The Cafe at Inman

The wind blew today and unfortunately it blew in our face most of the time. It was a long 70 miles from Sterling to Hillsboro's Mt. Tabor College. The big morning controversy was whether the gas bubbles gurgling up from a mud pond at one of our rests was from methane or tadpoles. Steve insisted tadpoles. I said I thought it was methane. "Look at all the oil derricks in the fields," I pointed out. The issue remains unsettled, but if those bubbles were caused by a tadpole it was at least 8 feet long. Can't wait to see the frog emerge.

The real action of the day occurred in the little farming town of Inman, where we stopped for coffee and pastries at the Harvest Café, a true monument to Middle American values. This is the place that advertised 25 cent coffee between 2 and 4 pm. Inside, lining a shelf that ringed the upper walls was the finest collection of model trucks and John Deer farming vehicles I have ever seen. OK, I haven’t seen that many, but it was impressive, believe me. Then there were the pies for which they are famous. I didn’t want pie, but opted for a maple bar, which, in my world, counts as donut. That’s donut number three for this trip. Steve, as usual, made for the table where the local ladies were sitting. Later, Barbara came over and chatted with Russ and me. Turns out that we just missed the big homecoming game between Inman and Trinity Christian, as well as the Santa Fe Days parade. These events take place tomorrow. We also learned we are in Mennonite country. I don’t think they are keen on the consumption of alcohol so we will need to behave ourselves for yet another day. I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. The sign in the Harvest Café more or less explained things: We are just like Cheers except for the beer.



Steve once again chatting up the locals at the Harvest Café. 

Through Steve’s chat-up, Barbara made a call to Ralph Vogel, who had just proudly restored an early 20^th century farmhouse that had been moved to the city museum’s lot. We must see it, she insisted. So we spent another half hour in town touring the cute little restored house. Apparently, Ralph had done all the work himself; truly with loving care. Ralph tells us his son is a music professor at Mount Tabor College, our destination for the day.

It was already late in the morning by the time we rolled out of Inman. About 30 minutes later Russ had a Eureka moment. He called Sheri, who was visiting not far from Hillsboro, our destination for the day. He had located a bike shop in Wichita, which was open until 6 pm. He figured if he could get to Hillsboro by 3 pm, connect with Sheri, then drive an hour to Wichita, he could get his bike fixed and get rid of annoying knocking sound each time he pedaled. Russ was on the phone with Sheri reviewing the plan, while Steve lay out in the middle of the road to stretch. Fu-Ping and Gunther joined us. Our bikes were scattered on the ground, as if we had a massive collision. The rural mailman and another motorist stopped to ask if we were OK.

Russ sped off to his rendezvous with his wife, while the rest of us leaned into a stiff headwind. We had gone not five minutes when I heard a siren coming up fast behind us. A sheriff’s car pulled up beside Gunther who was riding behind me. “Everything, OK?” he asked. “We heard that someone was hurt.” Apparently, a passerby had called in when they saw Steve on the pavement doing his stretches. I knew this stretching in the middle of the road would cause trouble as some point. In the next 20 minutes, two more sheriff’s cars passed, and one that looked like undertaker. This might have been the biggest event to happen in Inman since the coming of the railroad. It certainly gave the cops something to do. “CSI Inman!” yelled Steve.

The wind was oppressive in the afternoon. Without Russ our pace line was reduced to two, but with the wind cutting in at an angle there wasn’t much relief for the trailing cyclist. The land seems richer the farther East we travel. The farms are big and the fields, at least the ones not fallow, are cultivated with corn and soybeans. The farmhouses themselves are big and well-maintained with expansive lawns and big trees to break the incessant wind. Every ten minutes, even on the narrow country, road large trucks passed brimming with corn.

Resting at another lonely crossroads in Kansas.

The roadsides are devoid of the beer cans and beer cardboard carriers that littered all other areas.  Could there be a connection between the ban on booze in these parts and lack of litter?

I tried to break the monotony and the growing weariness in my legs by thinking of all things Kansas. That meant humming the same verse from the rock group Kansas – Dust in the Wind. All we are is Dust in the Wind…I couldn’t remember the other words, but these few were apropos today. Then there was Judy Garland and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” But I decided to save that one for tomorrow.



Steve stretches in front of an abandoned foot market near Canton, Kansas.

By 3 pm, Steve and I straggled into the parking lot of an abandoned food mart at the intersection with US 56, not far from Canton. The weather had warmed up the chill that greeted us in the morning. We ate the last of the fried chicken we bought at the Harvest Café, its friendly atmosphere now a distant memory as we sat facing a parking lot of broken glass next to rusting farm machinery and decommissioned oil derricks.

By 4:30, we finally coax our bikes the last few miles to Hillsboro. We were escorted into town by Mike, a local, who guided us to where our group is camped on the west lawn of Mount Tabor College, a Mennonite college. It teamed with athletic looking corn-fed kids. We had 20 minutes to shower before the visiting woman’s volleyball team arrived (not exactly a great incentive to vacate the premises).

Stats: 71 miles and one sore butt.
Late Score: Inman 14, Trinity 7. A big upset. I bet the town raised hell at the Harvest Café. Congratulations Inman!