Most every morning as I mount my bike to ride to breakfast somewhere in Greater Liberty, a map lights up in my mind. How it got there I haven’t a clue. Why this destination today I don’t know. When I first began to ride and would come to a fork in the road, I would be almost paralyzed with indecision. Sometimes I would take one road and be soon overcome with the notion that I had made a mistake. And I would turn back. Then one day it came to me that good people and places are to be found down every road. Intersection anxiety vanished. Never since that day have I paused even for a second to consider which way I should go. Some unseen mapmaker in my head has worked it all out even before my conscious mind focuses on the impending ride.
This late April morning is chilly and overcast, the predicted showers close at hand. My last night’s enthusiasm for a dawn launch is quickly fading. Before it can erode entirely, I pull on rain gear over my turtleneck sweater and sweat pants and force myself onto my bike. No rain at the moment. No great expectations either. Only the certain knowledge that my body will work better and my spirits will soar if I spend the morning turning those pedals. The Mill Inn in Excelsior Springs is my mapmaker’s choice today.
As I cross Mill Street and pedal up Bowles Drive onto Jewell’s campus, a white car pulls alongside and I hear a voice. “Where to today, Dad?” It’s my daughter, Debbie, on her way to teach her classes on this last day of the spring semester. The question is unexpected. “To Kearney,” I blurt. And she is gone. To Kearney? That’s not where the mapmaker said. But the mapmaker hadn’t spoken to my conscious mind. I don’t think it ever does. It’s kinda like a program always running in the background. It has it’s way without ever making itself known. So when Debbie asks, my conscious mind doesn’t know what to say. But has to say something. And fast. Her speed is greater than mine. “Kearney” just pops out.
She likely doesn’t even understand what I said. But for some reason I feel duty-bound to do as I have just told my first-born I would do. That has been my practice all of her life. She was born when her mother—my wife—and I were college students. While her mother did her practice teaching, I kept Debbie and wrote my thesis for my master’s degree. Now Debbie is on the faculty at William Jewell, where I had taught for 30 years.
So for one of the few times it ever happens, I abandon the map that got me out of bed this morning. Mel Phillips has just finished his breakfast when I get to Sarah’s Table about an hour later. I take a seat at the table beside him. Betty comes for my order. “I don’t need a menu. I’ll have a cup of coffee, a half-order of biscuits and gravy and a glass of milk.”
Mel grew up in northeast Kansas City and moved his family to Kearney in the late 80s so his daughter could go to school here. His company was bought out by another, and a year later—on his birthday, no less—he was let go. He had several jobs since and has been retired since 95, when his hips began to give him trouble.
A gentle rain is falling as I leave. My gloves are cold and clammy. Gore-Tex keeps me dry but plasters to me as I ride. The pedals are slick and my foot slips off several times. I had come out B highway to 69 highway to Sommerset to Jesse James Farm Road to 144th to Stonecrest to Ada to Prospect to Sarah’s Table, not the most direct or scenic route—but the flattest and fastest. A hillier and quieter route back beaconed. But the rain and the chill draw me back along the way I had come. A little before noon I’m home.
“Where have you been in this rain?” Bobbie asks. “Kearney! Wasn’t raining when I left.”
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