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.