The best and worst of America

NB: Apologies for the absence of photos from this posting.  The USB card reader I use to transfer pictures from my camera to the computer has disintegrated.  My first chance to buy a new one will be in Pueblo, Colorado, in about a week.

The golden example of Golden City
As the Trans-Am carries us west, the small towns we travel through look more and more like the ones I'm familiar with in outback Australia.  Some are are a bit down-at-heel and obviously doing it tough economically.  Shops are closed and boarded up; streets are in need of repair; rusting pick-up trucks are the most common vehicles.  Others look more prosperous and seem to be surviving the recession quite well.  Golden City, Missouri, obviously named for the oceans of wheatfields that surround it, seems to be struggling a little.  We're out of the Ozarks now, and on to the prairie - not far from the Kansas state line.  Most of the towns out here allow cyclists to camp for free in their city parks.  There's usually a picnic shelter, a toilet block, plenty of shade, and sometimes the town swimming pool is nearby, which is a blessing on these hot days.  (Yesterday was 105 degrees Fahrenheit / 40.5 Celsius.)

We rolled into the beautifully maintained park in Golden City and set up our tents by the shelter.  A little later, a woman emerged from a nearby house and came over to welcome us.  She and her husband are part of the team of volunteers who maintain the park.  She made sure we had everything we needed, told us where to find all the local facilities, and then mentioned that she would leave her house unlocked so we could take shelter there in case there was a severe storm that night.  (Thunderstorms can be so severe here they have storm warnings that sound like air raid sirens.)  There was no fuss about this: it was all done with unassuming, natural generosity and instinctive hospitality.  We've encountered this a lot in America.  We Australians often think of ourselves as a friendly and welcoming people, but I wonder if most of us would measure up to these small-town Americans.

Welcome to Kansas - white man!

With the increasing heat of the prairie, I've taken to getting up at around 5:00 am and cycling on in the half-dark, leaving my riding companions asleep.  This way, I get 40 or 50 miles under my belt before it gets really hot, and they usually catch up with me by lunchtime.  Leaving Golden City just before dawn, I was cruising gently along the flat, straight rural roads between the wheatfields, daydreaming a little and enjoying the cool air and the peace and quiet.  I hardly noticed the cow.  It was standing behind a fence, looking at me, apparently relaxed and unconcerned.  As I passed within a few feet of it, it suddenly roared at me.  The shock almost made me fall off my bike.  I've never been roared at by a cow before.  There's no doubt in my mind that it did this deliberately.  There it was, peacefully standing at the fence, and the next second it uttered a deafening bellow, just as I passed.  Then, it relapsed into its bucolic torpor again, as if nothing had happened.   As I was just about to cross the Kansas state line, my theory is it was saying, "Welcome to Kansas".

My second welcome to Kansas was also a surprise.  By lunchtime the temperature was up in the nineties,and I had reached the little town of Walnut - a surnburnt blip on the great rolling prairie - where I knew there was a city park we could camp in.  I found the park, but there were no facilities - not even a water tap.  (Sorry: a spigot, as my friend Joe would call it.)  In the garden of a nearby house, two young men were tinkering with the engine of a pickup in the shade of a tree, while a teenage boy and girl sat watching.  I walked over and introduced myself, and received the now expected friendly welcome.  They'd be happy to provide me with water; I could use their toilet and shower if I liked; it was really nice to meet someone from Australia travelling through their country.  Then, I mentioned that I had two companions who would be arriving in an hour or so.  They'd be welcome too - "S'long as they ain't niggers!"  This was uttered with such hideous, sniggering malice that it brought me out in a cold sweat.  The man who had said it went on to mention that he had a deer rifle in the house, and to describe what he'd do with it if any niggers showed up.  There followed a string of vile racist jokes and epithets for the amusement of the two teenagers, who appeared to enjoy them immensely.  I felt enveloped in a fog of ignorance, prejudice and hate.  I muttered some excuses about needing to find my friends, and left with a sick feeling in my stomach.  We cycled an additional 40 miles in the afternoon heat that day to the next suitable camping place, bringing the day's ride to 100 miles.

A confession

I know you'll find this hard to believe, but I have fallen foul of the law here in Kansas.  Here is the story of my crime, and it's discovery and retribution.

The town of Eureka is a fairly typical prairie wheat town.  We found the city park, which was typically well maintained and pleasant, and the town pool which was typically right next door.  Unfortunately, we had arrived, hot and sweaty from an 80 mile ride, just after closing time.  There were no showers in the park.  We sat down and discussed this rationally, and decided it would do harm if, after dark, we were to jump the fence and have a quick dip.  With at least an hour remaining before sunset, Joe became impatient.  "What're they going to do?" he asked, "Call the police?"  There was a kids' baseball game going on in the park, and a few other families and groups of picnickers, but no-one seemed to be paying any attention to us, so Joe vaulted the fence and swam.  Ten minutes later, Ryan followed him.  Then, they changed and walked off to find something to eat.  I intended to cook something for myself, so I stayed behind.  Just before dark, I decided I might as well swim too.  Most of the other park users had gone by this time, so I climbed the fence and had a pleasant wallow in the lovely, cool water.  Ten minutes later, while I was cooking my pasta in the picnic shelter, my wet cycling clothes dripping dry, incriminatingly, on a park bench, the patrol car arrived. 

The august personage who emerged from the car was the shortest police officer I've ever seen.  As you know, I'm a little vertically challenged myself, and this officer was half a head shorter than me.  His weaponry, however, was prodigious.  Around his waist was a heavy webbing belt containing a sidearm that would have met with Wyatt Earp's approval, pepper spray, truncheon, handcuffs, and various other lethal-looking appliances.  He wore a big silver star on his chest, and sported a little moustache which was probably intended to make him look mature and imposing.  The effect was rather Hitlerish, or perhaps, Chaplinesque.  For convenience, we'll call him Officer Bumfluff.

He confronted me, legs set firmly apart, hands firmly on hips, serious expression firmly in place.  I knew I was in trouble, and I knew that if I laughed, as I desperately wanted to do, I would be in deeper trouble.  "We've had a report", he began, "of Criminal Trespass."  I tried hard to look concerned and apologetic at the same time, and explained about the lack of showers or water outlets.  Officer Bumfluff was not impressed.  "You do realise", he said, "that I may have to take you off to jail".  I apologised again, paid tribute to his diligence and sense of responsibility, praised his town and its facilities, the friendliness of its people, and generally adopted an attitude of shameless brown-nosing.  Meanwhile, he called his superiors on his mobile phone, making sure I was within earshot as he painstakingly described my crimes and asked advice on what should be done with me.  Then, he called the pool manager and repeated the process.  Apparently unable to get any endorsement for handcuffing me and dragging me off to jail, he finally settled for delivering a long and serious reprimand - legs apart, hands on hips, and moustache twitching intimidatingly the whole time.

When Officer Bumfluff had finally gone, I felt quite slimy after all my crawling behaviour, so I did the only sensible thing: I jumped back over the fence and had a cleansing swim.

Two rivers crossed

It's nice when crossing a border has a tangible dimension to it, rather than just a road sign.  On the Trans Am Trail, you cross from Kentucky into Illinois on a clunky old ferry across the wide Ohio River.  It feels like you've really left one place behind and entered a new one, and  that's very gratifying when the place you're leaving is Kentucky. 

When you're travelling with Joe Meyer, though, a ferry ride just isn't dramatic enough: an act of spectacular derring-do is required.  Joe announces he will swim across the Ohio River.  Now, being from Ohio himself, he has a fair idea of what goes into this river upstream of here, but this does not deter our hero.  His bike travels across with fellow cyclists Ryan and Cooper; I stand watch on the Kentucky shore; and Joe strips off his shirt and enters the wide, brown stream.

The Illinois shore is at least 500 metres away, but he's a strong swimmer and, being 22 years old, is convinced of his immortality.  It quickly becomes evident though that Joe has seriously underestimated the current.  We watch with growing anxiety as he drifts further and further downstream, almost disappearing around the bend before we see his tiny figure struggling on to the muddy bank more than half a mile away.  We're relieved that he's made it, but Joe's journey is far from over.  It takes him almost an hour to work his way back along the bank to the ferry landing, his legs sinking up to the knees in the sticky mud with every step.  He finally arrives, a bedraggled but triumphant figure, and is greeted by a small but appreciative crowd of onlookers who have observed the whole drama.  One rustic wit comments, "Didn't anyone tell him the ferry was free?"

Southern Illinois  is something of an oasis of sanity and normalcy after Kentucky.  No dry counties; no crumbling road edges; not quite so many jingoistic slogans and flags; considerably fewer whacko religious signs.  We're officially in the mid-west now, and the difference is palpable.  The geographical region, of course, doesn't change magically at the state line, so we're still battling rollercoaster hills.  A rest day is declared at Carbondale because it has three bike shops, and our machines need some TLC after almost 1500 miles of travelling along some very unfriendly roads.  Bill Bryson (The Lost Continent) declared Carbondale the most boring town in America, and I can see what he means:  There's no real town centre - just a wasteland of highway strip malls, furniture showrooms, used car lots and fast food franchises.  Nevertheless, the place meets our needs at this moment.  Bikes are cleaned, repaired and serviced, and bodies are rested and refreshed.

Sadly, this where we lose Cooper (pictured) from the Trans Am Team.  He's diverting north to catch a bus to St Louis, then a plane home to Minnesota for a cousin's wedding.  He'll rejoin the Trail in about ten days but is unlikely to catch up with us.  We'll miss him.  Ordering food in restaurants will be boring without him.  While everyone else quickly scans the menu and orders something, Cooper ALWAYS asks questions: "Is the cream fresh?"; "What kind of bread is that?"; "Can I have fries instead of potato?".  "Are the sausages links or patties?" Lunchtimes won't be the same from now on. 

A day and a half later, were already leaving Illinois - crossing an even mightier river, the Mississippi, into Missouri.  (Joe wisely decides not to swim this one.)  The terrain proves to be an extension of the Kentucky rollercoaster.  Even the Ozarks are just a steeper version of the same thing.  Maybe when we get to Kansas we'll finally see a flat road.  The biggest riding challenge though is the heat.  Daily temperatures are in the mid-90's, and although the humidity is dropping a little as we crawl westwards the temperatures are creeping up.  I've reverted to making deals with God, as I did in the Appalachians.  "If this is the last bend before the summit, I'll believe in you."  Back in Kentucky, among the Freewill Baptists, Old Regular Baptists and Baptacostals, Cooper said the church for me was the Bargain Baptists.  Haven't come across them yet.

Roadkill update

While I haven't seen a squashed snake since Kentucky, and the squirrell toll has definitely dropped, there's a new addition to the roadside carnage in Missouri: armadillos.  When I came across the first one, it took me a while to work out what it was.  The impression was of a disassembled baby dinosaur.  Sad!

Missouri seems to have a significant population of another species too, although sadly none are among the roadkill.  These are the Honkers and Shouters, whose identifying behaviour is slowing down as they pass a cyclist and loudly sounding the horn, or leaning out of the window and loudly uttering something poetic and imaginative, such as, "Get off the fuckin' road!"  In evolutionary terms this species is a close cousin of the flatworm, although not quite as intelligent.  They have relatives in most countries, but Missouri seems to be their ideal environment.

We've trawled along the ridge of the Ozarks for four days now, and in another two days we'll be in Kansas.  State number five.  Abou a week after that, we'll be at the halfway point of the Trans Am: Pueblo, Colorado.  Then, the Rockies.

Rolling through Kentucky

And then there were four.

At Catawba, Virginia, a couple of weeks ago, I met Cooper Hanning, a 26 year old cyclist from Minnesota.  We spent a  a pleasant evening chatting and drinking beer before bedding down in the hiker/biker camping shelter behind the General Store.  In the morning I left him sleeping peacefully and made an early start.  Two days later in Damascus, Virginia, I met him again in the main street.  By this time he had teamed up with 22 year-old Ryan Anderson from Newcastle, England - another Trans-Am cyclist.  The three of us had beer and pizza together and slept at a cyclists' hostel behind the local Methodist Church.  

We cycled on together to Hindman, where we enjoyed the cyclists' B & B at the Hindman Historical Society so much that we declared a rest day and sat around enjoying the conversation and hospitality - and home-made Kentuicky moonshine - of the eccentric host, David Smith.  That evening, as we ate dinner on the terrace, another cyclist rang through to check if there was a vacancy.  David put the phone down and announced, "Jeremiah is coming".  We wondered what a person called Jeremiah might be like.  Would he pronounce esoteric prophecies about the fate of the Jews?  Surely he'd have wild hair, a long beard and a robe.  Jeremiah, in fact, turned out to be Joe Meyer, a 22 year old physics graduate from Cleveland Ohio.  We haven't been able to get a single prophecy out of him, but he's ridden along with us happily for the last week.  

We seemed to have trawled our way through all the dry counties in Kentucky, unable to unwind from a hot day's ride with a cool beer or anything else.  (My particular fantasy for days was a chilled bottle of Pinot Gris.)  Then, all of a sudden, there it was: the Rolling Hills Vineyard and Winery, operated by special permit in  an otherwise dry county by twin brothers Donnie and Ronnie.  Not only were we invited in for a tasting and to purchase a couple of bottles, we were invited to camp on the grass next to the winery, and Donnie left the door unlocked in case we needed to shelter from the severe thunderstorms that were predicted for the early hours.  We did.

Ok; the wine wasn't exactly top shelf (in fact the blackberry was the best), and Donnie did inform us twenty or thirty times that Kentucky hospitality is the best there is, but he wasn't far wrong.  He even made us breakfast - sausage, eggs, toast and coffee - and we had to insist on paying five dollars each.

The days have been getting hotter and more humid, and the afternoon thunderstorms are frequent and fierce.  We've left Appalachia now, and the country has changed from forested mountains to rolling bluegrass pasture and cornfields.  There are fewer trailer homes, and the ones we pass now look relatively neat and well cared for.  Most of the dogs are chained up, although one very handsome canine vagabond, looking like a shaggier version of  a Queensland Red Heeler, joined me for a run and followed me for a couple of miles, up and down steep hills, until he got a better offer from a German Shepherd.

The cycling is still quite hard because the hills are steep and the humidity is stifling, but we've started to cover more distance now - 80 miles yesterday.  Tomorrow, we'll cross our second state line into southern Illinois.  No more dry counties until Kansas, we're told.  

The Weekly Religion Report

I'm not normally so focused on religious matters, but America just won't let you forget it.  The churches and religious signs and stickers are just as frequent in Kentucky, but the denominations have changed.  Now we have the Freewill Baptists, Independent Baptists and Baptacostals.  (Yes; it's a real church.)  In central Kentucky, there's a Catholic enclave that's referred to locally as The Holy Land.  (That seems to me to imply that the inhabitants regard their Protestant neighbours as infidels).  Every second front garden here has a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary, whereas the Protestant counties feature signs displaying the Ten Commandments. 

I spotted a bumper sticker the other day that read, "Christ or Antichrist: You Must Choose One."  This bothered me a little.  I've seen plenty of Christ's election posters, but nothing from the other guy.  I wonder if there's preferential voting.  

Kentucky has been a strange and wonderful experience.  In many ways it's the kind of quaint, backward place you feel compelled to joke about  (like Queensland?), but it's also fascinatingly different - a rich tapestry, as they say.  I'm looking forward to seeing the last of its bizarre, restrictive liquor laws and its overbearing  religious messages, but I'm glad I've been here.  It's been fun.  Next - Illinois.

Kentucky

Crossing the state line from south-western Virginia into eastern Kentucky is a bizarre and striking experience.  You're still in the same geological region - relatively young mountain ranges (20 million years or so) that are heavily forested, steep and bisected by fast-flowing streams - but there the similarities end.  Eastern Kentucky is, as someone suggested today, the buckle of the Bible Belt.  If possible, there are even more churches per square foot here than in Virginia, but a bigger proportion of them are non-mainstream - fewer of the United Methodist or Episcopalian variety and more of the, well, oddball.  You can choose between Southern Baptist, Free Baptist, Freewill Baptist, Old Regular Baptist (I'm not kidding), First Church of God, etc, or go for one the "feral" churches - non-aligned, independent, one-off institutions located in private houses, trailer homes, shopfronts, sheds, and bearing titles like Holiness Pentecostal Tabernacle, or Jesus is Lord Church.  Perhaps my favourite though was Poor Bottom Old Regular Baptist.

One spinoff of the religious domination of the state is that many of the counties are "dry".  Yes; prohibition lives in eastern Kentucky.  You can't buy alcohol at all in Pike County, but cross the county line into Floyd County and there are drive-by liquor stores lining the road - tarpaper shacks that seem to be held together by beer posters - for the benefit of the parched residents of Pike.  Cross the next county line into Knott, and it's dry again.  I can imagine the pastors, ministers and preachers of all those churches in Pike County railing from the pulpit about the devil's domination of the county next door.

There were trailer parks and individual trailer homes in Virginia, but here in Kentucky, they're everywhere.  They range from from fairly tidy-looking, modern portable homes to seriously dilapidated, run-down and dirty shacks with broken windows, bedraggled venetian blinds, wrecked cars strewn around, and - dogs. 

All the literature about the Transamerica  Trail warns cyclists about dogs in Kentucky, and as soon as you cross the state line, the mayhem begins.  Small, yappy dogs, big dogs, some indistinguishable from their wolf ancestors and still running in packs - it's hard to tell which are owned and which are strays.  There appears to be no regulation of dogs in the state at all, or certainly not in the Appalachian counties anyway.  Like every cyclist, I'm aware that dogs regard me as their natural enemy, and here in Eastern Kentucky, I'm definitely behind enemy lines.  I was chased or surrounded a dozen times on my first day in the state.  Having forgotten to buy the recommended "dog repellent" pepper spray, I resorted to filling my pockets with handy-sized throwing rocks.  On a downhill slope, the preferred strategy is to outpace the slavering pack, but on the flat or uphill, the only means of defence is attack.  A few well-placed missiles usually give you enough space to make your escape.  Well, it's worked so far. 

One woman emerged from a trailer home and screamed at me, "Don't throw rocks at them: they won't bite you", as her two Rottweiller look-alikes circled me, snarling and barking.  I won't repeat exactly what I said to her, but I know where I really wanted to aim those rocks.  One thing that deters me from seriously taking the owners to task is the knowledge every trailer home almost certainly contains at least one firearm.  This is America, after all.

The cycling is hard here in Eastern Kentucky.  The mountains aren't as high as those in Virginia, but the slopes are steeper, the roads are narrower, and the weather is hotter and more humid.  The other major hazard is the endless procession of coal and log trucks, all driven by possessed madmen.  They seem to come in waves.  On countless occasions in the last two days, I've found myself sandwiched between a line of thundering trucks and a crumbling road verge shelving into a metre-deep ditch lined with cans and broken bottles.  This is incovenient, because the constant fear of sudden death or crippling injury makes it hard to look around and enjoy the scenery which, it must be said, is spectacular.  The roads wind through narrow valleys with rushing streams; steep, forested slopes soar upwards all around; in the intervals between the squadrons of trucks, deer can be glimpsed flitting amongst the trees, and brightly coloured birds are everywhere.  It's as if a pristine, sylvan environment exists just metres away from the sheer madness of the human one on the roads. 

In Kentucky, right now, they're holding elections.  Ho hum, you might think, but here they don't just elect their representatives in Congress and the Senate, both state and federal, they elect the local sherriff, the judges, magistrates, constables, school board members and, believe it or not, the county jailer.  (I wonder if the prisoners get to vote!)  Every third or fourth tree along the road sports an election poster touting some local worthy for one of these positions.  I find the posters intriguing, and hilarious.  A small number of local families in each county seems to dominate the electoral field, and the same surnames appear on local businesses, public buildings and the signs that advertise the hundreds of little family cemeteries dating back to pioneer days.  Kin is definitely an important factor in local affairs around here.  If no-one except your extended family voted for you, you'd still be in with a chance.  Candidates also seem to think that displaying their hokey nicknames improves their appeal.  One candidate for magistrate highlights the nickname "Snoopy" on his poster, another is called "Bubby".  A would-be congressman styles himself Alcen "Hard Rock" Smith.  He'd probably get on well with that most loathsome and ignorant of Australian politicians, Wilson "Ironbar" Tuckey.  I imagine their political views would correlate quite nicely. 

A truly enjoyable aspect of my tour so far has been my frequent, casual conversations with locals outside stores or cafes where I've stopped for a drink, or in supermarket checkout queues and the like.  Yesterday, I was cooling off with an iced coffee outside a country store when I was approached by a genial man with a tattered singlet, a total absence of teeth, a fearsome beer belly and a nicotine-tinged moustache.  He opened with, "Where ya ridin to?"  I casually and heroically responded, "Oregon".  This usually stimulates wonder and hero worship, which is very gratifying, but not in this fellow.  "Never been outta Kentucky myself, 'cept fer ten tears in Florida."  "Oh", I said,  "Why did you leave Florida?"  "Weeeeelll", he responded, "I wus only there two days when I got arrested for tryin' t' sell half a kilo of cocaine on the beach.  Spent the next ten years in the penitentiary.  Came right back here soon's I got out.  I c'n sell as much as I like here, no trouble at all."  How do you top that?

After a wet, stormy ride yesterday, I'm having a rest day today in an unlikely cyclist's haven, the Hindman Historical Society and Museum.  Two fellow cyclists, Ryan, from Newcastle, England, and Cooper, from Minnesota, are relaxing here too, and we'll ride on together tomorrow.  There was a bigger party of riders here last night - it's a sort of bed and breakfast campground arrangement.  Our host, the genial David Smith, greets each sweaty new arrival with a glass of iced tea, cooks for us, provides clean towels for the solitary shower, does our laundry and entertains us with local stories - all for $25.00 a night.  After most of the crew had gone to bed last night, David brought out shot glasses and two mason jars of clear liquid - genuine Kentucky moonshine.  He has other jars buried in the grounds, with plastic lids to foil metal detectors. Immediately after drinking the stuff straight down, (you couldn't sip it: it tastes foul), a warm feeling creeps throughout the body and into the brain.  A peaceful, dreamless sleep soon follows.  I can attest to that.  I really like Kentucky.

More Virginia

I thought once I'd crossed the Appalachians most of the hard work would be over.  My geographical knowledge though, was inadequate.  There are, in fact, two Appalachian mountain ranges, running parallel to each other and separated by the Great Valley.  Almost a week ago I crossed the Blue Ridge - the eastern or older Appalachians, and for the last couple of days I've been climbing through the western or younger Appalachians. Although this range is not quite as high, it's actually more difficult to cycle because there are more dips and climbs, and the roads are steeper.  The countryside is still beautiful though, with an amazing amount of dense forest and lots of wildlife.

Groundhog Day

A few days ago, I camped at a lovely little place called Catawba, where the Appalachian (hiking) Trail crosses the Transamerica Trail.  I camped behind the Catawba General Store with a group of hikers, and we had a great evening drinking beer and swapping stories.  (Some of these intrepid souls were "through-hikers", walking the trail in it's entirety - 2000 miles from Georgia to Maine.)  The next day I rode a tough but satisfying 55 miles in hilly terrain and hot, humid weather, to Radford, where I discovered I'd left my iPhone plugged in to the charger at the Catawba Store.  There wasn't much option except to retrace my steps (or is that, revolutions?) the next day, camp at Catawba again that night, and retrace again the following day.  That day was even hotter and more humid, and there was something incredibly annoying about going over exactly the same ground, even though it was a very pretty section of the route.  It really was Groundog Day.  The same steel bolt was in the same place in the middle of the road; the same red plastic cup sat in the gutter; the same black labrador lay on the same front porch - and it still didn't lift its head or bark.  All I could do was put it in perspective - in a 5000 mile journey, what's an unnecessary 110 miles?  (Sob!)

Roadkill Update:

• More squillions of squirrels;
• Two deer;
• About a dozen snakes, some very large;
• One beaver;
• Lots of pretty little birds - red and black ones mostly;
• One opossum;
• Two turtly things;
• Other unidentified furry or feathery squidgy bits.

A (nearly) exciting wildlife story:

As I rode along a quiet country road, a woman in a car coming the opposite way stopped and leaned out of the window to give me an urgent warning.  (Interpolate thick Virginian accent) "  Now y'all be careful ya hear.  I just passed a big snake up ahead there - Ah reckon it wus a Black Racer.  Y'all look out fer it now.  They're real aggressive thum Black Racers.""

I thought, "You can't scare me with snake stories woman. I'm an Australian.  We invented the scary snake story.  A Black Racer indeed!  Haven't you heard of the famous Australian Leaping Groin Grabber, or the deadly Hoop Snake, that takes its tail in its mouth and rolls after you like a wheel?  Black Racer, ha!"

Anyhow, no giant black snake raced out and attacked me.  Disappointing, really.

What Church is that?

America, well certainly Virginia anyway, has a lot of churches. Little country towns which. if they were in Australia, would have perhaps one, have four or five.  It doesn't seem possible that there would be enough people in some of these towns to fill them up, but they all look prosperous and well cared for.  Maybe some people go to more than one church every Sunday.  I had no idea there were so many varieties of Christianity.

My Dad used to say he could give people directions around Manchester by reference to pubs.  Turn right at the King's Head, left at the White Lion, right at the Royal Oak, etc.  Well, I reckon you could direct people   around Virginia by churches.  Go up past the Bethel United Methodist, right at the New Life Baptist, left at the New Harvest Pentecostal Holiness ....  In fact, as you enter a small Virginian town, the majority of advertising billboards aren't touting local businesses: they're advertising rival churches, all competing for your, er, custom.  (Perhaps that's not the right word.)

Many of the churches, like the businesses and private homes, are festooned with US flags, "Support Our Troops" banners and other patriotic paraphernalia.  I've long been in agreement with Richard Dawkins that religion is a mass delusion, and I've now decided that patriotism is a contagious mental illness.  Certainly, both are equally irrational.  When you put the two together seamlessly, as seems to happen here in America, the result is positively scary.  I'm rather glad I live in a somewhat less religious and less patriotic country.  May it ever remain so.

Television and radio:

I carry a small FM radio with headphones, that I sometimes listen to while I'm riding.  If you scroll through the radio stations here, it's much like Australia - overwhelmingly dominated by sub-intelligent crap, punctuated by advertisements that would insult the intelligence of a flatworm.  In America though, there's another dimension to radio: the religious broadcasters.  You can listen to ranting evangelistic preaching, or esoteric theological debates, (I tried to persevere with one about the desert as a metaphor in scripture, but it went for an hour), or uplifting gospel music at any time of day.  Praise the Lord, there's also National Public Radio - not quite my beloved ABC, but relatively sane and restrained.

TV is even more fascinating.  (I don't carry a TV to watch while I'm riding.)  I watched a religious program the other night that was a direct broadcast from a Southern Black church.  The minister was a large lady with an outrageous feathered hat, who bounced around singing like Aretha Franklin - without the voice or musical ability.  She was backed up by a she-bop, she-bop chorus of swaying parishioners of all shapes and sizes, who also completely lacked the ability to hold a note.  The result was a bizarre, cacophonous spectacle that held me riveted for maybe, a minute.

The saving grace (no pun intended) of American TV though is the public network.  There's even a station called Book TV, where you can watch interviews with writers, panel discussions, reviews, debates and all sorts of other goodies.  There's sanity out there: you just have to look for it.

Forced to stay in a motel because all the campgrounds were booked out for the Memorial Day long weekend, I lay back on the football field-sized bed, opened a beer, and flicked the giant plasma screen to Book TV.  Who should come straight up on screen but one of my environmental heoes, Bill McKibben, author of The End of Nature, and Hope, Human and Wild, among others?  This man's sober, sensible and highly intelligent appraisal of climate change and other environmental issues puts him in the same league as Clive Hamilton and Tim Flannery for me.  He was talking about his new book, Eaarth - Making a Life on a Tough New Planet.  The approach sounds much like Clive Hamilton's Requiem for a Species: a realistic acknowledgement that the opportunity to avoid catastrophic climate change has passed us by, but a manifesto for urgent and specific action to minimise the damage.  I admire both of these people for their refusal to avoid the implications of serious climate research, and their commitment to dealing with the issues, even if others find them unthinkable.

Travelling the roads of America really brings home the unsustainability - no, the absurdity - of the contemporary consumer economy.  Four-wheel-drives (SUVs) here are half as big again as the Australian versions, the iconic example being the Chevrolet Silverado - a thundering great V8 monster that should be called the Tyrranosaurus.  There's little incentive here to switch to smaller cars.  Petrol (gas) is cheap - less than $US3:00 a gallon.  The majority of the giant SUVs, like their Australian counterparts, don't appear to be used for work.  They're just monstrous shopping and recreational vehicles.

Just to flog the religious theme a little more, I cycled into Damascus today.  My road to Damascus was, fortunately, not at all like St Paul's.  No lightning bolt from heaven - just lots of heavy rain.  Actually, I rather Billy Connolly's version of the biblical event:

(Interpolate thick, Glaswgow accent, expetives included.)

"What the fuck was that!  Oh, it's you again.  Did ye have tae barbecue ma fuckin' donkey?"

 In contrast to my sometimes negative takes on American society, every American I meet appears to be friendly, generous and interested in my progress across the country.  The land itself - at least the bit that I've seen - is spectacularly beautiful.  No wonder they love it.  I just crossed my first state line and am now in Kentucky.  I'll let you know soon what I think of this next stretch.