Kentucky won't give an inch

DAY 17
Lincoln Homestead State Park, KY to Sonora, KY

If we are going to attempt a 90+ mile day, today would be a great day to try. The terrain will be moderately flat with no major climbs. The forecast was meant to be gorgeous. Sunny skies, lower temperatures, minimal humidity, in one word, ideal. So why are 25 mph winds whipping across the road and storm clouds brewing in the distance? We had two options today: option one, a respectable 77 miles to the outskirts of Sonora where we'd lined up accommodations at a cyclist only camping. Or option two, 93.5 miles to a hostel and warm shower east of Madrid. This morning, option two seemed very reasonable. As of now, battling these crosswinds and awaiting the inevitable rain showers, option one might be all we can muster.

It started out as a beautiful morning...

"Get off the F***ing Road!" A white trash, inbred hillbilly yells at us from his speeding car. He's leaning across his passenger seat which is occupied by what I assume is his young daughter. I know there are assholes everywhere in this world, but right now I'm in Kentucky. And here in Kentucky, there are some big time uneducated assholes. I'm going to leave it at that because we've also met some amazingly kind folks here in Kentucky. But it really does only take a few bad eggs to taint the experience of a place. In Kentucky's case it's a bakers dozen.

And then the clouds rolled in

And got pretty windy!

Mr. Trail Angel pulls up to the General Dollar store where we await his arrival. The farm he is graciously allowing us to camp at was supposed to be on route, four miles west of Sonora. Our first clue should have been him telling us it was too complicated to give us directions to. We follow him west of town and pull off the road at two large red barns. "The property I'm having y'all stay at is just through this field in the woods, now it doesn't have any water, power, or toilets, but it does have a dry roof." I look at Becky equally tired as confused. 

Mr. Trail Angel jumps back in his SUV and blazes a path through what can only be described as a wild field of grass. The "road" he was driving down and that we were walking our bicycles down, consists of a mix of grass, weeds, thistle, and sticker bushes. Granted it had been mowed maybe two weeks prior, so it was only knee high as opposed to chest high like the surrounding fields. I don't see the thorn bushes at first. It had just rained so the brush is all wet, soaking our feet and entangling around our gears and chains. "It's going to be a miracle if none of us get a flat tire", I voice to the others. 

Watching the mileage on my bike computer add up, my frustration and anger build with every click. After .9 miles and 20 minutes of walking our heavy bikes through this humid field, we arrive. Mr. Trail Angel is there attempting to gather fire wood for us. In his defense, he was a very polite, good natured old man. But absolutely delusional as to the needs of cyclists. We don't need to hike a mile through knee high wet grass after an exhausting day of riding. We do not need to risk popping a tire in this mine field of thorn bushes. And we do not need to risk having a tick give us Lyme disease. This may seem like ungrateful complaining towards a kind hearted man who was only trying to help. But the fact is, we're not desperate, we have numerous options as to where we can stay on any given night. Mr. Trail Angel's barn would be the last choice on my list every time.

We go to sleep on the open barn floor, sweating under our sleeping quilt in an attempt to avoid the numerous mosquitos. From under the quilt, I kill five daddy long legs encroaching on our area, along with two unknown scary looking spiders. As I turn off my headlamp for the evening I crunch a four inch long armored centipede and fall asleep to the sensation of ticks frolicking all over my body. Thank you Mr. Misguided Good Natured Trail Angel.

These photos are deceiving...

They make the barn look prettier than it was

Stats: 
Miles: 75.7 miles
Average speed: 10.4 mph