The hardest part of the trip began just 50 miles from home.

Before I left Effingham yesterday, I checked all the weather reports. The weather channel showed a line of thunderstorms in a somewhat horrizontal line crossing the state of Missouri. I thought if the line was south of Columbia there was a chance that I might stay dry if I rode back early in the day. However, an online radar report showed a diagonal line crossing the state, which meant that no matter what, I was getting wet. I managed to stay dry and reasonably comfortable yesterday until just prior to reaching Danville, Missouri.

At this point, it started to rain. It wasn’t a thunderstorm and I was already dressed in my rain suit, so I just concentrated on riding safe, watching for slick spots, and keeping extra viligent about the traffic in front me so that I could slow down safely if I needed to.
I needed to stop.

Just prior to reaching Danville, traffic slowed to a stop. A traffic truck came toward us on the left hand side of the road and the driver ordered us via loudspeaker to make one lane of traffic. I turned the bike off and waited for traffic to move. We did move, finally, 5 feet at a time. Do you know how hard it is to ride a motorcycle in bumper-to-bumper traffic? It’s not much fun squeezing the clutch and brake in 500 times over the course of a couple of hours. Plus, it was raining. My clutch hand cramped a bit after the first 200 times and I warmed it as best I could under my jacket on a dry piece of shirt whenever I could.

The emergency workers diverted us to a road that ran somewhat parallel to I-70. Occasionally, we would catch glimpses of traffic moving slowly Eastbound. Then, after we (me and the other 200 drivers in the same position) had gone about 20 miles, traffic along the route we were diverted on, also slowed to a stop. I switched the bike off again and shook my head. Actually, I cried a few tears of frustration. I was cold and wet and tired. I now had about 90 miles on my tank that usually lasts about 140, but I had no idea what all this stop and go traffic had done to my gas mileage (Most bikes do not have gas gauges that show empty to full–riders guestimate by using the trip meter and knowing how many miles they can usually get on one tank). This was such a depressing ending to an otherwise wonderful time visiting with family.

A short while later, a lady coming from the opposite direction stopped beside me and told me that a truck had gotten stuck on a bridge and unless I wanted to wait another hour and a half, I might be better off turning around. She also stopped at the car behind me, but the drivers of vehicles behind her honked their frustration again.

Come. On.

Riding a bike, I’ve learned to watch out for irrate drivers. When people get tired and they’re behind the wheel of a car, or worse yet, a big truck or SUV, they can behave so irresponsibly. A case in point: This lady stopped to help a biker who was exposed to the elements when you were safe and warm in your big white SUV. You could listen to the radio, drink water or coffee, and generally spend a couple of inconvenient hours not physically exerting yourself much. On the other hand, I spent my time straddling a 600 pound wet bike trying to keep it upright on slippery pavement. I wobbled a bit when my foot touched down on painted pavement and again when I touched the metal center divider embedded in the asphalt. Of course, duck-walking a bike forward 6-10 feet while squeezing in the clutch and brake 500 times over the course of a couple of hours is not much fun either. I was cold and tired and your honking didn’t help my mood any, or leave a very good impression.

I decided to turn around. At this point, I needed gas. I didn’t know if the lettered route signs I had seen could eventually lead to the Interstate, but none of them sounded familiar, and if they led back to the highway, then I reasoned, why didn’t the emergency workers direct us that way in the beginning. I rode back 20 miles to the gas station in Danville and competed for gas with another 25 vehicles. Luckily, most of them had already gotten gas and from the look of the line stretching out the store, were waiting for their female occupants to return from the ladies restroom.

The last 48 miles were slow going in the continuing rain. It was mostly 30-50 miles a hour the whole way to Columbia. I didn’t mind the slow traffic so much, because it kept my wet rain suit from slapping against my skin and extracting any more of my body heat. Plus, when it’s raining, I feel a little more confident at slower speeds.

Eight hours after leaving Effingham, I finally made it home. Next time, I will just camp out under a bridge or at a gas station for an hour or whatever until traffic lessens or can resume. That would have been much easier than traveling along unfamiliar roads for an indeterminate number of miles in a rainstorm. Also, I learned again, that it would be helpful to pack a pair of rubber gloves like they wear in hospitals. If I had done so, and worn them as liners, then I might have avoided getting black hands and fingernails from my black leather gloves. Heck, I wonder if they would work over leather gloves to keep my hands drier?? Oh well. It’s all good. I’ve lived and learned enough to ride again another day.