...And then

for Holly.


...And then I came to the town of Little York, Illinois.


On the morning of the seventh day of my solo bike trip, a clap of thunder shook the house of my accomplished hosts:

and jolted me from 12 hours of sleep.  Gripping the bed beneath me and the reality of the storm above, I shrugged, rolled over, and fell back asleep.  When I awoke two hours later on the banks of the misty Mississippi River,

I quietly maneuvered through the house, preparing four slices of peanut butter toast for breakfast before slipping out the back door and mounting my beloved bike.  

I rode with the ferocity of my impassioned six-year-old self.  Whenever this indescribable, undeniable emotion overtook my entire self and my only imaginable response was: run (in this case, ride) away, I would rip a banana from the bunch on the kitchen counter with a grand flourish of my arm, announce to my mother and anybody within earshot, "I am running away! I'm going to live in a houseboat on the Mississippi River with Kagney (my then-future husband)!"  I remember repeatedly storming out the front door of our house, knowing it faced east, the general direction of my destination, but when confronted with the blackness of Kansas' small-town nighttime sky, I would slink around to the back of the house, hide alongside the tornado cellar door, unpeel and eat my banana slowly before determining I'd been absent long enough to return with some dignity intact.

I took refuge under the dense, ominous clouds as I rode the bike trail into the Quad Cities and through the Quad Cities.  When the trail ended, it just ended.  I was lost!  As I rode, though, I noticed I was on US Highway 67 SOUTH.  "Well, at least I'm going south," I thought, so I followed it.               

It took me through Viola, IL, where I had lunch.  About ten miles beyond that it veered to the left while a state highway continued straight.  Not knowing which to take, or where I was in the state, I called my dad.  As I drew the map he described in my head, revulsion grew up within my gut.  No maps.  This, inexplicably, was one of the two rules I'd set for myself for this trip.  60 miles a day, minimum. No maps.  And so, as I weighed in my mind the option to veer left and head toward the bigger dot on my dad's map, I rudely excused myself from our conversation and stood at the juncture and silently apologized for bringing maps into this.  I'd pedaled maniacally on frazzled nerves much of the day.  In my gut, as I erased my mental map, I knew what to do.  Before I could act, however, I needed to know  to the core of my being, that I trusted myself.  I stood, straddling my bike frame, at the junction of US-67 S & state highway 135 for many minutes until I stopped hoping for a local truck driver to notice my confusion, take pity, and stop to just. tell. me. where to go.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;"

Without a doubt, I knew I was making the right decision, the decision that went against all advice I'd gotten and all I would potentially get.

"Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same"

After about 12 more miles, I came to a town called Little York.  Just outside the town limits, County Hwy 3 offered yet another option.  This, I was sure, would take me west and back toward the River.  Again, I stood.  I could see the sign welcoming me to:

Little York

Pop. 300

not 300 feet ahead.  While "no maps" was a rule designated specially for this trip, I always travel, per my grandfather's example, "no back-tracking."  If I rode into Little York then changed my mind, would that extra 300 feet become 30 extra miles?  Look. Look.  Foot to pedal. Ride.

"What will I say when I get there?" I wondered, hoping there'd be a staffed destination in town, or someone out mowing their lawn, whom I could ask for directions.  I had no particular destination for the night and I honestly knew not from whence I'd come.  "Where in the grand scheme of the universe am I?" I wondered, realizing that my lonely self was smaller than the speck of ink that demarcated Little York, population 300's location on the map of Illinois, a speck that would never exist on a US or world map.  I am tiny.

"Excuse me," I raised my youngest-child/puppy-dog eyes to the clerk at the post office, "Could you tell me where I am in the grand scheme of the universe?"

"You're in Little York, Illinois."

Then she and I looked at a map together.  She told me how to get over to the River, where there were some state campgrounds.  If I happened upon a farmhouse fitting the exact description of hers, I was welcome to stop in for food and sleep there, though her son did have  a Little League game that evening, so she might not be home.  Look for the truck out front.

I back-tracked to County Road 3, turned left, and rode without stopping for the rest of the day, to an abandoned campground where I pitched my tent and penned in my journal:

"I am where I should be.  I'm a little concerned it's going to storm tonight.  It's been very windy all day, and cloudy.  I'd call this weather temperamental."

The wind picked up speed, howling through my tent as it caused my rain fly to shudder. I stretched my limbs in every direction, hoping my weight would keep the corners from tearing out of the ground and into the air.  

"SHhhheewwww, shheww, Shhewwww," the wind blew.  My eyes, unable to see much, darted from side-to-side as I wracked my brain for distracting thoughts. 

I heard my voice before I realized my mouth was open and speaking, "God, please don't let it storm tonight."   

"SHhhheewwww, shheww, Shhewwww," the wind blew.  

Pound pound pound pound pound pound pound, hail fell upon the fly.  In the dark and in the midst of my continuous prayer, "God, please call this storm," I managed to pack up my belongings into my panniers.  I unzipped the bottom foot of my sleeping bag so my feet were free to run when I heard the tornado siren, 

"WEEewwwweEEEWWWwweEEwww."

I spent the night in a cement-block outhouse.