The comfort of a small town

A rainy day

( The following section was written last night)

I woke up sore from yesterday’s fall. I wandered down, got a nice breakfast, and decided I needed to keep moving. I wanted to take a day off to let my shoulder rest, but I realized I had a morning break in the weather, and I knew I’d feel better tonight if I made some forward progress.

Kim will be free to meet me on the 15th, and I’d really like to see her that day and then fly home. I’ve loved this trip—it’s been transformative—but I miss my family, I miss not wearing a backpack, and I miss my own bed.

I checked the map: just 800 miles to Washington, D.C.

I know a lot of delusional old men have been showing up there lately and deciding to stay, but this one wants to head back to California.

I left the hotel and Google routed me across the Mississippi River. Before crossing, I stopped at a Starbucks—and had the first rude service I’ve experienced on this entire trip.

Starbucks has been my charging oasis: reliable coffee, a wall outlet, and usually friendly conversations. But today, as I tried to walk through the door, a white woman, around 50, looked at me and said, “Listen, you are not bringing that thing in here.”

I turned around, parked the unicycle outside, and came back in.

When I approached her, I said, “Sorry, I’ve been charging at Starbucks across the country and assumed I could do it here too.”

She snapped, “Not here. What do you want?”

I gave her my order and went to sit down. Nearby, two former coworkers were chatting—one younger, one my age. The younger one was mentoring the older woman who was my aged on how to re-enter the workforce. It was heartwarming. Young people might not realize how important their guidance can be for someone older—especially when they’re smarter and see things differently. It was beautiful to watch.

While I was talking to them, my drink was placed on the counter. But oddly, no one called out my name or said it was ready.

When I went to leave, I couldn’t find my phone. The younger guy said, “You left it on the counter. The manager took it and put it behind the counter.” She hadn’t said a word about it. That felt... off.

Next door was an auto parts store. The manager was perched on top of a cart eating something messy. I asked him where I could find tire tools.

He said, “End of aisle 2 if we have any.”

I asked again because his mouth was full and hard to understand. He replied, irritated, “Aisle 2—the number after 1 and before 3.”

I was impressed with his math skills.

I asked if they had Allen wrenches. “Aisle 2,” he repeated. Aisle 2 was long and densely packed. I asked if he could help.

He said, “Try looking first. If you don’t find it, I’ll help.”

Then I went to a nearby tire shop and asked if they could help with my tire change. A guy who looked like an overfilled burlap sack of manure said, “No, no, no. We don’t have the tools.” When I asked if he knew somewhere that could help, he said, “Do you have a smartphone? Try Google.” Then he went back to shoving Pringles into his face.

I had to checked out of my hotel because they were full for Saturday night. My intention for the day was to fix the tire, find another hotel in St. Louis, and recuperate from my fall.

But after three consecutive customer service nightmares—all businesses next to each other—I realized I needed to get out of this grumpy place and back to rural America.

I’ve been spoiled by great service and kind people across the heartland. I’d gotten out of practice dealing with urban trolls. I'm sure service here is no worse than any big city—but what makes people so hard and abrupt? How would a rural person feel coming here?

My relative, Tom Maupin, would’ve zapped them with a cattle prod to straighten them out.

I hate to generalize based on one day and one wheel, but there’s a hardness in St. Louis I hadn’t experienced anywhere else on this trip. It reminded me of the Bay Area. We have our share of distant weirdos too—people who will cross the street to avoid helping you.

I’ve been in so many retail establishments over the past month and almost always been treated kindly. So why does a city harden you? Why is it acceptable to be a cold ass to someone you don’t know?

A Realization in a Soft Bed

(Written this morning)

After a good night’s sleep, I had a realization: maybe I was the problem.

Maybe I looked like just another mentally ill homeless guy—dirty, everything I own on my back, soaked from rain, with a strange vehicle and a stranger story. Maybe people saw me as someone who, if encouraged, would hang around spouting nonsense.

Big cities see a lot of weirdos. If you’re kind to them, sometimes they latch on. So maybe they weren’t cold—they were cautious. Maybe I’ve gotten soft.

In small towns, I’m “that quirky old man dressed like a Power Ranger riding in on a Roomba.” People say, “Let’s go talk to him! What the hell is he up to?”

In cities, it’s: “Honey, don’t engage. He probably smells like pee.”

I live in a small town nested in a big community. Rhonda is my grocery checker. Robert manages the produce section and always has time to chat about motorcycles and aging. Cici works the self-checkout; she’s lost weight, got her hips done, and looks so happy. Her knees are next.

At Peet’s Coffee, there’s my friends Mike, Jeff, Rodney, Lee, and Jay. There’s Vicky, Katherine, Vivian, and Anear, who know my order and start making it when they see me. At Great Clips Kelli and Lisa cut my hair and share their stories about coming to America from war-torn Vietnam.

I’m surrounded by people who know me.

Yesterday made me miss my small town.

So instead of sulking, I rode into rural Illinois. A gentle mist was falling. I followed bike trails through the lush countryside outside St. Louis. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but I knew it was east.

Rain picked up. I came to a small town and saw a classic roadhouse called The Juicy Peanut. Lots of trucks out front—good sign. Covered patio. Power outlet. Bingo.

A place at the bar

A man made room for me at the bar. Jessie—nickname "Juicy," but please call her Jessie—greeted me warmly. I asked if I could charge as I ate.

“Of course, dear. Now tell us, what are you up to?”

The whole bar leaned in. I told them my story—small roads, small towns, falling in love with the country. Someone said, “Let’s buy him a shot. The old man looks cold.”

I ordered food—enormous chicken satay sticks for two bucks. I told Jessie’s husband, the cook, he should raise prices. He said they’ve kept them the same for years. “We don’t have the heart to raise prices on our regulars.”

Bud, sitting next to me, wanted to see the unicycle during his smoke break. Jessie offered me their RV out back if the rain didn’t let up. I offered to pay for the charge, and she said “No”—but she did let me buy a T-shirt. The bar helped me pick one out.

My new friends!!!

Half the bar came outside to wave me off.

I kept riding, caught up to the storm again, and got soaked. The rain came down like a cow peeing on a flat rock.

I saw another bar in another little town. Lots of trucks. Covered patio. I went in, dripping wet.

It happened again.

People offered me food—literally off their plates. The owner wouldn’t take money for my soda, so I bought a round for the house. Forty bucks. Suddenly I was Jesus.

An older woman hugged me. People laughed, swapped stories. It was still raining, so they told me to bring the unicycle inside and ride it around the bar.

I did.

By request, I rode a lap around the inside of this bar. Didn’t have to sign a waver.

The rain let up, I put on my gear, and rode on to Mt. Vernon, Illinois, where I slept in a very comfortable bed.