(Attached below is chapter four of my newest book, "Tales of a Cycling Nomad 1982." With Christmas coming up, it's a great gift for friends, loved ones, bicyclists, people looking to challenge themselves in life. You can purchase a copy on Amazon or Barnes and Noble, or by contacting me directly by email to get a signed copy at [email protected].)
Chapter 4
Snakes and Armadillos
When you thread the border into a new state on a bicycle, your mind imagines a significant demarcation, some geographical transformation at the border signaling you’ve entered new territory. There’s not. The Ozarks thread through both, the hills growing steeper, the trees denser. I switch maps to Arkansas after crossing the state line.
Thunderstorms threaten again. When you’re hit by one, you want to avoid future encounters. I’m hoping for a small town hotel on the road ahead.
The sun bakes me to a crisp brown. I’m lost in thought as a blue Mustang pulls up next to me with three teenage males, and one yells out the window, “Get off the road nigger!,” and they peel off, laughing, exhaust smoke trailing. Incensed, I pop up the gears and race after them.
Thoughts of yanking them from the car and smashing their teeth in rage through my mind. Even pedaling as fast as is humanly possible their car recedes in the distance. After 3-4 miles of explosive riding, I’m soaked and exhausted and dial back my anger and pedaling.
There is no blue Mustang in town, but there is a run-down motel for $8.99 a night. I pay, walk my bike in, and examine the dump – no shower; paint peeling; soap that barely creates suds. But it’s a roof over my head and safety from the impending storm.
The water is hot in the tub and I soak for a long time as the grime dissolves from my body. A black ring of dirt stains the tub afterwards. Rumbling comes closer. I’m asleep though before it hits. In the morning, the air is clean, the humidity down.
+++
The names of towns stand out. I pass through Nimrod, AR, and play around with it in my head, “You Nimrod. Quit being a Nimrod.” Makes you wonder how the town got named.
I pass through Toad Suck, AR and Toad Suck Lock and Dam, and spend hours afterwards playing around with the name, weaving imaginary short stories around it.
There are few towns with more than 20,000 souls in Arkansas, and I will pass through only one on the journey – Conway. The roads are sparsely populated. Many homes have 2-3 trucks up on blocks for spare parts to keep another truck in running order.
Chickens and pigs are not uncommon on plots surrounding the homes. Many have large vegetable gardens, laundry hanging on the line and large stacks of wood for heating and cooking. People appear more self-sufficient as you get farther away from civilization.
Late one afternoon, I pull up to a country store. The owner, portly and balding, swings in his rocking chair. He is warm and inviting. We chat for a bit, and a young man stops his church van and gets out. The owner hails him, “Whattaya believe, son?”
“I believe in Jesus Christ as my savior,” he replies.
The young man is scrubbed clean, short hair, fresh clothes and a wide smile. He’s making the rounds for his church, spreading the gospel, handing out the pamphlets. It’s a different situation for me. This is the Bible belt. You find out that people wear their religion on their sleeves more in the south, verbalizing their faith in Christ. As a northerner, this is new for me – a learning experience.
The owner inclines his head slightly, giving his assent for the young man to put out a stack of his literature in the store. The young man engages the store owner further, letting him know where the church is, when services are, and encourages his attendance before he hops into his van and off to the next small town store. Spreading the word.
As he drives off, we resume our conversation, talking about where I’m from, where I’m headed. He’s lived in the area his entire life. If you first met him, you’d think he’s a bit off, as he wears Coke-bottle glasses and is slightly cross-eyed. You’ be misjudging him though if you stereotyped that as not being up with things.
The guy is sharp as a steak knife in a high-end restaurant. He rocks in his chair, asking insightful questions, clearly interested in my journey. He offers insights on the country, the direction it’s taking and how things can be improved. It’s a pleasant conversation, one that takes several different directions, and he offers consistently up-to-date perspectives on what is going on. He’s a reminder to me to get to know people. Don’t assume, based on an initial perspective, that you know someone. There’s always more there. There’s always a story to tell.
He invites me to dinner, a house a few miles back the route I’ve just come. I agree and push off. He closes the store and plans to join me in a few minutes.
Pedaling back to his house, there are two boys shooting hoops in the front yard, yelling, “It’s Super Seed. He’s got the ball. Super Seed shoots. He scores! Super Seed is dominating.”
Who the heck is Super Seed? I play a lot of pickup basketball and am a bit of a student of the game and have no idea who these two kids are yelling about.
I ask the owner when he arrives. “That’s Super Sid Moncrief of the Milwaukee Bucks. He played here for the University of Arkansas.
Now I get it. He was one of the big three that put Arkansas men’s basketball on the map, along with the Machine Gunner (so known for machine gunning shots in rapid fire) Marvin Delph and defensive specialist Ron Brewer. Local slang and a southern drawl threw me off. Super Seed will stay with me the rest of the trip, a story that speaks to local culture and the universal nature of basketball as something that brings us all together.
We eat heavy food and I sleep like a rock. Carbed up, I wake with energy and hit the road early.
+++
Throughout Arkansas I notice dead animals on the highways – particularly turtles, armadillos and snakes. It’s a sad statement about gasoline powered vehicles. They hurtle along with such speed that these creatures often have no chance to cross the road, getting splattered and crushed with regularity.
I try to count how many I see through the Ozarks and northern Arkansas, but the number is too great. Instead, I estimate how frequently I see a dead animal on the road. After several days of personal tracking, it turns out to be approximately one dead creature per mile. Though I’m not a big fan of snakes and don’t have much knowledge of armadillos, the carnage bothers me when I think of our modern vehicles destroying precious wildlife.
On the bicycle, you are immersed in nature, tied to the local habitat, and able to see long stretches in front when a reptile or mammal is edging across the pavement. Multiple times I stopped to help a turtle across. Why they cross the road is beyond me, but speaking with locals, it sounds like it has something to do with the time of year, mating season, and getting back to their water habitat. But that doesn’t explain why they were on the other side of the road to begin with. It’s perplexing. A mystery for the trip.
+++
Roads up the hills of the Ozarks tend to be steep. Rather than snaking side to side to decrease the incline, the engineers decided to head straight to the top. This makes for tough riding. I’m typically down in the lowest gear, pedaling standing up and out of breath by the time I reach the top of each new hill.
Looking down makes you think of roller coasters. You see how you can rocket down. After days of getting used to the speed of the descent, I become more and more daredevilish, and finally decide to let it all out. Almost a BIG MISTAKE!
To gain speed like a bike racer, I drop my head down low on the handlebars and contract my body. This streamlines your speed to cut through the wind. A car passes me going the speed limit most likely – 55 mph. I coast to a stop, then push off to see how fast I can get down the hill.
It’s exhilarating feeling the wind whip through my ears. I’m dialed into the surface of the road, hands locked to hold the bike steady. The slightest bump can set you off course.
I close in on the car, so I’m close to 55 mph when I hit a very small rock. The front wheel wobbles and veers off. I struggle with the frame, fighting the fall. Quickly I right my cycle, hit the brakes and slow my speed. An adrenaline rush. Not one I wish to emulate in the miles ahead. One more lesson: Apply the brakes coming down big hills and mountains or I might not finish the journey.
+++
Chapter 4
Snakes and Armadillos
When you thread the border into a new state on a bicycle, your mind imagines a significant demarcation, some geographical transformation at the border signaling you’ve entered new territory. There’s not. The Ozarks thread through both, the hills growing steeper, the trees denser. I switch maps to Arkansas after crossing the state line.
Thunderstorms threaten again. When you’re hit by one, you want to avoid future encounters. I’m hoping for a small town hotel on the road ahead.
The sun bakes me to a crisp brown. I’m lost in thought as a blue Mustang pulls up next to me with three teenage males, and one yells out the window, “Get off the road nigger!,” and they peel off, laughing, exhaust smoke trailing. Incensed, I pop up the gears and race after them.
Thoughts of yanking them from the car and smashing their teeth in rage through my mind. Even pedaling as fast as is humanly possible their car recedes in the distance. After 3-4 miles of explosive riding, I’m soaked and exhausted and dial back my anger and pedaling.
There is no blue Mustang in town, but there is a run-down motel for $8.99 a night. I pay, walk my bike in, and examine the dump – no shower; paint peeling; soap that barely creates suds. But it’s a roof over my head and safety from the impending storm.
The water is hot in the tub and I soak for a long time as the grime dissolves from my body. A black ring of dirt stains the tub afterwards. Rumbling comes closer. I’m asleep though before it hits. In the morning, the air is clean, the humidity down.
+++
The names of towns stand out. I pass through Nimrod, AR, and play around with it in my head, “You Nimrod. Quit being a Nimrod.” Makes you wonder how the town got named.
I pass through Toad Suck, AR and Toad Suck Lock and Dam, and spend hours afterwards playing around with the name, weaving imaginary short stories around it.
There are few towns with more than 20,000 souls in Arkansas, and I will pass through only one on the journey – Conway. The roads are sparsely populated. Many homes have 2-3 trucks up on blocks for spare parts to keep another truck in running order.
Chickens and pigs are not uncommon on plots surrounding the homes. Many have large vegetable gardens, laundry hanging on the line and large stacks of wood for heating and cooking. People appear more self-sufficient as you get farther away from civilization.
Late one afternoon, I pull up to a country store. The owner, portly and balding, swings in his rocking chair. He is warm and inviting. We chat for a bit, and a young man stops his church van and gets out. The owner hails him, “Whattaya believe, son?”
“I believe in Jesus Christ as my savior,” he replies.
The young man is scrubbed clean, short hair, fresh clothes and a wide smile. He’s making the rounds for his church, spreading the gospel, handing out the pamphlets. It’s a different situation for me. This is the Bible belt. You find out that people wear their religion on their sleeves more in the south, verbalizing their faith in Christ. As a northerner, this is new for me – a learning experience.
The owner inclines his head slightly, giving his assent for the young man to put out a stack of his literature in the store. The young man engages the store owner further, letting him know where the church is, when services are, and encourages his attendance before he hops into his van and off to the next small town store. Spreading the word.
As he drives off, we resume our conversation, talking about where I’m from, where I’m headed. He’s lived in the area his entire life. If you first met him, you’d think he’s a bit off, as he wears Coke-bottle glasses and is slightly cross-eyed. You’ be misjudging him though if you stereotyped that as not being up with things.
The guy is sharp as a steak knife in a high-end restaurant. He rocks in his chair, asking insightful questions, clearly interested in my journey. He offers insights on the country, the direction it’s taking and how things can be improved. It’s a pleasant conversation, one that takes several different directions, and he offers consistently up-to-date perspectives on what is going on. He’s a reminder to me to get to know people. Don’t assume, based on an initial perspective, that you know someone. There’s always more there. There’s always a story to tell.
He invites me to dinner, a house a few miles back the route I’ve just come. I agree and push off. He closes the store and plans to join me in a few minutes.
Pedaling back to his house, there are two boys shooting hoops in the front yard, yelling, “It’s Super Seed. He’s got the ball. Super Seed shoots. He scores! Super Seed is dominating.”
Who the heck is Super Seed? I play a lot of pickup basketball and am a bit of a student of the game and have no idea who these two kids are yelling about.
I ask the owner when he arrives. “That’s Super Sid Moncrief of the Milwaukee Bucks. He played here for the University of Arkansas.
Now I get it. He was one of the big three that put Arkansas men’s basketball on the map, along with the Machine Gunner (so known for machine gunning shots in rapid fire) Marvin Delph and defensive specialist Ron Brewer. Local slang and a southern drawl threw me off. Super Seed will stay with me the rest of the trip, a story that speaks to local culture and the universal nature of basketball as something that brings us all together.
We eat heavy food and I sleep like a rock. Carbed up, I wake with energy and hit the road early.
+++
Throughout Arkansas I notice dead animals on the highways – particularly turtles, armadillos and snakes. It’s a sad statement about gasoline powered vehicles. They hurtle along with such speed that these creatures often have no chance to cross the road, getting splattered and crushed with regularity.
I try to count how many I see through the Ozarks and northern Arkansas, but the number is too great. Instead, I estimate how frequently I see a dead animal on the road. After several days of personal tracking, it turns out to be approximately one dead creature per mile. Though I’m not a big fan of snakes and don’t have much knowledge of armadillos, the carnage bothers me when I think of our modern vehicles destroying precious wildlife.
On the bicycle, you are immersed in nature, tied to the local habitat, and able to see long stretches in front when a reptile or mammal is edging across the pavement. Multiple times I stopped to help a turtle across. Why they cross the road is beyond me, but speaking with locals, it sounds like it has something to do with the time of year, mating season, and getting back to their water habitat. But that doesn’t explain why they were on the other side of the road to begin with. It’s perplexing. A mystery for the trip.
+++
Roads up the hills of the Ozarks tend to be steep. Rather than snaking side to side to decrease the incline, the engineers decided to head straight to the top. This makes for tough riding. I’m typically down in the lowest gear, pedaling standing up and out of breath by the time I reach the top of each new hill.
Looking down makes you think of roller coasters. You see how you can rocket down. After days of getting used to the speed of the descent, I become more and more daredevilish, and finally decide to let it all out. Almost a BIG MISTAKE!
To gain speed like a bike racer, I drop my head down low on the handlebars and contract my body. This streamlines your speed to cut through the wind. A car passes me going the speed limit most likely – 55 mph. I coast to a stop, then push off to see how fast I can get down the hill.
It’s exhilarating feeling the wind whip through my ears. I’m dialed into the surface of the road, hands locked to hold the bike steady. The slightest bump can set you off course.
I close in on the car, so I’m close to 55 mph when I hit a very small rock. The front wheel wobbles and veers off. I struggle with the frame, fighting the fall. Quickly I right my cycle, hit the brakes and slow my speed. An adrenaline rush. Not one I wish to emulate in the miles ahead. One more lesson: Apply the brakes coming down big hills and mountains or I might not finish the journey.
+++