July 13, Day 42: Goreville to Sebree, KENTUCKY (115 miles)

20110715-110306.jpg
Waking up in the basement of a church is pretty creepy. That was good incentive for us to leave early.

20110715-110424.jpg20110715-110435.jpg
2nd breakfast when we got to Eddyville. My grandparents have the same flower plates!

20110715-110634.jpg

20110715-110814.jpg
We were getting bored while riding. This fly kept swarming us. Matt captured it at 11:27am and we decided to smuggle it into Kentucky. We named him after the city he was so fondly sucking at with his poop sucker: Clay.

20110715-110947.jpg
Downtown Elizabethtown.

20110715-111218.jpg
Clay was found dead during our break in Elizabethtown. Estimated time of death: 1:25pm. Probable cause: heat stroke. Poor fly nearly made it to Kentucky.

20110715-111402.jpg

20110715-111410.jpg

20110715-111424.jpg
Cave In Rock, where you can catch a quick, free ferry to get to Kentucky.

20110715-111545.jpg

20110715-111638.jpg

20110715-111703.jpg
Crossing the Ohio River. I had a lot of anxiety at this point, imagining a pack of dogs waiting for me at the border, and one ring leader dog dressed up as the devil holding a sign that would say, “prepare to die.” Yes, we have heard so many awful stories about the dogs in Kentucky.

20110715-111933.jpg
Bam, we are here.

20110715-112028.jpg

20110715-112050.jpg

20110715-112059.jpg

20110715-112107.jpg

20110715-112118.jpg

20110715-112128.jpg
So far the roads are similar to Missouri — little or no shoulder. It’s hilly but not as steep.

In Clay we stopped to snack (oh, poor Clay) and a nice gentleman bought us ice cream. We chatted with him for a bit about Sebree, the town we were planning to stay in that night. He didn’t have anything nice to say about it, and said that because of the new Tyson chicken facilities you had to be “practically bilingual to live there now.” Really. It didn’t ever cross my mind that being bilingual and having more than one culture in a town was a bad thing. I also don’t think minorities are a reason to have to lock your doors, especially if there aren’t any actual robberies or incidents to merit it. I guess this is how you think when you grow up in a big city on the west coast.

We got into Sebree at dark. Deer and frogs were jumping out in front of us in the middle of the road. 5 miles away a man in a truck pulled up and asked if he could give us a ride. We declined, and he ended up driving behind us until town to be nice. Once we got to the bike hostel at the First Baptist Church, we realized he was the pastor. So many cyclists had told us to stay here because of the meal they prepare for you — and they were right. Bob and Violet had a Thanksgiving meal waiting for us: baked chicken, sweet potatoes, green and tiny beans, corn on the cob, salad, corn bread, ice cream, iced tea, lemonade, and little blueberry muffins. We didn’t take a picture of everything because we were so hungry and ate it all before thinking about taking a photo.

20110715-113948.jpg

20110715-114019.jpg
Our living quarters in the church. The facilities were super nice — showers, a kitchen, clean bathrooms, and laundry machines. After dinner, the pastor gave us a tour of the place and pulled out pamphlets he wanted us to read. It was the whole convert to being a Christian spiel which neither of us really wanted to deal with that late in the night. We appreciated their hospitality to cyclist and their meal and wished that could have been that. BTW, Thai is also not Taiwanese.

Advertisements

One comment

  1. I decided to check how many miles are between SF and Sebree, KY if driving a car. That is about 2,300 miles. That’s a lot of pedaling.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s