Rollers, Rain and Rolling into St. Louis, Days 37–42

Missouri has introduced me to what I now simply call “the rollers.” Not mountains. Not flats. Just an endless series of ups and downs that seem to go on forever. Day after day you climb 2,700 to 3,000 feet and descend just as much, only to discover you haven’t really gained any altitude at all. You just keep going up… and down… and up… and down.

Day 37 took us from Joplin toward Springfield, a little over seventy miles and the unofficial beginning of Roller Country. One stop that stuck with me was Carthage, a town with a beautiful square and architecture that felt frozen in time. There was an old stone building that looked more civic than church-like, standing proudly among the other historic structures. I later learned Carthage was the site of an early Civil War battle—another reminder that these roads carry a lot more history than tire tracks.

Karen, meanwhile, had uncovered one of her trademark discoveries—the Boots Hotel, a wonderful throwback to another era. The place felt like something out of the 1940s the kind of hotel where you half expect Clark Gable to be checking out at the front desk. Not far away was an Amish bakery where everything was made from scratch. Karen returned with a few “treats” which, for a cyclist burning calories all day, conveniently qualified as performance nutrition.

After five straight riding days, Springfield became a welcome rest stop.

I was tired and ready for a break.

Springfield surprised us with a lively arts scene and a downtown that felt like a movie set—part town square, part Back to the Future. Breakfast at Galleys required a forty-five-minute wait, which told us everything we needed to know about the place before we ever sat down.

That evening we ate at Houlihan’s and found ourselves sitting near a girls’ softball team from the tiny town of Thayer, Missouri. They were in the Final Four of the state championships, and the excitement around the table was contagious. Their entire hometown had only about two thousand people, and these girls knew they were carrying the hopes of the whole community with them. They were energetic, confident and surprisingly mature, chatting easily with us and clearly savoring the moment. We later learned they lost in the semifinals, but somehow that didn’t diminish the story.

The next day brought two milestones.

It was Memorial Day.

It was also Karen’s and my 46th wedding anniversary. Life can be like Missouri's rollers with lots of ups and downs. Fortunately ours has had more ups than downs, more joys than sorrows. Like on this trip we have been caught in a rainstorm now and then but have weathered the storms and enjoyed the sunshine and rainbows that have followed.

The ride from Springfield to Lebanon was manageable, about fifty-five miles with good weather and enough time to appreciate both the holiday and the anniversary. Our original plan was to celebrate with margaritas at Bricktown, where the hotel promised us a complimentary drink if we mentioned we were guests.

Unfortunately, Bricktown was closed.

The Chicken Shack didn’t exactly scream “romantic anniversary dinner,” so we landed at Jonesy’s Restaurant attached to a truck stop travel center.

Very romantic for the 3 of us.

Scott treated us to dinner, our waitress had recently had a baby who happened to be there with her, and Karen—who can make friends with almost anyone—was happily entertaining the little one while chatting with locals. It wasn't candlelight at a Michelin star but after forty-six years together it's the company that really matters.

As we pushed east toward Rolla and Eureka, weather became the daily opponent.

For several days we had been threading the needle between storms. We would leave early, watch radar obsessively and try to beat the black clouds gathering behind us. One day I spent hours glancing over my shoulder, convinced the skies were about to open.

We got lucky.

Ten minutes after climbing into the RV, the heavens unloaded.

That felt like victory.

The funny part is that before Missouri we bought a trainer to use if rain forced me indoors. I joked it was like buying an insurance policy. Apparently Mother Nature heard me, because ever since we bought it, the rain has mostly stayed away.

Fine by me.

Missouri also gave us Dog Chase Number Two.

I was grinding up a hill when a half-boxer decided I looked like entertainment. My instinct was to swerve left to create some space, and only afterward did I realize I had crested a hill and briefly crossed toward the opposite lane. I yelled at the dog, who suddenly reconsidered his life choices and retreated.

The real shock came afterward.

I realized how lucky I had been that no car had been coming over that hill. That moment stayed with me and served as a reminder that sometimes the close calls you avoid are the ones that teach you the most.

Of course, Scott and Karen had already spotted the dog and apparently were sitting in the RV quietly predicting the whole event.

Very funny.

Another thing Missouri has taught me is how many trucks are on America’s roads.

You don’t really understand it until you ride beside them all day. Construction trucks, semis, flatbeds, fuel trucks, dump trucks, farm trucks—there is always another one coming. Scott and I talked about it during a roadside sandwich stop, and we both came away with a deeper appreciation for the people who keep the country moving. Riding a bicycle across America gives you a front-row seat to the logistics engine of the nation.

You notice things.

Like the fact that school is out.

We stayed at a Holiday Inn near Six Flags in Eureka and the indoor pool was packed with kids—laughing, cannonballing, and celebrating the first taste of summer freedom. Ages four to thirteen and every one of them determined to squeeze every ounce of fun out of vacation.

Another memorable moment came when a wrestling coach approached us at the hotel in Rolla. He wanted to know what the ride was about. Turns out he had participated in cycling events himself and, more importantly, used to take his wrestling teams into the community to deliver food to families facing food insecurity. He understood exactly why we were riding. We exchanged stories, took photos and gave him a couple of ride T-shirts.

Those conversations matter.

So do acts of kindness.

In Bourbon, Missouri, we met Stephen from the Bourbon Cycle Club. The gravel bike had developed a tire problem—sealed but bubbling and probably not trustworthy. Stephen helped replace it at his nearby bike shop and refused to charge us.

Just another reminder that kindness continues to show up.

Then came St. Louis.

The ride into the city surprised me.

Clayton Road rolled past magnificent homes, and the neighborhoods surrounding Washington University and Forest Park were stunning. Many of the grand residences were tied to the legacy of the 1904 World’s Fair, and the architecture carried that sense of ambition and history.

I rolled into town, spoiled myself with two dinners—St. Louis ribs and Thai food—watched some basketball and settled into a quiet evening.

Karen had headed back to California for our grandson Isaac’s graduation—and to spend a little quality time with Lola our puppy.

Scott had done yeoman’s duty, driving solo into St. Louis before leaving for his niece’s wedding in Wisconsin.

Suddenly, after weeks together, I found myself alone.

But not for long.

My substitute support crew arrived the next day—my sisters Andrea and Lynn and their husbands Brad and Mark (the new outlaw drivers- but the massage thing not so much)

We spent part of the rest day exploring the Gateway Arch, which remains every bit as impressive in person as it is in photographs. Lunch and dinner became a reunion tour as Brad and Andrea each crossed paths with people they had known years ago in NOLA, Memphis and Athens.

And just like that, Missouri and 2084 miles will be behind us.

Tomorrow we head toward Greenville and cross into Illinois.

Another state down.

More miles ahead. Please remember what I am riding for.

The No Kid Hungry Ride is a 3,400-mile journey with one goal: helping end childhood hunger in America.

Nearly 14 million children in this country live in food-insecure households. No child should have to wonder where tomorrow’s meals are coming from.

Together we can turn miles into meals and make sure more kids have the food they need to learn, grow and thrive.

If this journey has moved you, made you smile, or reminded you of the power of community and compassion, please consider making a donation to support No Kid Hungry.

Go to www.nokidhungryride.com and hit the donate button.