On the Trail with Amy
by Mark Robin Smith

Once again, this summer (2000), I was on the road with Amy, my most and only favorite daughter. This year we decided to take advantage of the Rails-to-Trails project stretching across the eastern half of Missouri. The Katy Trail begins in Clinton, Missouri, a 6 hour drive and 416 miles from my front door. After stopping at the McDonalds south of Afton where both of us were convinced that the gene pool there was rather shallow, we crossed into Missouri…. Missouri is such a friendly state. As we passed into the center of Missouri, we were ceremoniously welcomed with flashing lights as a state highway official hospitably stopped us to give us directions, chat about the Katy Trail and offer me some driving tips. He also gave me an envelope with his office address and asked me to be in touch (within 30 days). Needless to say, we felt duly welcomed. Although, I felt a bit embarrassed they had taken notice of me at all.

By the time we hit Clinton we had just about finished the book “Tuesdays with Morrie” on tape and we found the parking lot for the beginning of the Katy Trails, just where the highway patrolman said it would be…an almost immediate right off of the highway 13 off ramp. After the obligatory picture, we started toward our first night’s stay in Sedalia, 37 miles north on the Katy Trail.

This was our first trip on mountain bikes and my first with panniers. Since I owned the panniers and we were traveling from lodge to lodge, I received the honor of carrying Amy’s clothes as well as mine. The extra width and weight in the back gave my bike the look and feel (with all due respect of course) of a pre-Weight Watchers Fergie. The trail was covered with hard packed, pea-sized gravel. Rolling along it sounds crunchy like a Grape Nuts commercial. From the trailhead in Clinton, a mother and five kids started before us on their way to their home back in St Louis following the same scheduled stops as we had planned. Amy and I being proud roadies, passed them making “whooshing” sounds to buffer our confidence in this new medium. After awhile, when we seemed alone on the trail, Amy and I traded appropriate insults to aid us in the bonding experience of a father-daughter riding vacation. For instance, just outside of Sedalia, I caught sight of some wild turkey and asked Amy if she wanted to stop and look. Being a filial daughter, she passed on the opportunity, replying she had me to look at the rest of the trip and that to stop to see the turkeys would simply be redundant. Isn’t she precious?

I enjoy the good natured jousting which is just an entrée to begin talking with each other. In fact, the slow paced rhythm that is specific to a bicycle journey is one thing I have come to value highly, with Amy as my travel mate. We have TIME together. The bicycle trip, including time on and time off the bike, is a good vehicle to carry informal, unhurried discussion. Riding together, coasting apart, talking, catching our breath, the whole dance of the ride is conducive to a very organic, elemental mode of discussing, difficult to come by anywhere else. The bicycle and the journey become the “triangulated third” that gives our dyad a refreshing leg of stability. The bicycle and the journey become the commonality or the point held in common. It is sort of the home base which we journey from and return to with our words and thoughts. Of the three extended trips I have taken with Amy, spiced with many shorter ones, I have always been pleasantly surprised by the rare quality of our communication that the rhythm of the trips facilitate. Even rarer it seems for a 46 and a 19 year old in these times of hurry up and go. The long and short of it is that I have come to hold precious these times where Amy and I have allowed ourselves to meet.

We encountered a plethora of wildlife on the trail. The first day I saw two woodchucks (not chucking wood). Over the next few days, we a bunch of bunnies, a does (misspelling is for effect) of deer and a squandering of squirrels. We also saw the Fuji blimp, a stealth bomber on a practice flight and a raccoon. We both were attracted to a small azure-blue bird that caught our eye wherever we rode. Cardinals, robins, dove, quail and oriels also frequented the trees that lined most of the trail. The second day was “snake day”. We saw two black ones, a solid green one, a brown one, and a green stripie snake too. The woman with the kids we passed the first day said, when we met again, that they discovered a copperhead on the trail and got to take pictures. Amy and I heroically suffered our envy of them for this but didn’t let it show.

This second day from Sedalia to Rocheport, was also our longest day. We logged 56 miles. I really didn’t know what to expect in planning this trip. Being primarily a road cyclist, a 35 mile ride (about what we scheduled for our first and third day) seemed more a frolic than an outing. I was riding a packed bike and we both had fat tires and even though the trail was packed hard, we ultimately agreed that 35 miles was just about the right distance for a day’s ride. So, although 56 miles was do-able, it was a little long. Generally, we averaged about 11 miles an hour. Carrying Amy’s stuff in my panniers turned out to be a pretty good equalizer. We both finished each day in about equal amounts of pain which, of course, is the measure of any good bike trip.

Arriving in Rocheport, encountering a wild bunch of pre-teen hooligans on cycles, we checked in to the Katy O’Neil Bed & Breakfast run by Rodney O’Neil. Rodney is a very interesting study. He is a touring cyclist who has been cross country so many times that he has a self-contained tour laid out that he wants to lead commercially. Besides this, he is a man who has found his geological place in life but is mildly in waiting for a companion to share his idealic setting. Picture Rodney O’Neil on the KT trail, inspired by his location, fascinated by the imagination of a real life Katy borne from a song by the name of Katy O’Neil, aptly names his abode the Katy O’Neil Bed and Breakfast. It is not often I run across someone whose dream is so integral. Rodney is a fine breakfast cook and a well-versed connoisseur of movies. Amy and I had the pleasure of staying in his converted railroad box car with its own TV, DVD player and access to Rodney’s extensive collection of well chosen movies. (We opted for Matrix that evening as Amy did not have the patience to indulge a more eclectic choice). The interior of the boxcar is a rather ingenious use of space and décor, all tastefully done. Amy and I also enjoyed the privacy provided by the separate facility. A drawback to our stay in Rocheport was that we were there on a Monday. It seems that Monday and Tuesday are the trails off-days as our choice of open establishments was limited.

After Amy and I shared a tasty breakfast with Rodney, we began to prepare to ride the third leg of our odyssey…(foreboding music here for effect)…in the rain. Remember the Grape Nuts commercial? Riding the trail in the rain is like riding through the Grape Nuts left in the bowl, soaked in milk all day. As a preparatory omen, setting the theme for the rest of the day, I had a faulty stem and had to fix a flat on my back tire before we set out. Within another 10 miles, I was blessed with a puncture flat on my new tube. Changing a tire in the rain with gritty hands and gritty tires on a gritty surface is kind of …well gritty. This second flat gave us the opportunity to gift the woman and her children whom we had passed the first day with whooshing sounds with their stated life goal (at least as they had reported to us). Namely, to beat us to the next town. They thought we were fast. (Note: making those whooshing sounds really works.) We let them pass, fixed the flat and to make their victory that much sweeter, we passed them again. This may at first seem cruel but you see Amy and I had planned to have three more flats that day in the rain. Thus, letting them pass us a second and final time, never to be challenged again. The seemingly benign gravel trail harbors small arrowhead like flint chips that can get caught in just right way to cause a precise and absolute flat.

By the time we reached Jefferson City, 39.5 miles latter, entirely unrefreshed by the spa-like conditions, the rain shower, the sweat bath from riding in rain gear, and the natural mineral scrub from the trail, our crew began to talk mutiny, especially as we considered having to ride 65 miles the following day in order to make our return train connection. (This rain day sounds much worse than it was. All in all, it was actually a fun day). After checking into the hotel, being ferried there in a vintage ford pickup with a designer bumper that bore the resemblance of the letter U, in a fit of wisdom, we rode to a bike store to purchase a new cache of tubes for the final leg of our ride. While Amy cleaned up, I took stock of our fatigue and collective dis-spirit and accepted the blame of ignorance and poor planning. I contacted Amtrack and changed our tickets to leave out of Jefferson City the following morning back to Sedalia cutting our trip short by a day. While changing the tickets, I also upgraded from coach to business class acting on an unperceived inspiration that would later become evident. With the decision not to turn our riding vacation into a working vacation (i.e. riding the 65 miles) Amy and I settled down to enjoy a delicious dinner and relaxing evening together.

After a leisurely breakfast the next morning at the Hotel de Ville we rode the six blocks through the downtown streets of Jefferson City to the train station. At the station, we were surprised by about 60 elementary aged children in yellow shirts all chirping loudly waiting for the same train as we were. (It became overwhelmingly clear why I had upgraded our tickets out of coach to business class the night before.) Funny thing was that Amy and I had yellow shirts on too, so that we automatically became part of their group. I took pictures of this brood with their camera and one of the mother hens took our picture with mine. Given that the train was 2 hours late the kids were amazingly well behaved. I thought it admirable of them and their leaders. As for me, I was glad to have my bicycle. Even though the “train was due any minute”, I removed my panniers and rode up and down the San Francisco like hills of downtown Jefferson City. I figured that I should at least be able to hear the trains arrival from a few blocks away. So up and down and around downtown Jeff City I went, waiting for the train while Amy did her impression of Amy waiting for a train.

At high noon, and high time (it was due at 9:54), the train loaded and we headed for Sedalia. After sighting a flock of wild turkey from the train, which I judiciously didn’t mention to Amy, we settled in to our spacious, soft seats to enjoy our hour long train ride and we didn’t have to pedal! Leaving the train and biding adieu to the bus loads of kids we headed south the 37 miles to Clinton where we started four days earlier. Like Odysseus returning home, the gods, not quite satisfied with all the calamities we had so good naturedly suffered, placed another one of those arrowhead like flint chips in just the right place so that I could run over it with the same rear (always the harder one to change) tire that had flatted three times prior. Thank heaven once again for the fit of wisdom that had overcome us the previous day to purchase new improved heavy duty thorn proof tubes that I now, well practiced and with good cheer, installed on my rear tire.

As if to prove Einstein’s theory where the trail from Clinton to Sedalia seemed uphill, now the trail from Sedalia to Clinton also seemed uphill. I am sure the gods had something to do with this and the headwind too. However, going nowhere fast or to Clinton slowly, gave us the added treat to talk and tell each other stories…especially of Amy and I growing up together. Traveling slowly on the trail had an additional benefit. Going slowly makes it easier to stop. About a two miles from our waiting chariot, we discovered a prolific patch of wild blackberries growing along the trail just waiting to be picked. As luck would have it, one of my water bottles was completely empty and Amy filled it to the brim with ripe, plump berries. These became her sustenance on the drive home. Like Odysseus’ loyal dog, we were greeted by the sight of my truck that had patiently awaited our return. By that time, I guess the gods were either tired or satisfied with us because we loaded our bikes and headed back home without incident. A lovely end to a lovely trip with a lovely human being who is my daughter.

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