I don’t really want to go. But I don’t want to call it off. I’m hoping no one will show up and I can come home. Maybe it isn’t raining in Ferrelview. We have never started one of our Greater Liberty Saturday Rides here. This will be our first. It is only light rain falling as I stand in my garage and guess at what is to come. Nighttime showers often vanish with the rising sun. Try as I might, I can’t convince myself that is what this day will bring.
The light rain lets up a time or two as I drive the 15 miles of Highway 291 and come to the Christian Church parking lot in Ferrelview, where we are to meet. I had sent email announcement of our ride to all the 172 riders who have ridden at least once with us. When I arrive 10 minutes ahead of our 7:30 starting time, no one is here. It’s not raining but looks ominous. My normally sunny disposition has not made the drive with me.
I drove in the rain last Tuesday to Country Cookin’ Café in Platte City. Of the several routes we might ride from Ferrelview to Platte City, I wanted to pick what I thought would be the easiest to follow with the printed directions I would give everybody. All the routes are scenic. Some with more hills than others. None with much traffic on a Saturday morning. But no matter the route, Country Cookin’ Café would be our destination. We would all sit together and swap stories as hot coffee warmed us and pancakes, biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs fueled us for our return. I had taken the café’s number and promised to call when I knew the number of riders they could expect.
I dread calling to say no one is coming. Surely they will understand. I’m about to call when I see headlights. A car turns off 291 onto Oma Street and comes toward the church. It turns into the parking lot. There is a bicycles strapped on behind. The car pulls up beside mine. Ken steps out, ready to ride.
“If you hadn’t come, I wouldn’t ride,” I say to Ken. “But now we’re here. Let’s see what happens.” We have ridden maybe a half-mile when a red pickup comes toward us and pulls to a stop as it comes abreast. It’s Rick. He drove here from Smithville and didn’t find the church. We ride back with him to the church. I call the café to tell them the three of us coming. The line is busy.
Eight miles of flat, tree-lined road will bring us to HH highway, where we turn into the hills for another four miles into Platte City. This flat road is called Interurban, named for the trolley that used to run this route from Kansas City to St. Joseph. Flat roads are a novelty in this part of northwest Missouri we call Greater Liberty, an area that encompasses all the places we can ride to in a day from our home in Liberty. We seek flat roads the way a starving man longs for a meal.
The three of us don’t make it to HH before the rain comes. Cold and constant, it’s our unwelcome companion all the way to the café. We’re dripping all over the place getting to our table. Our waitress is cheery and efficient; this warm and dry cocoon smells and feels like a little bit of heaven. We linger long over our breakfast, absorbing the ambiance as protection against the coming chill.
Last Tuesday I had laid out another return route, taking us out Running Horse Road and meandering through fall foliage before rejoining Interurban about a mile from our starting point at the church. Absent the sun and in a steady drizzle, the three of us can’t muster enthusiasm for a novel return involving numerous turns onto unfamiliar roads. Rain has reduced the printed directions we carry to useless clumps of soggy paper. For Ken and Rick to hang back with me would mean more cold wet time for them. But if they rode ahead, they wouldn’t know the way.
We make a unanimous decision to return by the way we came. The three of us ride together by the courthouse and out across I-29 and up the monster hill down which we had earlier descended into town. As we reach the top, they both promise to join me on a future ride. I spot them over the next hill or two. Then they are gone. Riding down these hills in a steady rain puts my heart in my throat. My wet brakes barley work. Plummeting down slick roads and dodging holes is an adrenaline rush that exhausts me. My car sits alone in the parking lot when I reach it.
Thanks for coming this morning, Ken and Rick. I would have gone home to a nice warm bed if you had not shown up. I had hoped to marvel at the trees on this October morning. Had I not been the one to call everyone to this ride, I would have gone back to bed when I saw the rain. The weather was miserable. Riding was dangerous. I would not call it fun. But having done it, I feel invincible. At least enough to make it through the day.
HateBusters
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Liberty, MO 64069
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