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.