June 10, 2018 Strafford, MO to Waynesville, MO

73.81 miles. All of the bad wind days that started this trip are turning into a string of good wind days, just like they were supposed to be. The prevailing south west wind is doing its thing. Not so much blowing me across Missouri, as much as keeping me cool on what has been some hot days, and giving me just a little push. Once again , the weather was supposed to be in the middle 90's, with high humidity, and it did not fail. I rolled out at 7:30, with winds at my back and temps in the low 70,s.
The first third of the trip was headed mostly northish, it seemed, and I had plenty of shade from the tall trees on the east side of the road. The scenery was more forested, and less farm land than previous days. Small towns dotted the route every 10-15 miles, and the area was steady with residential homes along old 66. The hills were very apparent, as I climbed about 3000 ft. for the day, but the downhills seemed just a little longer than the ups. If someone rode the route that I rode today going east to west, they would have climbed 700 ft more, into a headwind. Which begs an answer to the question: " Why would anyone want to start the route 66 trip in Chicago, and go west?" When I was still riding with Ben, we came across a young guy who was headed east to west. We met him near the Oklahoma/Kansas/Missouri border, and he went on about how hilly Missouri was. Duh. If you start your trip at the Mississippi River and climb to the Great Plains, it's gonna be tougher than if you come out of the high desert, down to the Great Plains, and on down to the Mississippi, in St Louis. After you do all that climbing, headed west, you are greeted with the desert Southwest of New Mexico and Arizona, where it is 110 now, and getting hotter.  This guy we met was named Graham, and he really didn't think his trip through. Youth is so wasted on the young. But I digress.
Now, back to my trip. 66 finally was void of the damn rumble strips in the shoulder, but that's because there were no shoulders. Nor was there traffic. It was Sunday morning, but even so. As close as 66 parallels I 44, there is no reason to be on meandering 66 unless ur a local. The rumble strips were replaced by frost heaves and cracks, but they weren't terrible.  I made the larger town of Lebanon for my 50 mile marker, but did not stop for lunch, as I packed a couple of sandwiches, which I ate as I rode. I did stop to refill some water bottles and wet down my sweat band, as the heat was starting to crank.
Somewhere near the sleepy town of Sleeper, I came across two curious things at the same time. There was a sign that said "bridge closed ahead.   Three miles. There was also a biker that seemed to be debating what to do, because the 66 biway signs were putting us in to I 44. These two developments caused me to stop and chat with the guy. He was French, with very silver hair, which made him look like he was pushing 70 years old. He had a heavy duty little bike with a single wheeled trailer, and a gas motor on the bike to assist him. His grasp of our language was pretty good, but not great. As we were talking I noticed that he had two, basically flat tires. I guess he had been stopping as often as needed and pumping up his Slime filled tubes, so he didn't have to change them. As we were chatting, a pick up stopped and told us that we could cross the closed bridge on bikes, just not cars. Frenchy was happy about that because he hated the interstate, and I, who love the interstate, couldn't resist the temptation to cross a closed bridge. He insisted that I go ahead, while he pumped up his tubes, so with a fist bump, I was on my way.
Three miles later, after some wicked downhill where I hit nearly 40 mph, I came to the bridge. By the old age of some roadside signs pleading to fix the old bridge, not replace it, because of the historical value, I could tell that the bridge has been closed for a long, long time. I lifted my Surly Ogre (that would be the name of my bike) over the guardrail blocking the bridge, and as I dodged potholes, looked longingly at the clear water of the  Gasconade River flowing below, and entertained the thought of going down to it and basking in it's coolness. It was hot, but I kept my eyes on the prize, and kept moving.  The far end of the bridge was also blocked by guardrail, but the pavement had been torn up to show the same concrete surface, with the little curb, that I described riding on through a large part of Oklahoma. The history of the bridge hit me when I saw the origional pavement, so I hope they refurbish the bridge, not replace it. It will probably cost more to refurbish it than tear it down and start over again. As I was starting up the equally wicked hill on the other side of the bridge, I looked back and saw Frenchy, who had recruited someone from somewhere to help him lift his cumbersome bike and trailer over the guardrail. I figured he would catch me soon, as I muscled up the hill, but I never saw him till my trip was done ( more on that later).
The last 25 miles to my destination of Waynesville was more hills, and much of the same ol, same ol, until I rumbled down a pretty big  ( like two/three mile) hill into Waynesville. I stopped at a convenience store to turn on the GPS and see where the campground was, when Pam called at the same second I was getting my phone out. She told me that I had blown past the campground and went about five miles too far. (She can track me on a special app that we have)   It wasn't much of a decision that I wasn't going to climb back up that hill, so she came and got me (Such a great wife and support person). In the meantime I googled the nearest Dairy Queen, and it was only three miles further down the road, so we decided to get lunch.(as I was loading my bike in the Jeep, ol Frenchy came rolling by, about 20 minutes behind me I would guess. I wonder how many times he stopped to pump up his tires). It was about 2:30, so we were both hungry, but the damn DQ was shut down, as often happens in these small towns, with lots of restaurants that we might have eaten at. Fortunately, there was a Sonic right next door, so that, it was. We backtracked the eight miles to home base. The campgrounds in Missouri basically suck, and I missed ours because it's sign only faced one direction. The other way. And it was down in a hollow off the road. Pam sat outside and tried to figure out next campground, and totally struck out, so tommorow night may be spent at a truck stop. Did I mention that the campgrounds in Missouri are few and far between, and that the ones we can find, suck? Just a word to the wise, who read this blog.