Lots of Chit Chat and Some Riding in the Rain

October 23, 2007: Day 4

Statistics: Mileage Today 28.5; Max Speed 36.9; Average Speed 8.6; Riding Time: 3:16; Total Mileage 117:

We stayed at the Hazard Motel that used to be a Holiday Inn and is showing wear and tear. It was the only room in town. The Super 8, the brand new Holiday Inn Express, and the Hampton Inn were all full (on a Tuesday night). Hazard is a busy place even though my bike maps say the population is less than 5000. The Hal Rogers four lane Expressway runs East and West through town and state highway 15 is a four-lane north and south. Hal Rogers the state senator, known for pork barrel legislation, has named the highway after himself. Senator Rogers felt the previous name did not appropriately fit Kentucky Heritage—it was previously called the Daniel Boone Expressway! We have learned here that Daniel Boone like Senator Rogers was also a self-promoter who not only explored this western territory by way of the Cumberland Pass from Virginia, but also organized a land company, ran off the Indians, and was Kentucky’s first realtor.

Hazard only has one flat strip of land along the Kentucky River. Otherwise it is very steep 1600-foot hills and very deep valleys called “Hollers.” The roads will run up a Holler and Wal-Mart will sit half way up a hill almost hidden from view. Signs along the holler road will say “Partin Furniture” and there will be a very steep (10-20 degree slope) sled riding type hill road climbing up to the store up in the woods almost out of view. There are major “cuts” in the hillsides with stores, house trailer sales lots, or K-Marts high up above the cliffs. It’s hard to tell if these cuts were at one time strip coalmines or are an effort to produce a flat spot for construction. So the town is chopped up with the Kentucky River, numerous Hollers, and numerous hills, all disrupting the landscape. Especially confusing to us was going up very steeply from one of the four lanes, winding around the top of the hill and coming down onto the other four-lane road. I never say anything like it even in Pennsylvania coal country.

The town of Hazard has nothing to do with the “Dukes of Hazzard” television show. In fact the TV show is about a town in Georgia. Although small in population, Hazard is the largest city for at least 50 miles in any direction. It appears everyone comes to Hazard for goods and services. There is a large regional medical center where the nurses are currently on strike manning a picket line with tents on the street. “Agency” nurses have been transported in to run the hospital. The hospital pays the agency $90 per hour and the agency pays their nurses $45 per hour. There are at least 100 agency nurses working so it costs the hospital ($90 x 100 x 24 =) $216,000 per day. The paper is full of articles about groups supporting the nurses against the hospital including an ad by the nurses stating they are striking for better hours, less required overtime, and a higher ratio of nurses to patients. “We are not striking for higher income,” says the nurse’s ad. The entire town seems to be backing the nurses and even one of the “scabs” (agency nurses crossing the picket line) said the staffing levels were abominable.

We awakened to rain. It rained more than any day this summer. Certainly they needed it. Nancy, the maid at the Hazard Motel said, “It’s so dry in them woods the deer are stepping out on the highway to commit suicide.”

Our first stop was the Huddle House breakfast restaurant. Cimarron the Trail Boss loves the place. If he gets his morning eggs his disposition is greatly improved. Every time I mention oatmeal he shrivels up his nose and says, “I need real breakfast.”

Immediately after breakfast we took the Hal Rogers Expressway out of town 15 miles in the wrong direction while looking for Route 15. He sighed and breathed deeply all the way. Having spent years as an ER doctor trying to manage chaos I see these minor problems as new adventures while he sees them as earth shattering and nearly life ending events! He talks incessantly about the horrible traffic and I must admit I never saw a town of 5000 that was so active. But he’s comparing it to Atlanta. There are no secrets when he is upset! We turned around and finally got back on Route 15 headed for Chavies.

On arrival at Chavies we pulled into the gas station at about 10 AM and it “came a downpour,” as they say around here. We jumped out of the van and under the carport that serves as a loafing spot for some of the local men. There are four picnic tables under the cover and as we scurried underneath a car door opened and Hill Billy Philosopher Sam moved on in with us followed closely by Walter Archer and Frank. There was no way we were going out into this level of rain so we settled in with the boys for some morning loafing and chit chat (Chit chat is what Cimarron called it; our new Kentucky friends called it Bull Shit!).

We talked for more than an hour as the rain poured around us. Frank sat in a porch swing with a major chaw of tobacco in his left cheek mostly spitting efficiently but now and then dribbling, Sam nuzzled into the table across from me, and Walter Archer sat warily at a table behind Sam. Sam said he was retired “mostly from mining, with some soldiering, and some womanizing mixed in.” The others seemed to agree with the womanizing part. Walter Archer nodded and Frank flat out said Sam just can’t stay away from “that stuff.” Cimarron mostly paced, obviously displeased that we weren’t making any bike progress, and not concerned that I was getting another culture lesson for the day. At one point Sam said, “Cimarron looks like he’s looking for the whip.”

Finally Sam drew Cimarron into the conversation. Cimarron told him he had eight children. Sam said there was a guy over the holler named Winchell and then stuttered over the last name. Walter Archer said, “It’s Winchell Collins, Sam.” “Yea, that’s right, Winchell Collins. Well, he had seven kids, and there weren’t none of them too smart, and he always told us all if that women got pregnant again he’d hang hisself. Well he come home a one day and the woman said, ‘I’s pregnant.’ And true to his word he went right out to the barn and climbed up and he slung a rope up, ah, up, ah…” And Cimarron, now fully involved, said, “Over a beam?” And Sam said, “Yea, that’s a right, a beam. How’d you know? And then he proceeded to put the noose around his neck and was tightening it good when the woman showed up.” She said, “wait a minute Collins, you’re hanging an innocent man!” Everyone laughed uproariously as they had pulled off their joke once more for strangers. They were a well-oiled comedy machine and we lucky to fall into their trap.

I told the boys about the fifteen dog attacks over in the other county and none here in their county. Sam said, “Those bastards over there are Republicans! We’re Democrats over here.” I almost had to tape Cimarron’s mouth shut.

We had some discussion about education and Sam said the folks who settled these parts were educated in Virginia and could read and right. However, on settling here there never was any flat land and many of the homesteads up various hollers (for water) had only a small vegetable garden or tobacco crop. So our stereotype of the hills being full of moonshiners was in fact true. Any stranger coming through was suspected of being a “revenuer” and distrusted and the families lived isolated lives. Although the grandparents were usually literate the subsequent generations were not. But, as Sam put it, “They were illiterate, but not ignorant.” However, he also said there was plenty of inbreeding and Professor Adams of Salem College has published extensively about the level of congenital defects in children in this area from inbreeding. Sam, and others, feel Professor Adams has exploited these people.

Suddenly a young woman (30-40) came in out of the rain and straight for Sam’s table. “I can’t shut the car down, or it won’t crank,” she said. “Well don’t turn it off, let it run. I tol’ you it was the alternator, let him put it on,” said Sam. “Just let everyone jump you,” said Frank, as Walter chuckled and Sam laughed, and she ignored the obvious sexual connotation. When she left she thanked them, and they all said in a matter of fact way that she was the local prostitute. They were obvious friends and she seemed pleased with their advice and walked off in the rain.

Sam said Walter Archer was a brilliant man. He had studied psychology for two years in college. He had served time in prison twice for two different murders he never committed. Sam said, “Every time they had an unsolved murder around here they arrested Walter.” Walter studied the law and was a personal friend with a law professor from Lexington with whom he spent a lot of time in his younger days “when not in prison.” He learned “principles of studying the law” from the professor and then “learned the law” from the prison libraries. He defended himself each time and earned his own prison release. I had seen a political sign along the road asking for votes for “county jailer.” I asked Sam about the position and he said, “Walter runs for that office every time. The last time he got 41 votes.” Later as I prepared to finally go bike riding, Walter wanted to shake my hand and give me his full name. I told him Sam had said he was a brilliant man. And Walter said, “I studied psychology for two years, spent more than two years in the military, and more than two years in jail. That’s the only way to be fully brilliant.” Cimarron and I are not there, yet!

So near noon the downpour had stopped and there was a light drizzle so I started out on the bike leaving Cimarron alone with our new friends the Kentucky philosophers. Later I learned he just couldn’t stay out of a political conversation, so Cimarron the Conservative Republican from Florida discussed politics with these Liberal Democrats from Kentucky. However, he was saved when it turned out one of them was also a Republican. He said it went well as he “drove away and wasn’t run out of town on a rail.”

So I rode very well for the first ten miles back toward Hazard. It began to rain steady after five miles or so but the riding was good and the drivers remained courteous. There still was no place for me to ride other than on the road and no shoulder. I have learned to watch my rear view mirror and wave my left arm as I see a vehicle behind me. They immediately move over the centerline and give me a wide berth. I saw more coal trucks, probably a hundred, as they bring coal to a major tipple (railroad loading site) in Hazard. The trucks are much longer than the coal trucks I’m familiar with in PA. The road was flat and I made a pace of nearly 15 mph for this section, but soon I turned onto Route 15 towards hazard and immediately came to three walking hills. When I get down to 1st gear (of twenty seven) and the bike is only moving at 3 mph, it’s hard to stay upright, so I need to walk.

Near Hazard the trail goes on Route 80, which is a limited access four-lane expressway with a wide shoulder. However, the shoulder is full of gravel, loose coal, and rumble strips so I still try to stay on the outer part of the road. The drivers were more aggressive and slightly obnoxious on this road. It’s interesting that on the country road where there is little opportunity to hurry, no one is in a hurry. Out here on the expressway, nothing seems fast enough. I had to walk a few hills on 80 also, but I sure could speed down hill with a couple of mid 30 mph areas. Once it rained so hard and the speed was so high it felt like BB’s hitting my face.

This trip takes management. There is bike riding management, crew management, map management, managing the cars that pass, and significant logistics. My 85-year-old Trail Boss and I don’t often think alike although we both are dedicated to the adventure. When I’m on the bike and it’s raining cats and dogs and coal trucks are throwing their dust all over me, sometimes I fantasize about the next cup of cappuccino. I just can’t help myself. So, I’m coming down a hill on the expressway at 35 mph in the rain and there is a nice food store/gas station along the road on the other side but still on the slope of the hill. My Trail Boss is running out of the store waving in the rain, but there is no way I can stop for half a mile without sliding. I didn’t even feel good to raise my hand and wave so I rang the little ringer bell on the bike and went on by. Four miles and an hour later (there was a half mile hill to walk) I exited the Expressway onto a nice country road. I stopped under a bridge to take off one of my insulating shirts from beneath the rain jacket) and along came Cimarron. It would be at least another hour to the next (supposed) store. The first thing out of Cimarron’s mouth was, “They had great chicken back there and wonderful pizza, and all cheap at the end of the day shift. They also had cappuccino. Why didn’t you stop?” I said, “That sounds great, what did you bring me?” And he said, “Nothing. I brought nothing. I didn’t know what you wanted, I’m not a mind reader!” So I pulled out from under the bridge and headed on hoping the next store actually existed.

It did. Four miles later I came to a small gas station and country store. They sold pizza and cappuccino. It was great. The seventeen-year-old senior behind the counter is engaged. Her boy friend is interested in art and she showed me some of his Halloween vampire pencil drawings. He is very talented. Her parents own the store and while I was there she sold perhaps $50 worth of cigarettes and $100 of other stuff and filled a few tanks with gas. She had to ask the other clerk who looked just as young (but was 40!) about how to ring things up. I asked what she and the boy had for future plans and she said she hoped the parents were going to give her the store. However, Benny a bystander (who apparently stands by a lot) said, “She’s in love. He’s a good boy. But her parents aren’t giving her the store, and that boy needs to study art. He has a gift.” I suggested that perhaps her parents would give them an apartment at the university and she could study business and he study his art. She said, “I don’t think so.”

I was sipping my 24 ounce cappuccino as fast as I could and getting chilled from being soaking wet and standing around. The cappuccino was too hot. So I said, “Could I have some water to cool it off?” And the future owner turned to her mentor and whispered, “Is the water safe?” And the mentor said, “In the sink it is.” Then, not knowing I heard, she said, “Sir, come with me this water here’s perfectly good.”

Although I had seen Cimarron under the bridge and indicated I would not pass any further stores, he did. I lingered here for 30 minutes. Now in pouring rain with my crew ahead perhaps too far and dark approaching, I started out again. One complaint I have is apparently Kentuckians do not turn on their headlights in rain and now it was hard to see cars sneaking up behind. And I already learned these folks would not blow their horns at me. Now I wished I were home with the Cantonment rednecks who try to blow me off the road with their horns.

I had made a mistake under the bridge and told Cimarron I would meet him at Hindman, but I meant Carrie, some 4 miles closer. I was riding well but it was raining and getting too overcast near dark. I rounded the curve and there was all of Carrie, a town of ten houses. And sitting in the middle of downtown Carrie was the Trail Boss parked 50 yards past a really small store that was not out of business and was open. If he didn’t tell me it was there, I would have never known. There was no obvious advertising.

He was prepared for the arrival of the bike but not me. He thought we should put it inside on the seat, but it was way too dirty. While I loaded the bike on the back rack, he walked 50 yards to the store in the driving rain. I needed warm clothes and my other rain jacket so I dug for them and then walked to the store.

There was all kind of confusion on what to do for the night. We were about 15 minutes from last night’s hotel down the expressway but he didn’t want to go back in the wrong direction. I knew we’d be in a warm room and shower in less than thirty minutes in that direction. Our maps claimed a B & B in Hindman, but it did not exist according to a state trooper we consulted. We had heard of a college dorm at Pippa Passes 20 miles up the route where cyclists could stay, but the policeman who called his friend the security chief over there said, “not at this time of year.” The man at the Carrie store said there was a motel on Route 80 just five miles away but it was overrun with drug problems and the policeman said, “Don’t go up there or you’ll need me later in the evening.” The 15-minute ride down the expressway back to Hazard began to sound good to Cimarron. So when we got to Hazard there were no rooms available in the whole town! So we camped in the parking lot of the Hazard Motel, and it rained all night with me in the bed and Cimarron upstairs in the bunk of the VW Van. He was so proud that his Van saved us, and so was I.