'Twas a Dark and Stormy Night (and the suspicious Christian minister said "hit the road")

Day 11--Can we spell h-y-p-o-t-h-e-r-m-i-a?
Last post, I was avoiding grey skies and rain squalls in Bellville's public library. After a couple hours, I summoned the persistence to get going. Nothing looked good outside but finding out what the road would bring was at the heart of my venture and trumped the alternatives. Sometimes you just have to push off and go.

Six miles down the Mohican Valley trail to Butler, it started raining again and I ducked into the public park shelter to pull out rain gear and hope for another break in the weather. It was in the low 50's and riding in this rain wasn't like summertime 80's when you don't care if you're getting wet. I hung out almost an hour, visiting with a group of high school students also waiting for the rain to pass so they could shoot baskets. When the sun broke through the clouds, I wish them well and set off again. I didn't get a mile out of town before the skies opened up again, this time for keeps. At the side of the road, I quickly pulled on pants, boots, gloves and a rain poncho as a farmer rolled past on a huge tractor heading back to his barn. It was too wet for field work.

The road was hill climbs and rollers over the next seven miles--long, steep climbs up to ridge tops followed by scary, fast down hills in the wet conditions before another hard, cranking climb up to the next ridge--and the full rain gear just made me hot. I haven't got this figured out. Working hard leaves you wet from the rain or from the sweat building up inside your protective gear and modern, pricey GoreTex fabrics don't "breathe" anywhere enough to keep you comfortable. After an hour of this, I was thinking hard of an alternative, like getting out of the weather. Thankfully, about four miles later, the rain let up and I was able to start peeling off some layers. The best thing about riding in the rain is being outside as it stops, the rafts of clouds separate and sun begins to again bathe the earth. It is always beautiful.

As I approached Charles Mills Lake south of Mifflin, a large Corps of Engineers flood control resevoir with recreational facilities, I thought everything would resolve into a camp ground there. A nice looking, rustic but refined restaurant appeared around a bend and I pulled over to dry out, eat and avoid having to cook for the night. But the clearing skies were bringing cooler air and falling temperatures. When I left after dinner, not completely dried out, I felt very cold on the bike, even with tights, long-sleeved jersey, and jacket zipped up tight. This didn't go away.

At Mifflin, site of the campgrounds, I feared a wet night in low 40 degree temperatures might mean shivering most of the night with little real sleep and a ruined tomorrow. I pulled over for directions at a coffee shop which had just closed but still had one car parked outside. The proprietress was inside roasting a batch of coffee and she invited me, offered me a warm cup of coffee and in an hour and a half conversation we got acquainted, shared family pictures, a tour of the 19th century cabin she had renovated into this beautiful place and broached the suggestion I could just sleep on the floor in front of the fire place until she came back early next morning to serve a breakfast group coming in. She just needed to call her husband, a second-shift manager at GM who also pastored a church. Ah, the thought of Christian charity soothed my weary bones.

It took nearly an hour to reach his cell phone and she retreated into the back kitchen when speaking with him. My chance of solace ended when she came back out, handed me the phone and said, "you speak to him".
"I'm sorry, but with the world the way it is, I want you out of there right now," the voice of the Rev. GM-Manager said at the other end of the line.
It was 8:45 p.m., getting dark, and as much as I wondered which part of the equation he placed himself and me on "the world the way it is" scale, I knew his wife's opinion and personal assessment of me didn't matter.
"Hey, it's your place, O.K., I can be out of here within 10 minutes but can you tell me where is the nearest motel?"
And in a vibe so typical of the day's weather, he tells me of a place 1.5 miles away where U.S. 30 and I-71 intersect and the caring wife opens the yellow pages and circles what she thought was the recommendation. I call ahead to confirm I'm coming and ask the East Indiana woman at the other end, "You're east of I-71, right?" In a heavy accent, she says "Yes, est", which I took to confirm they were close.

Dusk was ending as I turned left onto U.S. 30 westbound looking for signs of a motel before the interchange a mile away. No such luck. I get to the Interstate and call the motel again. "Yes, we are est of the Interstate," she tells me again. A partner gets on the line and clarifies they are two more exits West, another two miles. I rig a flashing red rear lamp and a headlight as darkness falls and start pedaling as best I can along a thankfully wide shoulder as car-carriers, flatbeds and tractor trailer rigs go booming past. The whole two miles is uphill. I expect the CB radios crackling with "We've got some idiot out here on a bike on the right shoulder, better cut him a wide berth," and am praying I don't get rolled over by a dozing driver. All I want is to get off this road, get off this road, get off this road and my heavy breathing stifles uncharitable thoughts of the Reverend's demeanor with his church and lines I could add to his sermons.

When I finally make the exit ramp, the view is of an indigo Western sky with a clear, delicately etched, new crescent moon just getting ready to set. A new phase of the journey has begun. And, after about 20 minutes of soaking in a bathtub full of hot water, the tingling sensations in my cold feet go away.