As promised, here’s the second of three entries from a previous bike touring trip, across the USA in 2019.
I thought I’d return to some old writing to give you an insight into how my passion developed and, as I prepare to set off along the Pamir Highway, a little flavour of what is to come.
Enjoy!
Extract from Little Interactions: Conversations and Observations across America
A Moral Guide to Sightseeing
Once upon a time, I had a flirtatious affair with city-breaks. I travelled to Berlin and Barcelona in the space of a month, driven by an appetite for a 'cultural' holiday. On each occasion, with the hostel map glued to my hand, I began the trip greedy for information. I was to become a dinner party expert on The Fall of the Wall or Cubism. At some point in the future, I'd recall that catalytic moment, or Picasso's Guernica. Perhaps I could find a relationship between the two? Or, needlessly reference them in my first travelogue? That would really impress them.
But both times, by day two, I was lame with exhibition legs. At every possible opportunity, I'd sit down, joining groups of elderly tourists. Of course, burdened by the guilt of a €16 entrance fee, I'd pretend to read the exhibition pamphlet in vain, and do my best to suppress thoughts of a slice of pizza or a lamb doner. I would never be lonely in these thoughts; friends were quick to vote in favour of food. Afternoons promised more exhibitions, more museums, more galleries. By the evening, everyone was exhausted. On day three - it was always day three - there was a mutually unsaid agreement that we were done with intellectual development, and instead, it was time for German beer or a glass of Spanish rioja. From the two trips, I returned home with a wallet full of exhibition receipts, exhausted from a Ryanair flight, which was inevitably delayed by three hours, and convinced I would never do a ‘cultural holiday again.
Unless I'm over-complicating it, there are ethics involved in a holiday. 'Cultural' holidays have a particular magnetic force on the moral compass, but a beach holiday, whilst necessary for exhausted adults, is deemed wasteful, void of any enriching quality that is lasting. There is an obsession with having some sort of educational takeaway from a holiday. A tan won't last, whilst that nugget of French medieval history will. In the context of cycling across the States, there was little pressure to make diversions for cultural attractions, or so I told myself. It was acceptable to miss Capitol Hill, to miss the Civil War sites, and to miss endless reminders of historic railroads, because, instead, we’d be absorbing as much social culture as possible: little interactions and conversations. Well, that was what I convinced myself.
So, before we had even arrived at the historic childhood home of Abraham Lincoln, I had already determined the level of enthusiasm that I was permitted to show. Lincoln had lived here for a handful of years and it was now no more than a patch of grass. Instead, I decided to take pleasure in listening to Gary Robertson. He was the on-site information guide, dressed in varying degrees of Park Ranger khaki. After his history lesson (Lincoln was the only President to own a patent, which was key to his first successful state legislature campaign, somehow) he described his visit to the UK to watch Pink Floyd on their Animals Tour. It was hard to picture, just like when any crusty history teacher describes their youth.
Ten kilometres later we arrived in Hodgenville. There was a Lincoln museum and a miniature version of the Lincoln Memorial; the town's tourism board were really flogging these six years of Lincolin’s life. I was, however, pulled towards the Hodgenville Masonic Lodge, which was celebrating its 175th anniversary.
Freemasonry is shrouded in mystery and swamped with conspiracy theories. Depending on what you've read, Masons want to establish a New World Order, they faked the moon landing and sunk the Titanic, they worship the devil and are shape-shifting lizard people. Masons themselves argue that they are just a group of people looking to better their communities. Either way, they were another sub-culture of weirdness that I was consciously looking to cross paths with.
We spent the night just out of town at the Larue County Park and Recreational Field, next to Hodgenville High School. It was a series of baseball parks that surrounded some corrugated buildings and a disused swimming pool. A friendly lady, who was re-stocking a changing-room fridge full of blue Gatorade, gave us permission to use the sports hall showers. The security man, who was presumably watching the CCTV footage, would have made the decision, I'm nor quite sure how, that the two naked men walking across the indoor basketball court were no reason to be concerned.
Over dinner, I read the local newspaper, starting with a double-spread of obituaries. It was an insight into Hodgenville’s residents: What was valued? What was admired? Which community enterprise had flourished due to four decades of Peter's hard work? I then moved onto the section of religious verse. There was a small picture of George. W. Smith, a white haired man with thick rimmed spectacles, above a commentary on Ecclesiastes, and the Heavenly Fathers views on American work ethic. It was written with such absolute authority, unquestionable to challenge.
Below the religious commentary, I particularly enjoyed the section of special offers. Next to the Power Mate pressure washer, there was an advert for a Sig Sauer P365 pistol, retailing at $499.99 with a free magazine included too. It was good bedtime reading, but I still felt slightly uncomfortable, sleeping in a tent so close to the school baseball fields. At 8pm, as my head hit the inflatable pillow, fourteen-year-olds were still hitting home runs.