Well. I'm learning that even if you don't make plans at all, or make very few, things tend to not go your way. And that's okay.
Yesterday I took out my atlas, and with the help also of my iPhone, plotted a course from where I was then (Madison, Wisconsin), all the way to Minneapolis. Essentially a journey of about six to seven days, if I keep a decent, steady pace each day. So today I got up, said goodbye to my hosts, and headed out. Within the three minutes it took me to get to the McDonald's down the street, I knew it was colder than I'd expected it to be. But, I continued. (Even though I could have turned back to the house and stayed another day, I'm sure. Pride often gets the better of me.) I got inside McDonald's, found out that to my disappointment they do not serve "regular" menu items till after eleven o'clock, so I couldn't get my nuggets, and had to settle for a couple of McGriddles. That was my first time having them, and they were okay, but I found myself wishing for a cinnamon roll halfway through the meal. Gotta get my carbs in, you know.
Anyway, I finished eating and went back outside to Larry (my bike). Starting to dread the cold ride that seemed inevitable, I added another layer.
That extra bit of clothing, though pretty much all I have in the way of "winter wear," was simply not enough. My feet especially were suffering from the low temps, and soon I had pulled over and pulled on a second pair of wool socks, which made my shoes uncomfortably tight and didn't help warm me much at all. After going a little further, I decided I needed to pull over somewhere and just … recoup. So I found a bus stop, got off the bike, and went to shelter between its slender, transparent walls. Another rider, a middle-aged lady, got there at the same time as me and we sat and talked for a bit. Turns out she was from a plant nearby, and apparently she was there to enjoy her cigarettes, because smoking wasn't allowed at that facility. Soon we were joined by about half a dozen other smokers, all quite friendly, and quite complimentary toward my bicycle, which is something that always makes me feel like the ignorant owner of a toy most people know to be quite valuable.
After about half an hour of socializing with those folks, with no sign of a bus, I decided I just needed to get moving again and hope for the best. Which was something to hope for at the time, because I still could hardly feel my toes, and snow had begun falling, if only sparingly. So I said goodbye to the smoldering little group of factory workers, and swung my leg back over the saddle.
Fast forward another half hour, and I am miserable. I'll admit it, I was getting frustrated with God. Nearly begging for warmth, or a break in the headwind, or a strong bit of sunshine, not getting anything, and thinking, "You stopt the rain for three years because Elijah asked — can't you give me a little warmth for a few hours?!" Soon I became desperate, and started thumbing for rides on the side of Route 12. Within a few minutes a pickup truck pulled over and parked in front of me. An older man stept out and asked me where I was headed. I told him Baraboo, or as far north as he could take me. He seemed to think that was a bit crazy, but folded over his bed cover and helped me get Larry in the back. Then I got in the passenger seat of the cab, greeted two people who must have been his wife and daughter, who were in the back, and we were off.
Of course questions were asked, and I told them all about the trip I was making, the usual thing. The man's name was Steve, and he was actually really nice. He said that they see cyclists all the time, being in Wisconsin, but rarely does he see any thumbing for rides, so when he saw me he figured something must be really wrong. But anyway, he took me about eight miles further, into Sauk City, which is less than twenty miles south of Baraboo. Steve brought me to a gas station in town where I could ask around and find a motel, wished me good luck, and set off back where we'd come from.
I'll tell you, in that situation, meeting someone who will pick you and your bike up off of the side of the road in forty degrees and bring you eight miles further along the way you're going, and the same number away from his own destination, makes you very grateful. By the time I got myself out of that heated seat, I was more than ready for a motel room.
So I headed about a mile down the road and went into the inn there. The woman at the desk said the only rooms she had available were suites, and they'd cost extra, but she phoned another motel nearby and found out for me that they had vacancies. So, reluctantly, but thanking the woman, I started out again. Google said I only had two miles to go, but it felt like longer.
Anyway, I made it, and have been here since about two o'clock. Much TV has been enjoyed, and much Pizza Hut consumed. And now that I've written this, it's time to do some reading before conking out. Tomorrow is supposed to be much nicer, and I haven't far at all to ride, so I will be early to Baraboo, which I suppose means I'll be doing some exploring.
Have a lovely one, friends, and share a Coke with someone if you can.
With love,
— Joel