Katy Trail

Last month, MV and I did the Katy Trail, a rails-to-trails path across Missouri. We loaded up our bicycles, shoved them in the back of an Amtrak train, disembarked in St. Louis, aimed our bikes at Kansas and went for it.

starting out

And the Missouri River looked like this the whole way. Actually, at this time, the river hadn't yet crested.

After we passed, parts of the trail were actually closed. Thankfully, most of the trail looked like this.

In the mornings, there was always the mystical scent of the forest that no matter what they may claim, laundry detergents just can't replicate.

Oooh.

Ahh.

Of course, just like anywhere in the Midwest, storms just hide behind trees and bluffs and suddenly jump out from behind you and throw everything they've got at you. And no matter how many water pistols and water balloons you bring, you will be outmatched by the storm. Also, the lightning will not turn its bass down for nothing.

There we were, innocently peddling along under the shady trees and clouds when ...rumble...

Me: "Was that thunder?"

MV: "May have been a truck. I don't know."

Storm: "RUMBLE!!"

MV: "Yeah, that was thunder."

We checked our map - we were about a mile away from the Tebbetts trailhead, and its little information depot boasting its solid wooden roof. It was the fastest mile we probably made the whole trip.



arriving in Tebbetts

But Fortune was with us that day, not only did we get to park out bicycles inside the Turner Katy Trail Shelter, the town was throwing its annual picnic! We waited out a furious 30 minutes chowing down on hot dogs and hamburgers.

The rain was so tremendous that we couldn't see the cars across the street for a good 10 minutes. Everyone was happy to chat with us, and commented on how lucky we were. In fact, if I hadn't of had a flat tire that morning, we would have been past Tebbetts and peddled straight into the teeth of the storm.

So we carried on. This is near Cooper's Landing. At least 4 cars passed us on the road to the left of the trail.

We were lucky with storms again. I had to book a room with the Hotel Frederick in Boonville (awesome place to stay) because there was no tent camping nearby. I'm glad I did, because at least two severe storms rolled through in the early morning hours. How do I know they were severe? One, the thunder waking me up was a clue. I've slept through a tornado in a tent before so you can safely infer that thunder usually doesn't wake me. Two, well... this:

MV is less than thrilled about our cycling adventure at the moment

We climbed over 23 trees in the short stretch between Boonville and Pilot Grove before we ran into the DNR clearing crew. Happily, they informed us that it was clear all the way to Sedalia.

I also noticed a thorn in my front tire at mile marker 199. The tire lasted all the way until marker 216 when the thorn finally fell out. I also learned that you can't patch an inner tube with fix-a-flat already inside of it. It oozes out of the puncture hole so the glue on your patch won't stick. Even when you duct tape it onto the inner tube.

The Death of a Tire

Despite a couple of setbacks, the trip was awesome and we spent more time laughing than cussing out a couple of flat tires. We also discovered a couple of very tasty brews and wines at the many local wineries. Everyone we met was nice and courteous, including locals and other cyclists. I couldn't have asked for a better summer vacation, and one so close to home!

I'd recommend checking out the official website http://www.bikekatytrail.com/ for history, mileage and other very useful information.

Hopefully, the Kansas Flint Hills Trail will be up to this standard soon. We're working on it!

All photographs are copyrighted by D. Dalton 2011. All Rights Reserved.

Changing Another Tire

The last changing a tire story resulted in a point for the men in the war of the sexes. This one, it's a point for us women.

I jogged down the stairs to warm up my car outside my apartment one freezing morning. It was so cold I had an icicle hanging off my nose in about a minute. Now, I know that some cars don't have to be warmed up in the winter, but mine gets a little sluggish if I don't. (Also, I've been driving the same car since I was 16, and I'm STILL driving it to this day.)

A few empty stalls away, one of the downstairs tenants was fumbling with a flat tire. I'd seen him around, but hadn't really said anything to him before. He had his long hair pulled back in a very neat ponytail and his forehead was banging against his car's paneling as if he was about to cry.

He'd gotten his jack underneath the car and had raised it so that the tire spun every time he tried to loosen a lugnut. He was also thumping his little stick tire iron against the lugnut, unable to generate enough torque to actually move the damn bolts. And the tire spun again.

I popped my trunk and pulled out my cross-piece tire iron; it has much better leverage. "It'll go quicker with this," I offered. "And, uh, you really want to loosen the nuts first, and then lift the tire off the ground."

And I wound up teaching him how to change a tire. We fitted his donut wheel on, and I tossed my tire iron back in my trunk.

He pushed his ponytail back behind his shoulder. "Thanks for not making fun of me. I know, I'm a guy, but I'm a philosophy major."

As if being a philosophy major was an argument against not knowing how to change a tire. That logic is fallacious.

I smiled and replied, "No problem."

"Yeah, I usually try to get these tires before they go completely flat. Now I gotta drive to the shop, again."

I paused, halfway through closing my trunk, and tried to think. I licked my lips, already cracking in the sub-freezing air. "When was the last time you checked your tire pressure?"

"What's that?"

And I didn't have the courage to explain it. The poor philosopher was already so embarassed because a woman had to change his tire for him that I just couldn't do it. I couldn't tell him that you don't have to drive around on your tires until they go flat of their own accord.

That is one of the minor regrets I have in my life. If I could do it again, I'd be honest with him. But all I can do now is hope that he's learned, and do better next time.

Oh, and whatever repair shop he ROUTINELY went to, the mechanic must've been either a) amazed that every flat tire this guy had didn't need to be patched or b) an asshole.

Changing a Tire

I worked one summer out in the deserts of northeastern Nevada as a shovel bum. For those of you not immersed in the underworld of archaeology that means someone who spends her time surveying and excavating potential or real archaeological sites.

I once was asked by one of husband's cousins what I did, and I replied, "Well, I'm kinda bumming around with archaeology right now."

He brightened up. "Oh, my daughter loves dinosaurs!"

"Umm, that's palaeontology. Archaeology is human only."

For awhile, I volunteered in Kansas and then drifted away from archaeology. I regret that. (Mostly because I couldn't afford graduate school.)

Anyway, this post is about the battle of the sexes. Gender and its role is various societies is of course fascinating to anthropologists/archaeologists, sociologists, psychologists and psychotics.

How does the battle of the sexes figure into Sunshine Valley, Nevada? (Among one of the many places we surveyed.)

Let me try to paint how remote this was. If you think rural Kansas is out of the way, it's civilization compared to rural Nevada. There's usually a gas station within a 100 mile radius.

When we were bouncing along in the van down the dirt (not gravel) road, I looked out toward the distant mountains. I couldn't see the range's base because of a vast, hazy mirage. It wasn't a mirage of anything, it was just liquid, wavy tans and browns. Suddenly, a massive brown mustang leading a pack of wild horses burst out of the illusion and ran distantly alongside the van before melting back into the mirage.

Other people saw them too. I hope that answers that question bubbling in your mind: well, weren't they part of the mirage?

One of my friends I made on this trip was a local bank president in nearby Elko, and she talked about how she and her husband used to trap rattlesnakes for dinner.

You'd think the women out here would be pretty tough? Well, not all of them. This was our first clue: at lunchtime, a pencil thin girl unfolded a bandanna and sat on it so she wouldn't have to sit her butt against the sandy ground. We - both male and female - did our best not to laugh. At least where she could hear us.

Another day, we were rattling down another dirt road between the sage brush and tangled junipers. Today, a couple of the girls were stating that women were of course superior to men. Oddly enough, the men in the van were ignoring them. So were I and the bank president.

I guess I should clarify my personal opinion - there are too many idiots on both sides and in between the gender fence to be able to decide. I personally believe that it doesn't matter what sex, nationality, skin color, creed, blah blah blah, you are - you can still be an idiot.

Or you could be brilliant. At least, I hope you're brilliant.

And these girls kept prattling on about their inherent superiority, and how they don't need men to survive.

Well, in the van, a totally unsurprising thing happened. We got a flat tire. I think a rattlesnake tried to bite the van. Why not? It'd be more dramatic.

So, as I'm climbing out the van, I glanced back at the chatterboxes. Their faces suddenly paled. One quavered, "I've never changed a tire before."

Me: "What, in your whole life?"

She shook her head and licked her lips. "No."

"Then what do you do when you get a flat?"

Reply: "I just call my husband."

I wanted to head-desk the desert. So it was up to me, the boys and the bank president to change the tire. Which we did with practiced ease.

Grudgingly, I think this is a point for the males in the battle of the sexes.

I also thought of a great idea that summer: the archaeology diet. You can eat only what you can carry, deep in the middle of the Nevadan desert. You'll be tan and skinny in under a month! Downside: work, heat, dirt/sand, rattlesnakes, scorpions.

Here's a picture I took that summer with a disposable camera. My digital one had melted.

First Book 4 Rant

I started working on Book 4, Stone & Bone, today. I’m not going all out on it yet. I’ve still got some other stories to craft before I’m ready to hit the accelerator on this one.

When I started outlining these stories way back in high school, vampires were not popular (except among us gaming nerds). Even back then, I’d always rather play zombies (or more accurately, someone killing zombies in new and creative ways; although now, I will admit that the exploding egg bombs were a bit of a stretch).

In the present, I kind of regret including a vampire character because they’re just so goddamn popular now. And it sucks because I get the impression that most of us like Tom, and I’m not sure he’d be the same if something fundamental had changed.

In this book, we’ll meet more vampires too – but happily, they are mean, nasty, manipulative and in no way anything like what has become mainstream. They don’t see the point in getting to know their food, except maybe to play with it. I’m even putting the sign “No Sparkling Allowed!” on their clubhouse door.

Alright, that’s a lie. Because doing that might indicate where their clubhouse door is. Oh no, I think I’ve said too much!

Okay, rant done. Back to the grind!

PS – Does this make me a fantasy genre hipster now? Noooo!

What Happens in the Car Wash...

...goes on someone's blog.

I try to keep my car clean. It's not easy in the transition between winter and spring, when it's 80 degrees F on one day and 30 on the next with snow on the ground. All this results in me dropping an entire paycheck's worth of quarters at the car wash.

And here's what I saw.

Two stalls were open, but I noticed there was something sitting on top of the drain in one of them. So, I pulled into the other and then peeked over. It was a box of Remington bullets. On the drain in an empty stall. Okay, weird.

Yet not as weird as the over-sized load in the bed of the pickup truck today. First, I thought it strange that a pickup truck would have a load in the car wash. I "dropped" a couple of quarters, and then had to drop a couple of more because the first ones didn't roll far enough.

The owner of the truck was just finishing spraying down his hot tub. It was too big to fit flat in the bed, so it was propped up over one of the sides of the truck.

I've always drooled over owning a hot tub, but I always assumed that cleaning it wouldn't involve manhandling it into your truck and driving to the car wash. Also, I figured that the electronic controls are waterproofed to some degree, but to a high pressure sprayer on the exterior paneling?

What kind of party did that man have where it became necessary to load up his hot tub and take it to the car wash? On second thought, I'm sure that knowledge would disturb me.