffee at the bar. The woman running the place asks me if she can get me anything. I decline coffee and say I ‘d like a big plate of food.

“Well, we’re kind of in-between breakfast and lunch”
“I am myself”
“So which do you want?”
“I don’t really care what you call it, I just want a big plate of food”, I said as I left my bicycle helmet and gloves on a table and headed to the jax.

This non-specific ordering process I had tried many times before, usually to do with how I wanted my eggs or what kind of salad dressing I wanted. And every time I would be forced to concede and pick randomly from the offered choices.

When I returned from the restroom I was trying to think of what food might be on the menu that would be good to get me through the next 40 miles, something stodgy ideally, when I saw beside my helmet a large plate of biscuits and gravy, and bacon and eggs.

“Will that do?” she asked me without fuss and I wondered if I could live forever in Blue Mound, Kansas.

120 miles is a big distance when you’re fit. But with a gimpy leg and heavily bruised backside, it’s a huge distance. Focused on the challenge ahead I am quiet in the cafe. Other days of shorter distances I sometimes seek out conversation, but this day was one of withdrawal that the surrounding desloate landscape suited very well. I’d been cycling for 3 hours and still had almost 90 to go.

Back on the bike I realised I’d forgotten to take a photo of the street. Not a day for going back. 10 miles north and I was in Centerville. The centerville of nowhere some people probably called it. Cycling was slow but persistent, and in theory I was still on target.

9 miles north to Parker - criss-crossing the railway. Then I see a sign indicating the name of the street in this tiny community is 392nd St. Huh? Then I see 391st Terrace. Just a couple of basic houses in among the trees that always define a town.

A little bit earlier before coming into the town I had seen 399th St. Could these street numbers really be in relation to Kansas City? 70 miles away? Am I now counting down streets all the way to the end of my day?

Out of the village and I step due north and due west 8 miles until I’m in a town called Beagle and close to the edge of this lump of land that looked so remote, so intimidating, on the map. I join Plum Creek Road for 6 miles north into Osawatomie.

Osawatomie is a town name I know and it’s on US 169 a highway that goes all the way into KC. If you have a car that is. It’s a big road and I make a decision for speed, to go up onto it and belt on the 10 miles to Paola. Going diagonally northwest it also saves on distance compared with the smaller roads going due north and east.

Despite the shoulder, it’s a dangerous option with traffic being heavy and very fast. And there really isn’t much point in cycling across America if this is how you experience it.

On the ramp coming off I am at 327th St and starting to enjoy the countdown but scared of it too. As the ramp down bends around I get passed by a car where a man wearing a Jonathan King style multi-coloured frizzled hair wig drops his pants and sticks his bum out the window at me.

As I roll into town I see a Dairy Queen and decide for familiar stodge from a fast food place rather than look for somwhere more interesting. As I sit down with my oversized burger, 2 men walk in and the one wearing a multi-coloured wig looks at me and says “uh-oh”. I nod recognition.

I phone Kansas City proud to announce that I have reached the recogniseable world so am still on target to make it. My KC contact has never heard of Osawatomie or Paola.

As I pass 271st Street I realise I have less than 200 to go to my destination of 72nd St. Well 200 numbers, but with the alternating street-terrace-street-terrace system in Kansas City, that’s really 400 streets.

I take the Old KC Road north 7 miles to Hillsdale. It is parallel with US 169 and very pleasant. It’s like an ordinary main road at home. There are country clubs, farms and ranches. White fences and horses. I think of Kildare, but this is tidier.

13 miles north north west to Spring Hill still on Old Kansas City Road. Just having “Old” in a street name gives it a sense of history. I pass 200th Street. I’m a long way from Blue Mound.

Time to turn east. I’d been putting it off because miles cycled east bring me no nearer to Kansas City. It is 8 miles East to Aubry and a small blacktop called Metcalf. Straight with hedgerows. Reminds me of a road from home.

It is getting close to working out my way into the city. It’s over 80 degrees and I am thirsty. The plan is to make my way to State Line Road for no there reason than it seems cool to enter a city on a road that is split down the middle between 2 different states.

I call into a cafe and sit outside in the sun. A UPS man sees the bike and befriends me with the usual questions of who am I and what am I doing. After I answer, from underneath his moustache in a distinctly camp voice he tells me, “we are so proud to have you”. How can you be proud of someone you met 30 seconds earlier?

Since we’re now so close I ask him for directions into the city that would be safe for a bicycle. Something about his answer tells me he is confusing a bicycle with a UPS van.

I go north 5 miles to 159th then east to Kenneth Rd. There is long tailback down the hill because a train is crossing. I feel strong but am glad of having to wait. And I love watching trains. Their presence has been with me almost all day.

The road bends, god how good does a bend feel? While on Kenneth Rd heading due north I come to a junction with Kenneth Rd to the east, Kenneth Rd to the north, and Kenneth Rd to the south. And I’m told road names in Ireland are confusing.

I choose the Kenneth Road to the east. Dip into the trees and cross a small river. Welcome to Missouri. It’s beautiful. The sun is turning golden and gently blasting through the trees. But the road then goes south east and not just east. I can’t afford to go the wrong way so I go back into Kansas to the junction of the Kenneth Roads and turn north.

This causes me to cross back over the railway lines which are also wending their way into KC. There is construction everywhere, diversions, traffic, temporary roads, cones. At one point I get off the bike and carry it across the muck to get away from the busyness of the traffic.

Eventually I am on State Line Road. I am excited because this is a street name I know from my one previous visit to Kansas City. Excitement wanes as I realise I am on a 4-lane road with a lot of traffic and no shoulder.

It is built up. Like a city. Like any city. Like Atlanta, I think. Negotiating the drains and the fast rush-hour traffic is exhilarating. But the countdown in the street numbers goes on and I sense the trip is almost over. I am going to make it.

To the right on several streets I see more “Welcome to Missouri” signs. I don’t photgraph any, telling myself I’ll have a whole week to take that photo. It is the most magnificent of countdowns, getting closer and closer to 72 (for 72nd St).

State Line Road gets smaller. It feels like a neighborhood. I have crossed 75th street and know I am just 6 blocks and a couple of minutes away from 72nd Street. Then there it is. I turn right and look for a familiar house.

Exhilaration turns instantly to despondency when the first number on a house I see is in the thousands. Because my destination is plain old number 18. I can’t face another epic countdown and almost collapse. Just make the wheels roll, I tell myself. I’ll get nearer and can always get picked up, but it would feel awful after 115 miles to get so close but not make the whole trip.

A couple of blocks on and I realise the house numbering jumps in huge increments. In hundreds. I am very near. I am going to make it. I so want to see a familiar face.

Suddenly this countdown is not epic at all. It is more like the countdown on New Year’s Eve. Then there it is. The house I know. The house I stayed in on my visit a year earlier. I am 3 days later than first planned many months earlier, but bang on target and on time for the new plan I hatched after I was knocked down a month earlier and laid up for 5 days.

I have cycled over 116 miles. I am in Kansas City.

I get off my bike and lean it against the uncovered concrete slab that passes for a porch, and knock on the door wondering what I will say when it is opened for I know I am exhausted and probably incapable of anything coherent.

There is no answer, which explains the lack of cars outside.

I lie down on the concrete slab, pour the remains of my water bottle over my face and body, and close my eyes.

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This entry was posted on Friday, May 9th, 2008 at 8:12 am and is filed under 1-eolai, Cycle Across America. You can follow responses via my RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.