As planned, today was a short (30 mile) hop into Springfield, MO, and a chance to use the spare time to launder our clothes and prep for the final three days into Tulsa.
During this morning’s ride, I think I figured out why motorists have been flying past us. (I can only assume that the reason I didn’t think of it sooner is because my brain has been addled by the miasma of diesel fumes and putrefying roadkill that I’ve been breathing since Monday.) Here’s my theory: if you’re in Marshfield and you need to travel the 10 miles or so into Strafford*, you have two options: you can get onto I-44 with hundreds of other vehicles, OR you can take the two-lane state highway that runs essentially parallel to the Interstate, drive at essentially the same speed, and have to contend with far fewer other vehicles (but maybe some pesky cyclists).
[* “Strafford” sure feels like a typo, doesn’t it? In fact, autocorrect wants me to use either Stratford or Stafford.]
We stopped on the outskirts of Springfield at a convenience store called “Kum & Go.” (It’s a regional chain. I mean, seriously, are they either that ignorant, or that puerile?) I picked up a Body Armor drink and a Powerball ticket, and—honest to God—waited in line behind a well-tatted young man who had dumped a bag of pennies on the counter to buy a pack of Marlboros. Fortunately, another cashier stepped in to assist me, because the other cashier was still counting this guy’s loose change when Jon and I left, almost ten minutes later.
Our experience at “Gideon’s Laundry” (which I am reasonably sure is not a Biblical reference) was enlivened by our conversation with an older gentleman who works as a process server, and spends a lot of time driving on the same roads that we’re cycling this week. He’s thrice-married and twice divorced, although he doesn’t see much of his third wife, who suffers from “septipolarity.” (I think that would be the proper prefix; he said she’s bipolar and “There are seven of her.”) But Jon and I cut him a good deal of slack when he estimated each of our ages as ten years younger than actual. Thank you, sir.
Tomorrow is likely to be the longest ride of this stage, probably close to 75 by the time we reach a hotel in Joplin. Wish us luck: the hills will flatten considerably, but the wind will pick up, and we’ll be riding yet again on a narrow-to-nonexistent shoulder on yet another busy state highway.
Rideworthy 