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.