8/15/17-8/16/17 Just Going Home
The monotony of the highway serves as a stimulus for thought.
In brief, we have broken through to the East. Humidity, heavy traffic and lots of humanity welcomed us back. After crossing from Missouri into Illinois, in a quiet lunch by the Mississippi, Hannibal charmed us from across the Big Muddy. Of course we imagined Mark Twain or his alter ego, Tom Sawyer, on makeshift rafts, skinny dipping in the channel where jet skis now play.
After that it was pretty much a mile eating challenge, as we roared toward home. We sliced through the Land of Lincoln, following Route 36, then 72. Springfield, Decatur and Champagne flew by. Not quite making it to Indiana, we stopped near the border in Danville for the night.
Then into Indiana. Traffic picked up and by the time we busted through Indianapolis and jumped on Route 70, tractor trailers accounted for 50% of the thick congestion. Hours on the bike at high speeds with little to look at except our reflection in the shiny hubcaps of some passing trucks, my mind starts to wander.
I travel back to the quaint French towns and the stunning views of the Gaspésie. I marvel at how easily we crossed Canada on the Yellowhead, surrounded by canola and little traffic. The heat and humidity rolls off me as I'm chilled by the memory of the ice fields and their shocking allure. Giant rocks, crashing surf and volcanos, dormant and active, block out the traffic jam in Columbus as we shoot through Ohio. Flashbacks to encounters with friends, old and new, fill the hours in the saddle.
The "mindblog" that Jules and I have written together contains so much more than these words that I write. The sparked memory of a moment shared can ignite volumes of small details known only to us. I have tried to relate the essence of our travels, but the soul is ours and I will hold it in my heart forever.
In brief, we have broken through to the East. Humidity, heavy traffic and lots of humanity welcomed us back. After crossing from Missouri into Illinois, in a quiet lunch by the Mississippi, Hannibal charmed us from across the Big Muddy. Of course we imagined Mark Twain or his alter ego, Tom Sawyer, on makeshift rafts, skinny dipping in the channel where jet skis now play.
After that it was pretty much a mile eating challenge, as we roared toward home. We sliced through the Land of Lincoln, following Route 36, then 72. Springfield, Decatur and Champagne flew by. Not quite making it to Indiana, we stopped near the border in Danville for the night.
Then into Indiana. Traffic picked up and by the time we busted through Indianapolis and jumped on Route 70, tractor trailers accounted for 50% of the thick congestion. Hours on the bike at high speeds with little to look at except our reflection in the shiny hubcaps of some passing trucks, my mind starts to wander.
I travel back to the quaint French towns and the stunning views of the Gaspésie. I marvel at how easily we crossed Canada on the Yellowhead, surrounded by canola and little traffic. The heat and humidity rolls off me as I'm chilled by the memory of the ice fields and their shocking allure. Giant rocks, crashing surf and volcanos, dormant and active, block out the traffic jam in Columbus as we shoot through Ohio. Flashbacks to encounters with friends, old and new, fill the hours in the saddle.
The "mindblog" that Jules and I have written together contains so much more than these words that I write. The sparked memory of a moment shared can ignite volumes of small details known only to us. I have tried to relate the essence of our travels, but the soul is ours and I will hold it in my heart forever.
Hannibal, MO
A paddle boat plies the Big Muddy
Rascal rides the river
Springfield
Our reflection in the hubcaps!
Ticking off another state
Columbus
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