Some of the nice folks at Church of Christ in Scottsville, KY: Sarah, Sandy, Silas, and Shannon Newton, Wayne Berthelot (from LA!), and the pastor, Shelton Peeler.Friday, August 3, 2007
Holy Rollers
2 August 2007
It seems we’ve some catching up to do.
In the past week, two of my older sisters birthed babies: Laurel Elizabeth Roberts and James Patrick Curry. Welcome to the family; you’ve no idea what you’re in for.
Happy Birthday wished to Uncle Steve, my nephew Jackson, and my grandfather, Papa.
Now, to account for my time in the past seven days or so.
On 26 July, we rode out of Berea, KY bound for Springfield, KY. Along the way, I’m not sure of which there were more, rolling hills, strong headwinds, or dry counties. God bless Springfield, which is the very edge of bourbon country as well as where Abe Lincoln’s folks were married. I think they were proudest of the latter; we were most thankful for the former.
Next day, (27 July) we left Springfield headed east, which disturbed us so much we triple-checked our directions before continuing. The cartographers weren’t mixed up; the eastbound section lasted only a few miles before turning onto a circuitous but southwesterly course.
We rode twenty miles or so into Bardstown, and pulled into a driveway to cross-check our cue sheets (which are easy-to-read index cards prepared by Will which have turns, road names, and distances and eliminate the need to continuously refer to an unwieldy map) with our map. As we were clipping in to leave, I decided to see just what this house looked like. I pedaled up the drive a bit, and discovered it was actually a state park housing My Old Kentucky Home, which is as famous to Kentuckians as Houmas House is to folks back home. We rode up the rest of the way to the house, snapped a few pictures, and kept rockin’ down the road.
A few miles later, and we began to smell a fragrance quite familiar to anyone so lucky as to find himself within a few miles of Death Valley on a Saturday in the fall-bourbon.
I was sure I was hallucinating, so I drank my water bottles to empty in order to stave off dehydration.
Then a bright light appeared, and I saw a sign.
The light turned out to be a car speeding towards me, but the sign said “Makers Mark Distillery, This Way”. We stopped for lunch around 30 miles, and agreed that we could take an afternoon off to experience some Kentucky history (the distillery is the oldest in operation and on the National Register of Historic Places) and to replenish our spirits.
The tour was relatively quick, but in the midst of it, a mist rolled in, and it began to rain. None were in favor of continuing, as there was lightning, so we found a campsite at My Old Kentucky Home State Park, supped, and slumbered.
28 July dawned hot but not stiflingly so, and the humidity had settled back down to a comfortable level. We rode an uneventful 72 miles to Cave City, KY. We were pleasantly surprised to see our average cruising speed at the end of the ride much higher than usual, even in Louisiana. Before this tour, I could ride from my house on Nicholson Drive to River Road, covering twenty miles in almost exactly an hour. Any longer and I simply couldn’t sustain such a high speed. Two weeks into the Capitol to Capitol Ride and 65 miles into this day’s ride, we three riders were cruising slightly uphill and into a significant headwind at about 24MPH. The changes we’ve undergone physically are amazing to us, and we can’t wait to get back to River Road after a few days’ rest to really open up.
This night, we camped at Mammoth Cave National Park. Unfortunately, we arrived too late for an evening excursion and the earliest morning tours were booked solid, so we arose early, as usual, but we had to shuttle the bikes to the stopping point of the previous day and got a later than usual start.
We rode until after noon, and decided to stop at the next place which was far enough off the road to offer safety and afforded us enough shade to remain comfortable while we ate and napped. We found the Scottsville Church of Christ parking lot not to hot, not too cold, but just right.
As we rode up the hill to the church, we noticed there were a few cars and several people milling about. As soon as we parked the van and dismounted our bikes, a friendly parishioner, Mrs. Newton, offered to let us partake of their potluck dinner. She didn’t so much have to convince us as much as dodge the stampede into the common hall.
Minister Shelton Peeler and Mr. Wayne Berthalot visited with us and kept us company while we ate, and told us the safest way to get to our next town. This was exceptionally useful information as Minister Peeler runs a great deal and was familiar with the traffic density along the route we needed to take, which was not the one we had chosen, as we could no longer rely on the Adventure Cycling maps which detailed the coast-to-coast TransAmerica Route. Since we left Cave City, those maps were no longer of use to us, and we used the GPS mapping software we’ve brought along to filter out undesirable high-traffic roads. However, a little local knowledge proved even more useful than such a sophisticated tool, and our route was an enjoyable spin down just across the border into Tennessee. We backtracked a few miles in the van to a KOA in Franklin, KY.
30 July brought a 74 mile cruise which wound ‘round the western side of Nashville, avoiding the busier roads in the city and taking us up and down rolling hills, with only a few short (but steep) climbs interspersed throughout the route.
We broke for lunch at the Cheatham County Courthouse, where, while we relaxed in the shade, we visited with a local cabinetmaker and woodworker who offered us a place to stay, swim, eat, and do our laundry. We would certainly have taken him up on his offer had we not made previous arrangements to stay with the Edwards clan in Brentwood, just south of Nashville. We visited for a few minutes, and he mentioned that he had some kin from a small town we’d probably never heard of somewhere north of Baton Rouge, and asked if we knew some Youngs and Mills from Zachary and the Plains. I thought for a moment, then blurted, “Betsy Mills?”
“Oh, you know Aunt Betsy!”
Mrs. Betsy is a dear friend of my mother’s; they are in a weaving club together. Mom got a kick out of that, and told me that one of my best friends from childhood was kin to those folks as well. Stephens Young McVea is a cousin somehow, but I needed a road map to see how it all worked out.
We visited for a few more minutes, then the judge asked us to kindly leave his courthouse gazebo.
We weren’t causing any trouble, and they didn’t have any local ordinances against men lounging around in really tight pants (that I know of); there was a wedding to be held at that gazebo just then, so we saddled up and rode the rest of the way around Nashville.
We ended our ride at the terminus of the Natchez Trace, mile marker 444.
We drove towards the Edwards’ house in anticipation of seeing some old friends who’ve since moved away from St. Francisville, and with the relief of knowing there was a rest day in store for us on the morrow.
We’ll fill you in on Nash Vegas just as soon as we can.
Until then,
Michael
It seems we’ve some catching up to do.
In the past week, two of my older sisters birthed babies: Laurel Elizabeth Roberts and James Patrick Curry. Welcome to the family; you’ve no idea what you’re in for.
Happy Birthday wished to Uncle Steve, my nephew Jackson, and my grandfather, Papa.
Now, to account for my time in the past seven days or so.
On 26 July, we rode out of Berea, KY bound for Springfield, KY. Along the way, I’m not sure of which there were more, rolling hills, strong headwinds, or dry counties. God bless Springfield, which is the very edge of bourbon country as well as where Abe Lincoln’s folks were married. I think they were proudest of the latter; we were most thankful for the former.
Next day, (27 July) we left Springfield headed east, which disturbed us so much we triple-checked our directions before continuing. The cartographers weren’t mixed up; the eastbound section lasted only a few miles before turning onto a circuitous but southwesterly course.
We rode twenty miles or so into Bardstown, and pulled into a driveway to cross-check our cue sheets (which are easy-to-read index cards prepared by Will which have turns, road names, and distances and eliminate the need to continuously refer to an unwieldy map) with our map. As we were clipping in to leave, I decided to see just what this house looked like. I pedaled up the drive a bit, and discovered it was actually a state park housing My Old Kentucky Home, which is as famous to Kentuckians as Houmas House is to folks back home. We rode up the rest of the way to the house, snapped a few pictures, and kept rockin’ down the road.
A few miles later, and we began to smell a fragrance quite familiar to anyone so lucky as to find himself within a few miles of Death Valley on a Saturday in the fall-bourbon.
I was sure I was hallucinating, so I drank my water bottles to empty in order to stave off dehydration.
Then a bright light appeared, and I saw a sign.
The light turned out to be a car speeding towards me, but the sign said “Makers Mark Distillery, This Way”. We stopped for lunch around 30 miles, and agreed that we could take an afternoon off to experience some Kentucky history (the distillery is the oldest in operation and on the National Register of Historic Places) and to replenish our spirits.
The tour was relatively quick, but in the midst of it, a mist rolled in, and it began to rain. None were in favor of continuing, as there was lightning, so we found a campsite at My Old Kentucky Home State Park, supped, and slumbered.
28 July dawned hot but not stiflingly so, and the humidity had settled back down to a comfortable level. We rode an uneventful 72 miles to Cave City, KY. We were pleasantly surprised to see our average cruising speed at the end of the ride much higher than usual, even in Louisiana. Before this tour, I could ride from my house on Nicholson Drive to River Road, covering twenty miles in almost exactly an hour. Any longer and I simply couldn’t sustain such a high speed. Two weeks into the Capitol to Capitol Ride and 65 miles into this day’s ride, we three riders were cruising slightly uphill and into a significant headwind at about 24MPH. The changes we’ve undergone physically are amazing to us, and we can’t wait to get back to River Road after a few days’ rest to really open up.
This night, we camped at Mammoth Cave National Park. Unfortunately, we arrived too late for an evening excursion and the earliest morning tours were booked solid, so we arose early, as usual, but we had to shuttle the bikes to the stopping point of the previous day and got a later than usual start.
We rode until after noon, and decided to stop at the next place which was far enough off the road to offer safety and afforded us enough shade to remain comfortable while we ate and napped. We found the Scottsville Church of Christ parking lot not to hot, not too cold, but just right.
As we rode up the hill to the church, we noticed there were a few cars and several people milling about. As soon as we parked the van and dismounted our bikes, a friendly parishioner, Mrs. Newton, offered to let us partake of their potluck dinner. She didn’t so much have to convince us as much as dodge the stampede into the common hall.
Minister Shelton Peeler and Mr. Wayne Berthalot visited with us and kept us company while we ate, and told us the safest way to get to our next town. This was exceptionally useful information as Minister Peeler runs a great deal and was familiar with the traffic density along the route we needed to take, which was not the one we had chosen, as we could no longer rely on the Adventure Cycling maps which detailed the coast-to-coast TransAmerica Route. Since we left Cave City, those maps were no longer of use to us, and we used the GPS mapping software we’ve brought along to filter out undesirable high-traffic roads. However, a little local knowledge proved even more useful than such a sophisticated tool, and our route was an enjoyable spin down just across the border into Tennessee. We backtracked a few miles in the van to a KOA in Franklin, KY.
30 July brought a 74 mile cruise which wound ‘round the western side of Nashville, avoiding the busier roads in the city and taking us up and down rolling hills, with only a few short (but steep) climbs interspersed throughout the route.
We broke for lunch at the Cheatham County Courthouse, where, while we relaxed in the shade, we visited with a local cabinetmaker and woodworker who offered us a place to stay, swim, eat, and do our laundry. We would certainly have taken him up on his offer had we not made previous arrangements to stay with the Edwards clan in Brentwood, just south of Nashville. We visited for a few minutes, and he mentioned that he had some kin from a small town we’d probably never heard of somewhere north of Baton Rouge, and asked if we knew some Youngs and Mills from Zachary and the Plains. I thought for a moment, then blurted, “Betsy Mills?”
“Oh, you know Aunt Betsy!”
Mrs. Betsy is a dear friend of my mother’s; they are in a weaving club together. Mom got a kick out of that, and told me that one of my best friends from childhood was kin to those folks as well. Stephens Young McVea is a cousin somehow, but I needed a road map to see how it all worked out.
We visited for a few more minutes, then the judge asked us to kindly leave his courthouse gazebo.
We weren’t causing any trouble, and they didn’t have any local ordinances against men lounging around in really tight pants (that I know of); there was a wedding to be held at that gazebo just then, so we saddled up and rode the rest of the way around Nashville.
We ended our ride at the terminus of the Natchez Trace, mile marker 444.
We drove towards the Edwards’ house in anticipation of seeing some old friends who’ve since moved away from St. Francisville, and with the relief of knowing there was a rest day in store for us on the morrow.
We’ll fill you in on Nash Vegas just as soon as we can.
Until then,
Michael
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