Beat the Heat; Dodge the Rain
We’re camped in Prophetstown State Park, on the Wabash River just northeast of Lafayette, Indiana. After weeks of relative day and nighttime silence in the west, I now hear the familiar daytime drone of cicadas; at night, the aural symphony includes the throaty repetitive rubbing sounds of katydids layered on top of the background sound of high-pitched shrill mating calls of the male crickets. I’ve ridden eight straight days and am taking a well-deserved rest day tomorrow. With 2,600 miles behind me, I feel the sense of accomplishment growing inside. Somehow, the nighttime cricket sounds reinforce this feeling. It’s like, wow, you started on the misty shores of the Olympic Peninsula and now, the crickets are saying, you’re back on home turf.
But, not done yet.
The home turf package includes sweltering, humid days. Yesterday was one, such animal. I set off from Pontiac, Illinois and admit to being surprised when I realized I had a tailwind. I have been riding on narrow county roads which are numbered and named according to a latitude and longitude grid system (for example, County Road 1730 North is a mile north of County Road 1830 North; both are intersected by County Road 300 West). There is virtually little or no traffic on these roads, and so I find myself riding in the middle of the road under a blazing sun. The road is bordered by acres and acres of King Corn to the left and an equal amount of acreage planted with The Duchess of Soybean to the right.
I had heard there was a heat warning in effect as of 11 a.m., but as I was flying down these roads in the morning I did not feel hot. Perhaps the joy of the tailwind masked the heat? After riding for over 20 miles, I was overdue for a break but there was no shade in sight. As I stood at a quiet county road intersection for a few moments, I swear I could feel the temperature rise. I spotted grain elevators in the distant east surrounded by trees, and a few miles later I arrived in at the spot, which was actually a township called Charlotte (population 13). A young farmer asked if I needed anything and produced two cold bottles of water after I asked him where I could top off my water bottles. After consulting the map (courtesy of Google, of course) I aimed for the small town of Danforth where I would stop and eat my lunch. A few miles to the west of the town I had to cross a narrow bridge over Interstate 57. As I approached the freeway I felt close to being overwhelmed by the suffocating humidity, as if I were riding in an open air sauna. I kind of dripped into “downtown” Danforth and collapsed on the lawn under the trees between a row of shops and a local community bank across the street.
While I was eating, a woman who worked at the bank walked by on her return from the post office. She asked if I needed anything. When I asked about water, she replied to come to the bank lobby and she would give me some. I thanked her and told her I would be there in about 15 minutes. But only a few minutes later I heard what sounded like a 1963 VW Beetle approaching. I looked up to see a hatless, middle-aged woman holding 2 water bottles driving a riding lawnmower. I asked her how she knew (I needed water), and she replied, “I’ve been working out here and I know what it’s like. Have a safe journey.”
As I got up to leave, the digital thermometer outside the bank told me it was 99 degrees. The weather app said the heat index was 104. Welcome to Hades. I headed for the small city of Watseka to meet Joanie. As I road east, happy to still have the tailwind, I made a point to take a deep swig of my electrolyte spiked water (courtesy of Nuun) every half mile. The air didn’t feel as oppressive as it did when I crossed over I-57, but I knew the only way to make it through the day was to drink often and continually douse myself with water (splashing it on my helmet, on the back of my neck, soaking my shirt and my neck buff).
And then, after hundreds of miles of corn and soybeans, the scenery changed. I took a right onto yet another empty county road and, after a mile, I entered what was clearly an eastern forest. The Iroquois River flows north to south into Watseka, and its banks are thick with trees. I realized I had not been in a forest like this since the first night on the road when we stayed in Lake Kashonga State Park in Wisconsin. Riding in the shade (oh, sing praises!), I was witnessing the first sign that I was moving deeper into the eastern USA. I continue to see acres of corn and soybean, but this forested riparian corner of Illinois was a reminder that, like everything else, planted fields of corn and soybean do not last forever. I took a break under the trees at the side of the road, and even though I was shaded from the sun it still felt I was in a sauna. I poured water over my head and rinsed the sweat from my eyes. Drivers passed and either nodded or waved. I could hear what they were thinking (and it wasn’t “I wish I had time to ride my bike like this gentleman. He looks so comfortable.”).
I made it to Watseka and treated myself to an uber-sweet McDonald’s vanilla shake before meeting with Joanie in the large town park. The air was still and so moist you could imagine that whenever you moved you bumped into billions of tiny droplets of water. After an hour or so, we decided to push ahead into Indiana. The forecast had a mention of a chance of late afternoon thunderstorms, but from where we were sitting in the aqueous air of the park, there was no threat of rain.
But as soon as I headed east on yet another country road lined with corn and soybeans, I could see ahead of me the towering white column of a cumulonimbus cloud ahead of the dark clouds of a squall line. Behind me, the sinking sun was about to be swallowed by a massive line of dark clouds. The once still air now whipped into action. The temperature dropped. Had I beat the heat only to get caught in a storm? I had 16 miles to ride across the state line to Kentland (sorry to say, this is not where Clark Kent hails from). The wind was not in my face, so I picked up the pace as the sky darkened. Cars passed with their headlights on. I kept pumping hard. I left the narrow country roads and turned on to US Highway 24 towards Kentland. I could see sheets of rain the distance. Would I make it in time? The miles ticked down. The sky, a deep blue only an hour before, was now covered with dark clouds. I crossed the Indiana line and the highway shot straight as an arrow into the darkening distance. With lightning flashing over the horizon, I pulled into Kentland, 76 miles after starting in Pontiac. I rode hard for those last 16 miles and for the first time in weeks I felt my thighs stiffen in complaint when I walked.
Thank You
Just a quick note to thank all of you who have been reading these posts, and special thanks to all who have donated or sponsored my ride in support of the Inova Schar Cancer Institute. I haven’t done a tally for some time, but I know that between the direct donations to Inova and the sponsorship pledges we have blown way past my original goal of raising $3,600. Thanks!