I had hoped September would bring calmer weather, but no such luck. Storms gathered as I biked off from my friends’ home yesterday. By the time I reached Enterprise Rent-A-Car to pick up a car to get to Manhattan, I had donned my rain gear, but still arrived damp. This has been the wettest year on record for the Kansas City area.
Driving west, skies cleared a bit. Yet a text from a friend warning of two inches of hail and high winds warned me the weather was still unstable. I asked if she was willing to bail me out should I get caught. Her sensible response: “I will not want to bail you out IN a hail storm.” For a moment I hesitated, but then decided to trust in the universe, and the goodness of people to allow me to take shelter on their porch should a storm come.
Leaving Manhattan, I was amazed and comforted to see other bikers on the road crossing the Kansas River.
In all my hundreds of miles biking Kansas, I only have ever seen a handful of other cyclists. But the one place you will see them are on the gravel roads in the Flinthills, now a destination for gravel biking. Yesterday was the annual Bloody Kansas Gravelduro.
I departed from the 100 mile course, and followed McDowell Creek Road. This gentle road follows the agricultural lands and communities created by the creek, rather than heading up into the rocky, rugged prairie lands of the Flint Hills.
There were some rather creative mailboxes along the route, including this one that seemed to be made out of an old fruit press.
When I pulled off the road to take a photo of this one, a fellow on a motorcycle pulled up behind me.
I was a bit worried that he was going to ask me to move on, but in fact he just wanted to chat. Apparently, he had helped to create the functional art. I asked from what it was made. “An old John Deere tractor,” he replied. “You should have seen it before this.” I have seen many an old John Deere tractor sitting out in fields not doing much. It was good to see this one put to good use.
About 13 miles down creek, I crossed I-70 and took a moment to look out at what most people see when they come to—meaning, drive through—Kansas.
If you travel just a few miles off this straight line path, though, you travel back in time along the Lower McDowell Creek Road, some of the loneliest and most peaceful miles I have encountered yet.
Going around a curve, I noticed a Gothic Revival style limestone church.
Built by Irish settlers, it opened in 1910 and closed in 1989. In the early years, it was serviced by Jesuit priests from St. Mary’s mission 30 miles to the east. Today efforts are underway to restore it.
While evidence of agricultural production is still in evidence, it seems most farmers and ranchers today live off site, leaving so many beautiful old farm homes in various states of disrepair.
For some, only the foundation remains. I walked down the track to see this one.
As I did, it occurred to me why grasshoppers are called grasshoppers. They are in the grass, and they hop. I am constantly amazed by moments like this. It takes getting on a bike to slow down enough to make the most obvious of elementary revelations.
Eventually I turned off of the smooth McDowell road onto much rougher gravel track. The wind, too, had grown more intense, making for fairly arduous travel. However, the skies had cleared, creating beautiful vistas.
These horses also buoyed me.
Hunger and fatigue, though, soon overcame other senses. When I stopped by the side of the road to eat an apple, and a few waffles a friend of mine had sent me off with, someone stopped to see if I was OK. It was a kind gesture that I much appreciated.
Finally, I crossed the railroad tracks, and knew I was close to Dwight.
I was very thankful when I finally arrived at my best friend from college’s beautiful house on the prairie, a conversion of a one room rural school where her uncle and Dad went to grade school.
Storms averted, I now could rest an watch with amazement the beauty of the ever changing sky.
