I got in 140 miles and made it to a new state. I started in some place in Indiana and ended in some place in Kentucky. I’m sure both towns have names, but honestly, it’s all blending together now. (Jasper MO, to Frankfort, Ky)

I thought Indiana was just going to be cornfields—and maybe some more cornfields—but boy, was I wrong. Southern Indiana has trees, hills, and winding roads. I started late, waiting for the rain to stop, but I rode under dark clouds the entire morning. Every corner I turned, I had my phone out, trying to capture one beautiful, tree-lined valley after another. It was pretty darn exciting. I think the scenery slowed me down a bit, which in turn gave me better range than usual.

I rolled into a small town and spotted a nice local restaurant with power outlets out front—perfect, so I didn’t have to drag my charger inside. I noticed a sheriff’s vehicle parked out front and got excited about talking to the local authorities.

I asked the waitress if I could charge. “Of course,” she said. I sat down next to the sheriff. He looked to be in his late seventies, with severely gnarled hands from arthritis. We started chatting, and he had one of the thickest southern accents I’ve ever heard.

He said he was now in charge of the jail because he was too old to be out fighting crime in the field. I asked him what the big issues were around there. “It’s all meth,” he said. “You know those meth people… it’s really sad. They come to jail, stay sometimes for months, get it out of their system… then they’re back on it in a day. I rarely see someone get clean. It’s been a real problem around here.”

We talked a little longer, and then he got up and left.

Soon after, an older couple in their mid-seventies walked in. They were nicely dressed, and he was wearing a Vietnam-Era Veteran hat. We started talking, and they invited me to join them for lunch. Before we ate, they asked if I’d mind joining them in saying grace. They each reached out and held my hands as David gave thanks for the food and asked God to watch over me on my travels. Debbie gave my hand a warm squeeze when he mentioned my safety.

Both of them are retired. David was a telephone lineman for 30 years, and Debbie taught pre-school and kindergarten. She pointed out that our waitress had been one of her students—“a good girl even back then.” It seemed like everyone who walked into the restaurant knew Debbie and David. I think she must’ve taught the whole town.

David had served in the Army and had been stationed in Germany. Debbie followed him there when she was just 18, with a brand-new baby in tow. They both said they loved Germany—well, except for one person. Debbie was about to tell me that story, then decided not to. People like Debbie and David don’t like to speak badly of anyone, even someone from their distant past in a far-off land.

They’re both very involved in their church. Despite having COPD, David still sings in the choir each week. He says it helps his lungs. Debbie didn’t finish her bacon because she’s trying to be nice to her kidneys. They got a to-go box to bring it home to the cats.

We talked a little about politics. They said they wished the president were more polite and kinder to people. “Americans are nice,” Debbie said, “and he should be nice too.” She was especially upset about the treatment of immigrants—particularly children being separated from their families. “That’s just not right. They’re all God’s children.” Then she said something that stuck with me:
“Rather than spending all that money building a wall and chasing them, why don’t we figure out why they want to leave their countries and try to fix that? That’s what America did after World War II in Europe.”

Before they left, they each gave me a little plastic Jesus to carry with me. I reached out to shake their hands, and they said, “Sorry—we’re huggers.” I got big, warm hugs from both of them. As I walked them to their car, the waitress came running out with the forgotten to-go box. “Hey Debbie! I thought you were getting this for the cats!” she shouted. They laughed, waved, and drove off.

I continued east and arrived in Louisville, KY. I wasn’t expecting such a big city. People were everywhere, out walking, chatting, and enjoying the day. There was a section of town full of outdoor art and murals. I crossed an incredibly nice pedestrian bridge over the Ohio River—packed with people strolling and enjoying the view. It was a beautiful setting.

Then came the suburban sprawl of east Louisville. Fancy homes, modern neighborhoods—lots of wealth. As I exited the city, I rode into horse country. Think: gigantic mansions, acres of manicured grass, and horses just hanging around, doing horse things. And there weren’t just a few estates—there were dozens. These would be $20 million homes in the Bay Area, if you could even find the land to build them on. I couldn’t help but wonder: where does all this money come from?

*One of the least impressive houses. Sorry!*

This is not the Kentucky you see in a gritty coal-mining movie.

I arrived in Frankfort just as it was getting dark. I had booked a room in a vintage hotel that was cheaper than a Holiday Inn—and honestly, it turned out to be great. A perfect place to rest up for tomorrow’s long ride.

PS: Artificially Enhanced

My friend Skip called me today. I told him I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. He suggested , “Maybe you should have ChatGPT write your blog tonight.” I thought that was a great idea. I use Word to draft my posts, then have ChatGPT proofread them for me. Since it remembers my writing style, I gave it the following prompt:

“Please write a blog post in my voice and my style about me visiting Modishu, (I of course misspelled Mogadishu) Somalia. Have the normal stuff happen—funny coincidences, people being nice, a life-and-death experience, and an interaction with an animal. Please make it 1000 words in length.”

After reading its response, I’ve seriously considered hopping a bus to D.C. and letting ChatGPT finish the journey for me. It might do a better job anyway.

Here it is:

I don’t know why I went to Modishu, Somalia. Maybe it was the name. Modishu. It sounds like a sleepy dog or a lost Sufi poem. Maybe it was because I had a 14-hour layover and a knack for poor impulse control. Whatever the reason, I found myself descending into a city that most people consider a punchline in a geopolitical comedy of errors.

From the moment I stepped out of the airport, the heat hit me like a slap from someone who has very personal feelings about sunscreen. My unicycle, recently declared a registered diplomat by three separate trail associations, emerged from baggage claim with only minor dings and a slightly bent pedal. I figured that just made it more aerodynamic.

I was barely five minutes into my ride through Modshu when a man with one sandal and a wildly affectionate goat waved me down. He introduced himself as Farah and the goat as "Dr. Bananas." Farah insisted on buying me tea, and we ended up sitting in a corrugated tin shack sipping what might have been camel milk infused with kerosene and sugar. It was either delightful or toxic. I couldn’t decide, but I drank two.

Farah asked me what I was doing in Modishu. I told him the truth: I wasn’t sure. I said something vague about seeing the world, trusting strangers, and getting a sunburn in every time zone. He laughed like I had told him a joke he hadn’t heard since the war. Then he told me that Modishu was a city that punished certainty and rewarded chaos. I liked that. I wrote it on my arm in Sharpie.

There are two speeds in Modishu: crawl and chaos. If you’re not being chased by a fruit vendor who wants to give you a free mango, you’re sitting in traffic behind a camel who refuses to yield to anyone not wearing a prayer hat. I got lost trying to find the Indian Ocean, but ended up in a courtyard where children were playing soccer with a deflated volleyball and a rooster who seemed to think he was the referee.

One of the kids handed me a cup of something cold. I drank it. It was possibly fermented goat yogurt. Or bleach. The verdict is still out, but it definitely cleaned me out emotionally.

As I rode along the crumbling seafront, a stray cat started following me. Not just casually. Like, full-stalker mode. It had a limp and a suspicious look in its eye, like it had seen some things. I named it Carl. Carl followed me for the next three hours, darting between alleyways, reappearing dramatically every time I thought I’d lost him. He was my feline conscience. And like most consciences, he offered no real guidance, just judgmental stares.

And then, like clockwork, the moment. The one that makes every trip feel like a Choose Your Own Adventure book with the pages stuck together. I was riding along a quiet street when I heard a loud pop. Not my tire. Not a car backfiring. Something sharper. People started running. A man grabbed me by the shirt and yanked me into an open doorway. I landed in a room full of rugs, prayer beads, and three very confused old women who immediately started offering me dates and slapping me on the back.

Turns out, there was a brief but spirited disagreement between two rival ice vendors that escalated into gunfire. Farah later explained that this kind of thing happens every now and then, but it usually blows over before anyone finishes their tea.

I sat in that rug shop for an hour with those women. None of us spoke the same language, but I felt more understood than I had in weeks. One of them gave me a necklace made from the shell of a sea snail and said something that sounded like a blessing or possibly a recipe. I cried a little. It might have been the tear gas in the air, or just the overwhelming kindness.

Eventually, things calmed down. I stepped outside to find Carl the Cat waiting patiently by my unicycle, licking his paw like he’d just come from a board meeting. We rolled off together in silence.

As I made my way back toward the airport, Farah reappeared, this time riding a donkey with more charisma than most American senators. He handed me a bag of dates and said, "For your journey. Eat one when you forget who you are."

I left Modishu with a belly full of fermented tea, a cat-shaped shadow in my heart, and the vague feeling that I had been both lost and found in a single afternoon.

Faith, I think, is letting a goat named Dr. Bananas lick your face and trusting that the universe, despite all evidence to the contrary, still has a soft spot for fools.

That, or maybe it’s just the yogurt.

I visit Mogadishu

PS: Artificially Enhanced

Seeing Hazel Green

Faith?