August 5 – 9, 2013
by Rob Leachman
I didn’t mean to offend this nice lady who with her husband had stopped to offer assistance after my dog-induced crash, just three miles from the end of the 238-mile trail. But as I laid on the grass looking upward, still dazed, a little bit in shock, and still unsure of the extent of my injuries, this lady’s comment in response to my wife Bev’s assertion that we were near the end of a ride from the beginning of the trail, inexplicably struck a spark in me. When this lady offered that, “It would be too bad if you can’t finish your ride,” in my still-stunned state I quickly countered. “We’re not letting some damn dog keep us from finishing!”
And we didn’t.
At a more precise 237.7 miles, the Katy Trail is the longest rails-to-trail conversion in the United States. Completed in 1996, the trail is basically one very long state park (the Katy Trail State Park) that stretches nearly the width of the state of Missouri. Most of the trail is a conversion from the railbed of the old Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad (MK&T), known in its time as the Katy.
The trail runs from the small town of Clinton in the west-central part of the state to Machens, an isolated, unpopulated spot northwest of St. Louis. It is 10 to 15 feet wide in most places and comprised of hard-packed crushed limestone. Most of the trail runs parallel to the Missouri River, roughly approximating the route of the Lewis and Clark expedition and offers countless panoramic vistas. And though the Katy Trail runs through or close to sizable towns and small cities like Sedalia, Jefferson City, and St. Charles, most of it is obscurely isolated, perhaps not dissimilar to what a group of explorers might have encountered in the summer of 1804.
By 2013, Bev and I had begun to develop a deep connection to this iconic trail. Returning from work-related meetings elsewhere in mid-Missouri, I had on numerous occasions stopped at various locations on the trail to get in a run before returning home. Bev and I had completed countless runs on the MKT Trail in Columbia, a fitness trail that linked with the Katy and was very popular in that college town. We had taken our bikes to overnight stays in Boonville and Rocheport, completing multiple long rides in the process. We found the trail to have an almost magnetic appeal to us, drawing us back time and again to explore its changing scenery.
We had for some time pondered the possibility, really the allure, of biking from one end of the trail to the other. But we never seemed to have enough time away from work, or there were too many logistical challenges to overcome, or we were concerned that some mishap or malady might befall us at some obscure spot on the trail. By 2013, however, Bev and I needed a challenge to motivate us and to maintain and enhance our fitness, and we found this trip to be increasingly doable. Early in the year we decided that we would plan for a five-day trip to begin in early August.
But first we needed to address two critical areas – training and planning. Regarding the former, we didn’t anticipate that this would be a particularly grueling trip, with largely flat riding surfaces, but we had to prepare for the rigors of extended daily riding on a crushed limestone surface with several pounds of clothing and gear strapped to our bikes. Regularly running and weight training, we were in decent physical condition, particularly for our age (57). But we had learned a difficult lesson over 20 years earlier as we had struggled to complete 85 miles on the first day of an MS 150 bike ride, that being in good running condition and good biking condition can be distinctly different.
So, we began riding what represented for us fairly long distances. We made a couple of trips to central Missouri to complete rides on the Katy Trail, familiarizing us with parts of the route but more importantly getting us used to riding on the natural surface. But for the most part we trained close to home. Just a short distance from our home is a paved road that had been converted from an interurban rail line between Kansas City and St. Joseph, Missouri. This rural road, around 25 miles in length, became our riding home for the months leading up to our Katy Trail adventure.
When we completed a 50-mile self-supported ride on a hot and humid Saturday a couple of weeks before our departure, we considered ourselves ready (or at least we hoped so).
I am admittedly not a noteworthy bike mechanic, or of any worthiness for that matter. Cleaning and lubing chains and drive trains represented the apex of my expertise, and any issue with greater complexity would typically require more knowledge (and tools) than I possessed. This was the cause of some slight apprehension, the fear that we might encounter mechanical difficulty on some isolated section of the trail. Shortly before we departed, we took our bikes to our local shop for complete tune-ups, including new chains and adjustment of our derailleurs. Additionally, we installed rear racks on each bike and purchased panniers in which to transport our clothing and gear on this self-contained trip. We made sure we had plenty of Ziploc bags in which we would place virtually everything, including our clothing, to protect against the inevitable dust that would permeate our bags on dry days. Extra tubes, PowerAde powder, energy bars, and plenty of sunscreen, and we were ready for our departure.
One of the greatest logistical challenges we faced was determining our route. Actually, the route was pre-determined; we would start riding at one end of the trail and finish at the other. What was challenging was determining where we would end each day’s ride, dividing what would with side trips be 260 miles of riding into manageable chunks. It would have been ideal if each day’s route would have totaled 50 to 55 miles, but unfortunately, towns with available lodging and restaurants weren’t so evenly distributed on the trail.
After a great deal of study of “The Complete Katy Trail Guidebook,” an invaluable resource authored by Brett Dufur, we finally settled on an itinerary. We would logically begin in Clinton, the western terminus, and ride the first day to Sedalia. The mileage for that ride would total just 40 miles, less than we preferred but a good start to the trip. We would ride from Sedalia to Boonville, an even shorter ride of 36 miles that would require the final three days to be longer than we would have preferred. We would then ride from Boonville to Jefferson City, a short distance off the trail and a total of 55 miles. Our long day would be from Jefferson City to the tiny hamlet of Dutzow, 72 miles, from which we would be shuttled over an unsafe narrow bridge across the Missouri River to Washington. Finally, we would ride from Dutzow to Machens and then back to St. Charles for a total of 61 miles. Our route was backloaded, with rides getting longer as the week progressed. Hopefully, we would get stronger as the week progressed. Hopefully.
Once our route was determined, Bev got to work finding suitable lodging for each evening. We intended to stay in old, restored hotels and bed-and-breakfast inns. Ideally, we were seeking vintage (i.e. old) lodging with modern amenities. In selecting our lodging for six nights working under such tight parameters, Bev did an outstanding job.
Clinton, Missouri, the current western end of the Katy Trail, is located around 90 minutes from our home just north of Kansas City. In recent decades Clinton is perhaps best known as the “Gateway to Truman Lake,” a huge reservoir built by the Corps of Engineers on the Osage River. In the 1920s, though, it had been known as the “baby chick capital of the world,” and over time the town had been the home to over 28 chick hatcheries.
As we departed from home on the first Sunday in August, 2013, we had numerous questions percolating in our minds. Had we forgotten anything? Did we bring enough clothing? Too much clothing? Would all our lodging arrangements work as planned? Would our bikes hold up? What would we do if we had a mechanical issue in the middle of nowhere (which could represent most sections of the trail)? But we didn’t dwell on these issues, determined to do our best to enjoy the moment and have a good time.
Our home for the evening was the Haysler House Bed and Breakfast Inn located just a few blocks from the start of the trail. The Haysler House is a large, beautiful, and imposing Queen Anne-style home built by Gustave Haysler in 1896. The proprietors were in the process of converting the structure into a five-room bed and breakfast inn, though we were the only guest that evening.
As we arrived, we were greeted by a very nice lady with a European accent. She was soon joined by her husband, who offered us a complimentary glass of sherry. Our hosts were exceedingly gracious and hospitable, but recently retired they were admittedly new to the bed-and-breakfast business. And the renovation of the Haysler House was still underway and some of the bugs in the B&B had not yet been worked out. But with amiable and well-intentioned proprietors, our stay would be memorable.
In addition to a bed-and-breakfast inn, the owners aspired to make the Haysler House a fine dining establishment for guests as well as others in the Clinton community. They asked if we would like to have dinner in their dining room that evening, and just like that in a small town in west-central Missouri known more for fast food and diners, we had a reservation for a gourmet meal.
We settled into our room, a bit of a work in progress like much of the rest of the renovation, and then at around 6:00 made our way back downstairs. We were a little startled when one of the owners, Roger, walked out dressed in one of those white, double-breasted jackets that chefs often wear. His wife, Annette, seated us and would be our server for the evening. There was no menu per se, and guests (just us on this Sunday evening) were simply served what the chef prepared.
But what he prepared was exceptional. Baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetables, and homemade bread. Roger asked if we would like some wine with our meal, and I responded that we would like a glass of whatever pairing the chef recommended. He responded, “Well, I have a nice merlot that I think would pair well.” And it did. It made for a memorable dining experience, clearly the highlight of our stay in Clinton. A close second was the breakfast Roger prepared for us the following morning.
Day 1 – Clinton to Sedalia, 40 miles
With just a few hours of riding ahead of us, we were in no hurry to depart from Clinton. When we finally left the inn around 9:00 a.m., the sky was overcast and there was a bit of mist in the air; we would have sunny skies by the time we reached Sedalia. We rode several blocks to the trailhead where we stopped for several photos. And then we officially began our Katy Trail ride.
This section of the trail was bordered by corn and soybean fields, and eventually, we were riding under trees on each side that provided a sort of canopy that protected us from the increasingly visible sun. It was very isolated, and we passed only a handful of other riders and walkers as we passed through small towns and hamlets like Calhoun and Windsor. We were surprised that this section of the trail was more undulating than we had anticipated, rolling terrain that would largely continue for most of the next two days until we reached the Missouri River.
In Windsor, we stopped near a convenience store where, while I stayed with the bikes, Bev purchased for us sandwiches and drinks we would later have for lunch. Stopping a few miles later, the day’s ride about halfway completed, we had a surprisingly satisfying mid-day meal. So far, we were enjoying ourselves immensely.
Shortly after Windsor, we came to a sign signifying that spot as the highest point on the trail (elevation of 955 feet). There were toilets of some sort every five to ten miles or so, often box latrines but occasionally modern facilities with running water. But really, most of the trail was so isolated that a person could take care of most of his (or her) business virtually anywhere. The “highest point on the trail” was not unlike the continental divide, the point at which, at least theoretically, precipitation falling on the east side of the divide flowed to the Atlantic Ocean and on the west side to the Pacific. Stopped at that noteworthy sign, I wisecracked to Bev that if someone urinated south of that spot, it would flow to Clinton, and north of the sign toward Sedalia. She gave me one of those rare looks that long-married couples sometimes share, good-natured glances that suggest, “I’m just tolerating you now.”
We soon were riding into the southern part of Sedalia, a small city of around 25,000 with historic ties to the cattle industry and ragtime composer and pianist Scott Joplin. But mention Sedalia to most Missourians and they will connect this town with the Missouri State Fair, which has been held here annually since 1901. Shortly after entering the city, we passed by the Missouri State Fairgrounds, already bustling with activity though the actual fair wouldn’t open for another 1½ weeks. It was by design that we had not scheduled our trip any later in the month; had we passed through Sedalia much closer to fair time and we would have found no lodging available anywhere in the region.
But we had a reservation at the Hotel Bothwell, a historic seven-story hotel in the downtown area, around five blocks from the trail. As we approached the hotel, we passed by the Pettis County Courthouse. As we glanced down the street between the courthouse and nearby jail, we saw a line of inmates in prison-looking garb chained and shackled together being marched to their court hearings, guards with shotguns on either side. Though this was 2013, it was reminiscent of a scene from the movie “Cool Hand Luke.”
The Hotel Bothwell had been built in 1927 as a hotel, had fallen into disrepair during its years as a senior living center, and had been restored some 20 years earlier into the restored and elegant historic hotel it is today. We were a bit self-conscious as we entered the hotel lobby, dressed in tight-fitting cycling attire and pushing dusty bicycles. But as we approached the young lady at the registration desk, she looked at us like we were any hotel guest; evidently, Katy Trail thru-riders were common at this hotel. She checked us in and asked if we wanted to store our bikes, which obviously we did. So, we removed our panniers with all our clothes and watched with just a bit of apprehension as our bikes were taken to a nearby freight elevator for transport down to the basement. Those bikes were, after all, our only means of transportation.
We took our bags (panniers) to our hotel room, a nice and clean space with a less than inspiring view of an adjacent building. But with a firm bed and a good shower, this room would fit our needs very nicely. After getting cleaned up and rinsing out our cycling clothes, we were ready to explore downtown Sedalia, which on this Monday afternoon wasn’t particularly bustling.
The Hotel Bothwell has a very nice restaurant, the Ivory Grill, that we had looked forward to trying. We were disappointed, though, to find that it was closed on Mondays, meaning we needed to select another establishment from the limited offerings within walking distance. We settled on a lively sports bar just a block from the hotel called Fitters 5th Street Pub. The pub wasn’t particularly busy on a Monday evening, so we took our time as we each had a different pasta dinner and shared a bottle of pinot grigio. It wasn’t necessarily a great meal, but it certainly met our suddenly simpler needs.
It had been a good day, a smooth acclimation to our trail riding routine. The next day’s route was the shortest, just 36 miles, and the longer, more challenging rides would be later in the week. Full and feeling good about what we were doing, we went back to the hotel for a surprisingly good night of sleep.
Day 2 – Sedalia to Boonville, 36 miles
Another shorter day ahead of us, we again purposely left a little later in the morning. When on a road trip in a car and you arrive early at your hotel for the evening and find your room is not yet available, you get back in your car and find something else to do. If you find yourself in this situation while on a bike trip, you’re often forced to sit in the hotel lobby in smelly cycling clothes dealing with occasional odd looks from other hotel patrons. Hence the later departure time.
After loading up on the complimentary breakfast at the hotel, we departed around 9:00 a.m. It had rained the night before, and though the day was sunny by the time we left, the trail was noticeably soft. Coupled with the unexpected hills we encountered, the shorter day was more challenging than we had anticipated.
We passed through the tiny hamlet of Clifton City and then the larger town of Pilot Grove, around 12 miles from our hotel in Boonville and where we stopped for lunch. There are some businesses located along the Katy Trail that have over time become famous with the cycling crowd. One such establishment in Pilot Grove is Becky’s Burgers and Cones, a nice and clean but otherwise nondescript little restaurant. We arrived just after the lunchtime rush, so only a few of the tables were occupied. Despite our grimy legs and sweaty cycling clothes, we sensed little scrutiny as we entered, suggesting that the sight of cyclists patronizing this restaurant was not that uncommon. True to the namesake, we each ordered a hamburger and a large, iced tea and then went back for, you guessed it, an ice cream cone. It made for a nice diversion in a relaxed, small-town atmosphere, and we lingered a little before heading on to Boonville.
Through much of the day the trail was enveloped by farmland, though in many parts we had the sensation of riding through dense forest. While local farmers continued to till their fields, the Missouri Department of Natural Resources, which administered the state park system including the Katy Trail, allowed trees and other vegetation to flourish on either side of the trail. It made for dense brush lining the trail, with overhanging trees providing a shady canopy that dramatically reduced the impact of the sun and humidity on this increasingly hot August day. It was a neat, natural effect that greatly increased the enjoyability of our ride.
In time we crossed over Interstate 70 on an old rail bridge and approached the outskirts of town on a section of trail on which we had previously ridden. Boonville is a historic small town with a population of around 8,000 that in July of 1861 was the site of one of the first battles of the Civil War. The one-bustling town was named after Nathan and Daniel Morgan Boone, sons of Daniel, who established their salt business nearby. (The area became known as the “Boone’s Lick” region as a result.)
Around 2:00 p.m., we arrived at our destination for the evening, the Hotel Frederick. This neat, boutique hotel on the banks of the Missouri River had been built in 1905 and fully restored in 2007 with 30 guest rooms, each unique and eclectic. We had previously stayed here on multiple occasions, either on long weekends or as a base for bike rides on the Katy Trail. Leaving our bikes on the porch near the main entrance, we walked into the hotel lobby. As on every previous stay, we were immediately hit with the unique aroma that always permeated this hotel, the smell of Zum Bar Soap, made with goat’s milk in Kansas City and sold in the hotel and provided in each guest room. The young man at the registration desk was nice enough, but after we told him we were there to check in he commented, “Well, check-in isn’t until 4:00,” then looked up briefly, and then added, “But I see your room is ready.” Not sure of the reason for the slight but irrelevant scolding, but with nowhere else to go, we were glad to get in our room a little early.
The same young man accompanied us to the basement where he unlocked a door into a storage room where we stored our bikes for the evening. We noticed another bicycle, a nice road bike with narrow tires, not ideal for a crushed limestone trail but a high-end bike, nonetheless. Apparently, we weren’t the only thru-riders staying at the hotel that evening.
We took our panniers up to our room to get cleaned up for the evening. This particular guest room was large with a queen bed and an additional trundle bed and a large window with wooden shutters overlooking the nearby bridge over the Missouri River. The amenities in the room were modern, though the furnishings and overall vibe had a very “turn-of-the-century” feel. On our previous visits we had always felt very much at home in this hotel, and this stay would be no different.
After getting cleaned up, washing out our cycling clothes, checking emails, and otherwise getting a little rest on this early afternoon, we were ready for an exciting evening in Boonville, Missouri. Actually, we weren’t in the market for much excitement, just an adult beverage, a nice meal, and a good night’s sleep. On previous stays at the Hotel Frederick, we had enjoyed dinner at a very noteworthy restaurant, Glenn’s Café, that was located in the hotel. As we walked into the lobby, we noticed a couple of official-looking men at the inside entrance to the restaurant. We learned that much to our disappointment, Glenn’s Café had closed and that another restaurant was preparing to open in this space in the coming weeks. Suddenly, finding our preferred dining choice no longer available, we asked for recommendations regarding a suitable replacement. These two gentlemen seemed to have extensive knowledge of Boonville’s dining scene, and one offered that the best alternative would be the bistro at the nearby Isle of Capri Casino. He lamented, though, that the restaurant was closed on Tuesdays. The other then offered he would probably suggest a place called “The Palace” just a block or two away. Fortified with such a less than stellar recommendation, we prepared for our evening.
The Hotel Frederick has a small, old-style bar with leather chairs and couches and decorations detailing the history of Boonville. Though the restaurant was closed the bar remained open, and as we had on each of our previous stays at the hotel, we gladly entered and ordered a cocktail. We were served by Jeremiah, a most hospitable bartender who over time had become somewhat famous among hotel patrons. Bev ordered a gin and tonic and I a bourbon and soda, our go-to cocktails, and as usual they were excellent. It was nice to take in the ambiance of the bar and discuss the events of the past two days and the challenges that lie ahead. Jeremiah came around and asked if we wanted another round, and as it was still too early for dinner, I said that I did. As our pleasant stay in the lounge continued, it was around 6:00, so we decided to mosey over to the restaurant.
The Palace Restaurant would be challenging to describe, one with a diner look and feel that was striving to become more of a fine dining establishment. Despite the dearth of other dinner options in the downtown area that Tuesday evening, the Palace was not particularly crowded. The special was the fried chicken dinner, which we both ordered along with a rather inexpensive bottle of chardonnay. The wine was more serviceable than good, and the chicken was well-prepared, though I ate far more than I should have. As we slowly strolled back to the hotel, I internalized the lesson I had just learned. Facing a ride the next day that would end up totaling 60 miles, on the evening before I should be more careful to avoid a) drinking too much alcohol and b) eating too much greasy food. After some good sleep, though, I was ready to go the next morning.
Day 3 – Boonville to Jefferson City, 60 miles
I woke up at my customary early hour, pulled back the wooden shutters, and much to my consternation saw that it was raining, hard. Rain is at best a nuisance to cyclists, and to those riding on crushed rock surfaces, large amounts of precipitation can make peddling on a soft and mushy trail doubly challenging. The downpour would end before we departed and the riding surface was damp but only a little soft, but this day would still provide a bit more excitement than we had anticipated.
After a nice continental breakfast at the hotel, we went to the basement of the hotel to retrieve our bikes. Also in the basement was the owner of the road bike we had noticed the previous afternoon, a studly-looking younger man we recognized from our time in the bar. He had noticed us as well and seemed somewhat surprised that we were, like him, riding the entire Katy Trail. He had ridden all the way from Clinton the previous day, completing the route we had ridden over the previous two days. But he was cordial, and after loading his bike he left the hotel headed in the same direction we were. Watching him take off like a rocket, we were quite confident that we would not see this impressive rider again; we did not. We followed shortly thereafter, departing the Hotel Frederick around 8:30 a.m.
Boonville represents the only spot on the Katy Trail that crosses the Missouri River. As there is no dedicated bike and pedestrian bridge across the river, the trail detours toward the downtown area and then crosses the river via a walkway running alongside a fairly new highway bridge. Once on the bridge, it was a long downhill to river level, where a short auxiliary trail reconnected with the railbed that we had been following since Clinton. With only some very minor variances, the trail would remain level with the river (i.e. flat) all the way to Machens. In fact, because the river naturally flows slightly downhill, the trail also follows an imperceptible descent to the end.
A few miles into the ride we came to the edge of the small town of New Franklin, arguably one of the most historic points on the trail. The original town of Franklin was established in 1816 near the banks of a Missouri River that in those days was wilder, shallower, and more prone to flooding. Franklin quickly became a hub in the expansion westward and became the starting point of the Santa Fe Trail. Due to incessant flooding, the town was largely relocated a short distance to higher ground and renamed New Franklin. Its more famous residents include the frontiersman Kit Carson, Missouri artist George Caleb Bingham, and country music star Sara Evans. As we quickly rode past this town of just over 1,000 people, the only creature with which we interacted was what sounded like a large dog. It was just outside of town and the overgrown brush along the trail prevented us from viewing what we sensed was a fenced-in junkyard. But we could hear what we assumed was an enormous mutt of some sort, no doubt a quintessential junkyard dog, as he loudly protested our presence. We assumed the fence would hold, but we bumped up our pace just in case.
In an isolated section of the trail between New Franklin and Rocheport, we experienced one of those potentially significant mechanical issues about which we had been so concerned. I was riding just a few yards in front of Bev when I heard her yell for me to stop. Like each morning, we had placed our panniers on our rear racks, hooking an elastic cord from the flap on each side of the panniers to the bottom of the bike rack. The cord on one of Bev’s panniers had come loose and become lodged in the cassette on the rear wheel. The cassette is the set of cogs on the rear wheel that allows for shifting into different gears. The cord had wrapped around the cassette, making the rear wheel largely immovable. And here we were on a damp Wednesday morning in the middle of nowhere, kind of like we had feared.
We assessed the situation and decided to use the tools we had available to cut away as much of the cord as we could, hoping we could remove enough to allow Bev to pedal the several miles to Rocheport where there was a bike shop. Luckily, we were successful enough to allow the wheel and pedal to turn, but Bev would be unable to shift gears until further repairs were completed. Being stuck in one gear would be a much larger issue on other rides, but with a flat trail, little shifting was typically needed. We had dodged a bullet, so to speak, but we would need to get the remainder of the cord removed before we traveled much farther.
Just outside of Rocheport is a fairly long tunnel that had been carved out of a rock bluff back in 1893. We had ridden through the tunnel on numerous earlier rides, and each time the tunnel had given me a strange feeling. The tunnel is just long enough (around 250 feet) that except for the area near either entrance, it is eerily dark, with no lighting and no notion of what is on the trail. We never had an issue, but I simply found the tunnel to be rather spooky.
Rocheport is a neat little town in which we had stayed on several weekend getaways, with bed-and-breakfast inns, nice little restaurants and shops, and a nearby winery. And of course, the Katy Trail. The Trailside Café and Bike Rental is a nice little diner known especially for its burgers. It also had a little bike shop that catered to day riders needing bike rentals and thru riders needing repairs. The needed repair of Bev’s bike wasn’t complicated but required tools and perhaps expertise we didn’t have. With plenty of time to complete the day’s ride, we assumed we could get the bike repaired and be on our way to Jefferson City. Unfortunately, the café was closed on Wednesdays. With no other good options, we continued on, hoping and believing we could make it to Jefferson City with no further difficulties (but no more shifting for Bev).
We stopped at the trailhead in Rocheport, which offered particularly nice facilities with the rarity of running water. After replenishing our water supply and confirming our decision to keep riding despite the elastic cord wrapped around the cassette on Bev’s bike, we plodded on. The two or three miles of trail after leaving Rocheport are some of the most stunning of the entire trail, with sheer rock cliffs to the left and wide vistas of the Missouri River to the right. On this still cool and overcast morning, it made for a truly idyllic and memorable setting.
After passing under Interstate 70, we entered a long stretch of largely isolated trail, occasionally coming to rare businesses and campgrounds and crossing a few county roads and state highways. Before leaving Boonville, we had purchased a couple of sandwiches for lunch later in the day. We eventually came to the McBaine trailhead which offered little more than a shady lunch spot. This trailhead is best known as the connecting point between the Katy Trail and the MK&T fitness trail which led into Columbia and the University of Missouri campus around nine miles away. We were not quite halfway to our destination in Jefferson City, and despite the issues with Bev’s bike we were having an enjoyable day. We leisurely ate our sandwiches at this nice, shady spot as we interacted with the occasional riders, runners, and walkers who happened by.
With over 30 miles remaining on our route for the day, we soon departed McBaine. After passing through the tiny hamlets of Easley and Wilton, we came to the larger town of Hartsburg. Seeking a snack, we exited the trail and road into town toward Dotty’s Café; at this point, we felt like we had earned a piece of pie. It was around 1:00 p.m. when we entered the little diner, just after the lunchtime rush when many in this agriculture-focused community consumed their largest meal of the day. With the Katy Trail by this point nearly 20 years old, we assumed that the locals in these trailside towns had come to view lycra-clad cyclists with some commonality. But when we walked into Dotty’s Café that Wednesday afternoon, conversations in the half-full diner seemed to take a pause. It was as if most of these local patrons were wondering, who were these people, and why were they dressed this way? If we had entered dressed in a pair of bib overalls but with an eyeball in the middle of our foreheads, we might have received fewer suspicious glances.
After trying to sit down at our table as inconspicuously as possible, we took in the ambiance of this relatively nice little mid-Missouri diner. It had a distinct vintage feel, with large toy trucks hanging from the ceiling and posters of Betty Boop, Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and other iconic figures lining the walls. Our server brought glasses of water to our table and told us the special for the day was chicken-fried steak, and that she thought they still had two available. With around 15 miles remaining on what as the day progressed had become a hot ride, the notion of the daily special with all the sides would not have been a wise choice, like the proverbial gift that keeps on giving. But a couple of pieces of pie, mine al a mode, with large glasses of iced tea met our needs completely.
Around ten miles after leaving Hartsburg, we came to the North Jefferson trailhead, a point on the trail most significant for representing the access point to Jefferson City, our destination for the evening. We turned onto the Jefferson City Greenway, an auxiliary trail designed primarily to allow Katy Trail riders to more easily access the many attractions and lodging and dining options offered in Missouri’s state capital. The old bridge across the Missouri River had for some time seemed shaky for cars and a distinct danger zone for cyclists and pedestrians. But the bridge had been upgraded to include a wide, dedicated bike and pedestrian lane that allowed for the safe crossing of the river. To get to the bike lane from the trail, however, we had to climb a rather interesting, four-story ramp structure that represented the equivalent of one long hill. This ended up for me being a minor challenge, but for Bev with her bike stuck in a flatland gear, it was much more difficult. But taking her time, she made it to the top with little difficulty. Once we crossed the wide river, we were in Jefferson City.
Before we had left Hartsburg, we had used our phones to find a bike shop relatively close to the bed-and-breakfast inn at which we were staying in Jefferson City. Ironically, we found that the closest shop was the Hartsburg Cycle Depot, a very reputable bike shop that had recently moved from its original location in Hartsburg to Jefferson City. Bev called the shop and after explaining our current situation, the nice lady she talked with suggested that we bring the bike in that afternoon.
After crossing the river, we turned onto Main Street and after a few blocks came to the bike shop. Once we entered, we quickly realized this was a serious bicycle-centric business, but the same lady Bev had spoken with greeted us warmly and her husband quickly had the bicycle on the rack being repaired. It was a fairly quick and minor repair, so we asked that he do a quick tune-up as well. Within a half-hour or so, Bev’s bike was ready to go, and she would have no further mechanical issues for the remainder of the ride.
Since we had left Clinton, I had occasionally noticed a faint clicking noise coming from the bottom of my bike as I pedaled. I had mentioned this to Bev, but I wasn’t particularly concerned. When the gentleman at the bike shop asked if there was anything else we needed, Bev mentioned the issue with my bike. As I was tired, sweaty, and ready to get to the inn for the evening, I wasn’t sure the problem was worthy of the mechanic’s time. But Bev was a bit persistent, and as has occurred on other instances in what at the time was our nearly 32 years of marriage, she was spot-on with her intuition (and persistence).
The mechanic quickly found that I had a crack in the bottom bracket on my bike, the mechanism that allows the pedals to turn and power the drivetrain. The mechanical issue on my bike was actually far more significant than the one with Bev’s bike. As the mechanic suggested, the crack was severe enough the bracket might have failed before then end of this trip. Had that occurred on some isolated part of the trail, we would have been stranded. Thank you to the nice folks at the Hartsburg Cycle Depot, and of course to Bev.
Relieved to have our bike issues identified and addressed, we headed to our lodging for the evening, an impressive property called the Cliff Manor Bed and Breakfast on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River. We were greeted by the proprietor, a nice lady who we would soon learn was new to B&B ownership, who informed us that we would be the only guests for the evening.
After locking our bikes in an adjacent garage, our host escorted us to our room, or more accurately our suite, for the evening. And what a suite it was, a nicely appointed bedroom, an attached sitting area, and on the back of the suite a private balcony overlooking the Missouri River. And in the sitting room was a large, heart-shaped Jacuzzi tub; oo-la-la! Tired from a long day of riding, we put that hot tub to good use, though not for any amorous purposes. For me, a warm whirlpool bath was a welcome diversion for some sore and tired leg muscles.
Cleaned up and settled in, we were ready for an early dinner. Down the hill from the bed-and-breakfast and the closest dining option was an establishment that had gained some fame among state employees and other locals. Paddy Malone’s Irish Pub was hopping by the time we arrived at around 6:00 p.m., but we were quickly seated at a corner table some distance from the raucous activity in the bar area. We had a nice bar food dinner of burgers, fries, and side salads, all washed down with a couple of Smithwick’s Irish beers. The pub was rather loud, and after three days of relative quiet on the trail and hours largely to ourselves, we were ready to get back to the solitude of the inn. Turning in early, we responded to emails and watched missed TV shows on our iPads before going to bed uncharacteristically early. The longest ride of the trip ahead of us, I slept well despite the nervous apprehension I was feeling.
Day 4 – Jefferson City to Dutzow/Washington, 72 miles
Hoping for an early start, we asked our host if breakfast could be ready as early as possible. As a result, by 8:00 a.m. we had consumed a very nice breakfast of egg casserole, fruit, and pastries, packed up, retrieved our bikes, and after several photos were ready to depart on the longest route of the week, 72 miles. We had been looking forward to this day with a blend of anticipation and trepidation, realizing that the ride would offer not only the longest route but also some of the most isolated and primitive sections of the trail.
Apprehensive or not, backtracking across the river, we were soon back at the North Jefferson Trailhead. It had again rained in the night and as a result, the trail was soft in some spots. But after overcast skies to begin our day, the sun would soon become intense, quickly drying out the crushed rock surface. Shortly after resuming our eastward ride on the actual Katy Trail, we came to a spot on the trail that offered a panoramic view of the state capital building with the river in the foreground. But with a long day ahead of us, we quickly moved on. After around 18 miles, we came to the once-bustling but now largely dormant town of Mokane. We stopped at a small market where we purchased sandwiches, drinks, and snacks to be saved for lunch later in the day.
As the morning progressed, it became hot on this sunny day, the warmest we would experience on this trip. We were making steady but seemingly slow progress as we passed through tiny and largely nondescript towns like Steedman, Portland, Bluffton, and Rhineland. We stopped in Portland to eat our lunch and to refill our water bottles. (We didn’t realize at the time that this would be the last running water we would encounter the remainder of the day.) Outside of Bluffton, we stopped to appreciate some massive sheer rock cliffs, or bluffs as the town name implied, the tallest along the entire trail.
Finally, we came to McKittrick, the junction where some riders left the trail for the historic town of Hermann. At this point, we still had what we thought would be plenty of water and Gatorade, the energy drink we were using on this trip. There was a small market a fairly short distance off the trail where we could have certainly replenished our liquids for the remainder of the day’s ride. We still had nearly 27 miles to Dutzow, where we would exit the trail, and we thought no additional water was needed. Though we would never be in real danger, this could have easily been a critical mistake on this increasingly hot and humid day. Since our lunch break in Portland, each of the trailheads we passed had featured pit toilets but no running water. Leaving McKittrick, after 16 miles to Treloar there was still no running water. Another three miles to Peers and still no water. We had started to conserve our fluids a few miles earlier, and though we still had a small amount of water we were getting increasingly thirsty and likely dehydrated. I’m confident that if the situation had become more critical, any of the nice people in any of these little hamlets would have kindly allowed us to replenish our water bottles. But still, we were getting hotter and hotter and more and more thirsty.
Heading into Marthasville, we passed through a large metal culvert under a state highway, and as we emerged we gazed upon a sight that I at first struggled to comprehend; it was like a mirage. With the need for liquids becoming more and more significant, we had arrived at the Katy Caboose, an actual train car that had famously been converted into a refreshment haven next to the trail. Two nice ladies were sitting under an umbrella on the front deck of the caboose. As I reached the top of the steps onto the deck, one of the ladies asked what she could get for us. I said that I would like the largest glass of iced tea she offered, and Bev asked for the same. She went into the caboose and quickly came out with two 32-ounce cups of possibly the most tantalizing iced tea I’d ever consumed. I sucked down that icy-cold liquid like a shop vac, and as I was tapping the bottom of the cup to dislodge the remaining slivers of ice, this wonderful lady said the two most beautiful words I had heard in some time – “Free refills!” In the span of about five minutes, I drank a half-gallon of iced tea. And though Bev enjoyed only the original large cup, we were now sure we were going to make it to the end of the day’s route without collapsing from dehydration.
We were just four miles from Dutzow, the end of the day’s route and the closest trailhead to Washington, our actual destination for the evening. We were staying that night in the Brick Inn Bed and Breakfast Inn, and the owner suggested that if we called him from Marthasville, he would be waiting for us at the Dutzow trailhead to drive us to the B&B. The bridge across the Missouri River into Washington, which has since been replaced, was very narrow with no shoulders and bicycle riders and pedestrians were strongly urged to avoid it. As the owner had requested, Bev phoned him before we left Marthasville, and true to his word he was waiting for us in the parking lot at the Dutzow trailhead. He was driving a huge Lincoln Continental from the mid-’80s with a flimsy-looking bike rack attached to the back. We had just gone a hot and humid 72 miles, running low on water in the process, and we felt grateful to be finished for the day. The owner seemed to question why we were so late getting to the trailhead, which under the circumstances was mildly annoying to us until we realized he thought we had ridden from Hermann, a ride of 42 miles shorter than what we had just completed.
With a little trepidation, we watched as Art, the owner, strapped our bikes to the rack on the back of his huge vehicle; we did, after all, still have one more long ride to complete the next day. But confident our bikes were secure, we piled into the back seat for the short ride into Washington.
A rather eccentric gentleman who had retired as a reading teacher in the St. Louis, Missouri School District, Art and his wife Kathy had opened the Brick Inn in a house that had been in his family for over a century. As we pulled up to a truly beautiful inn, we were struck by the eclectic mix of antique cars and other period pieces that dotted the property. After parking the Lincoln in an outbuilding, with our bikes still on the rack and ready for transport back to the trail the next morning, Art processed our registration and directed us to our room on the second floor. Like the rest of the property, our room was clean and impressive, with a mix of antique furniture and amenities like a flat-screen TV and a strong wi-fi signal.
He had suggested that a large annual fair was underway in Washington that evening and that it would be worth our time if we were interested. But we were tired from such a challenging day, and after getting cleaned up we simply wanted a nice dinner, a beverage or two, and then a good night’s sleep. In this neat little city of just under 15,000, we walked a couple of blocks to the Old Dutch Tavern, a restaurant that seemed to be a combination of a sports bar and a fine dining establishment. After reflecting on the just-completed ride over a couple of pints of Blue Moon (for me) and glasses of pinot grigio (for Bev), I enjoyed the seafood ravioli while Bev had the grilled salmon. Close to our lodging for the night, this restaurant served us quite well. Full and tired, we walked the short distance back to the Brick Inn and were soon in bed thinking about our last ride of this great adventure.
Day 5 – Dutzow to Machens/St. Charles, 61 miles
We had been having a good time, enjoying the challenge of completing each day’s ride. But with the longest route behind us, we were increasingly ready to bring this adventure to a conclusion. We had a very nice breakfast of individual baked egg casseroles on the patio of the B&B. Art, the retired teacher, had learned we were retired educators, so he joined us near our table to discuss the state of public education in Missouri and nationally. Soon we were ready to be shuttled back to the Dutzow trailhead, using the same Lincoln Continental with which we had been picked up the day before. We had enjoyed our time at the Brick Inn, but we had business to take care of.
The day’s route was just slightly more complicated than the previous four days. From Dutzow, we would ride our bikes around 35 miles to St. Charles, where we would be staying that evening, and then continue to the final trailhead in Machens, another 13 miles. But then we would pedal the same 13 miles back to St. Charles, where our bike trip would actually end. We would be riding 61 miles, the total of which I had mistakenly computed, somehow believing our day would be shorter. So, our ride would be a bit longer than we had anticipated, and near the end a bit more exciting than we would have preferred.
From Dutzow, we rode around eight miles to Augusta, a neat little town known for wineries and quaint little inns. We had originally anticipated spending the previous night in Augusta rather than Washington. But from Jefferson City, the ride would have been 80 miles rather than 72, not an insignificant difference considering the circumstances. Plus, as we had researched lodging and dining options, we learned that on weekday evenings, none of the restaurants in town would be open past 6:00 p.m. So we simply rode our bikes through this still sleepy little burg early on a Friday morning.
It was a surprisingly cool morning, and after a week of nighttime rains, the trail was dry and firm. Outside of Augusta, we came to a spot where the brush along the trail was particularly dense, almost primitive, and the Missouri River made a wide, sweeping turn. I stopped to take in this sight, the former American History teacher trying to imagine what this area would have looked like when Lewis and Clark passed this point over 200 years ago. I suspect that except for the trail that had been cut through this primitive area, this majestic vista had been only minimally altered.
As we continued to progress through this historical area, we came to Defiance, the location of the home of Daniel Boone. As a child, I was a big fan of the Daniel Boone TV series, each week following the exploits of Fess Parker’s character as he helped settle the West with the likes of his buddies Mingo and Cincinnatus. Watching on the black and white set in our Missouri living room, I had no concept of Boone’s role in the development of Missouri. But it was significant, and the epicenter of Boone’s world for the last two decades of his life was the bustling little settlement of Defiance. On this mid-Friday morning, this tiny tourist- and winery-focused community was just coming to life.
After passing the primitive Weldon Spring trailhead, we rode under the Interstate 64 bridge over the Missouri River and soon noticed a distinct increase in development, more houses, businesses, and traffic on adjacent roads. We were soon riding into St. Charles, our destination for the evening, though we still had over a third of the day’s ride yet to be completed.
We had a reservation at the Boone’s Lick Trail Inn, the last in a string of nice, vintage properties. Of the “old” inns and hotels in which we stayed during this trip, this was easily the oldest, having been originally built in 1847 and recently transformed into a six-room B&B. We arrived at around 12:30, too early to check-in, but we were able to drop off our panniers and leave our bikes while we had lunch. A nice lady let us place our panniers in our room, where we also found a box that had been delivered for us. Bev had mailed some shoes and clean clothes for us to wear that evening and on our way home. This was a bit of genius from Bev, allowing us to avoid carrying these extra items all the way from Clinton.
St. Charles is filled with history, and the fourteen-block riverfront section of Main Street in which we were staying is the hub of this historical activity. The city was founded before the American Revolution by a French-Canadian fur trader and soon developed into an important river port. It was characterized by Lewis and Clark as the last “civilized” stop on their expedition westward. For the first four years of Missouri statehood, St. Charles served as the state capital, with the first capital building now preserved as a state historic site.
We walked down Main Street to a little bistro, where we sat at an outdoor table and had a leisurely light lunch. We could have stayed at this breezy, shady outdoor café watching tourists and locals walk by for the rest of the afternoon. But we still had 26 miles of riding to complete.
After retrieving our bikes at the inn, we headed toward Machens, riding a little lighter with our panniers back in our room. It was at first an uneventful afternoon ride, riding simply to meet our goal of pedaling from one end of the Katy Trail to the other. Other than for this symbolic reason, these were likely the most meaningless miles of the entire journey, on a nondescript trail with little interesting scenery. The terrain through which we were riding was much more open, the trail typically surrounded by farmland and in some instances with the riding surface bisecting individual farms.
Dogs represent an ever-present nuisance to bike riders as it is seldom clear whether a barking mutt is simply acting tough or truly poses a threat. Sometimes they only want to playfully chase you, and as I was about to find out, that playfulness can pose a different kind of danger.
Around three miles from Machens, the literal end of the trail, we were traveling largely on autopilot, simply putting in the miles as we brought this great trip to an end. As we approached a small farm with outbuildings to our left and a farmhouse to our right, I was riding a few yards in front of Bev as I noticed two medium-sized dogs bounding from the house toward me. It was unclear whether they wanted to simply chase us or take a chunk out of my leg. Almost out of instinct, I sped up as I thought I might be able to outrun and tire them out. Then suddenly, one of the dogs veered left and ran under my front wheel, causing me to run over it. As I did so, I flew off the side of the bike, landing with a significant impact on my right side. In the process, I injured my right arm and shoulder, my chest, and possibly my head, as I very briefly lost consciousness.
Bev was at my side almost instantly, and as she had seen the accident transpire, she thought I was likely severely injured. As we were in the front yard of the farmhouse from which the two dogs had come, she started yelling for help. By now, I had regained what consciousness I had lost and started trying to assess my condition. I was groggy and would be for much of the rest of the day, and I was already sore and would become more so in the next few days. But as I moved my head, arms, and legs, it seemed that I had survived with no broken bones or severe injuries. I would eventually visit our family doctor because of ongoing soreness in my chest, but that subsided after a couple of weeks. I had been lucky.
To their credit, a young man and woman from the nearby house responded to Bev’s call for help. After seeing that I had cuts and abrasions on my shoulder and arm, the man went back into the house for a first aid kit. (The owner of the dogs that had chased us, he may have feared a lawsuit, but he and his wife were helpful and apologetic nonetheless.) With supplies from the first aid kit, Bev cleaned and bandaged the worst of my wounds, none of which were severe.
While all of this was transpiring, a few minutes after the accident occurred a middle-aged couple on bicycles rode up as I was still lying by the side of the trail. They were completing a day ride from St. Charles to Machens and back, and after learning what had happened, they asked if we needed any assistance. By this point, Bev had the situation well in hand and was beginning to bandage my arm. It was at this point that this nice lady offered her condolences in the event we weren’t able to complete what would end up being our 260-mile ride, and I responded with my comment about not letting “some damn dog” prevent us from completing what we had started.
I was still a little woozy, perhaps just a bit in shock, and in considerable pain, but we never seriously considered not continuing our ride. It was challenging to get going again on my bike but riding relatively slowly we soon made our way to the Machens trailhead, the “eastern terminus” of the Katy Trail. The same bike-riding couple, evidently not offended by my “damn dog” comment, took some photos of us commemorating the completion of our end-to-end ride, and then headed back toward St. Charles.
After resting at the trailhead before tackling the 13 miles back to the inn, we too headed back to St. Charles. I was really in no condition to be riding a bicycle, but with no other options, we slowly backtracked our way on the trail. Luckily, when we passed the scene of the accident, there were no dogs in sight. (We never learned about the condition of the dog I had run over, as both dogs quickly ran off after the accident occurred.) These were hard and painful miles, but we eventually made it back to St. Charles and the B&B at which we were staying. My recollection of the few hours immediately after this incident remains fuzzy, but I do remember Bev taking charge and ultimately getting me to our room at the inn. After a quick bath that focused on cleaning my cuts and abrasions, I got into bed where I remained until we departed for dinner a couple of hours later.
Bev’s brother Tim and his wife Mary were living in South St. Louis County at the time, a good distance from St. Charles. But when they learned we were planning to ride the Katy Trail, Tim suggested that they wanted to meet us for dinner that Friday night to celebrate our accomplishment. Two of their three grown children also lived in the area, so our nephew and niece and their spouses, as well as a newborn grandson, would be there as well. Tim had made arrangements for all of us to meet at the Trailhead Brewing Company, a neat brewery down Main Street from where we were staying.
We had been looking forward to this celebration dinner, and more importantly to spending time with members of our family, especially the new grandbaby. But still a bit groggy and in some pain from the accident just a few hours earlier, I was not particularly hungry and would have preferred a quiet, take-out dinner in our room. Exhausted from the rigors of the ride and the stress of dealing with the aftermath of the accident, Bev had similar feelings. But we had a celebratory dinner arranged for us, so as the 6:30 meeting time approached, we slowly walked the short distance from the inn to the brewery. It was a nice dinner and a great opportunity to be with family we saw far too seldom, but earlier than usual we excused ourselves and retired back to our room. After a long and eventful day, we were both in bed shortly after 9:00 p.m. Despite the pain and adrenaline and resulting exhaustion from earlier in the afternoon, we fell asleep with a sense of satisfaction; we had ridden the entire Katy Trail.
I woke up early the next morning to a beautiful, sunny early August day. I was feeling better, my head much clearer, though my chest and right arm and shoulder were particularly sore. As we made our way down to the area where breakfast was being served, we quickly realized that the Boone’s Lick Trail Inn had been largely overtaken by a family reunion. In fact, we were the only guests who were not a part of that family, different generations loudly sharing stories and renewing relationships. It was kind of fun to see, but Bev and I felt like the outliers we were. The dining room was arranged with long tables, most of which were fairly full. The nice lady who had assisted us the previous afternoon sensed we needed some seclusion and found us a small table more isolated the boisterous crowd.
Breakfast was served buffet-style, and after not eating a great deal at dinner the night before, I was hungry. There was a large pan of breakfast casserole (a theme on this trip), breakfast potatoes, different types of bread and rolls, and a variety of fruits. As I came to the casserole, I was anticipating a huge helping, but the owner of the inn had placed herself in charge of casserole distribution. She gave me a small spoonful, merely a taste compared to what I was hoping for. Normally I might have accepted what I was given and slinked back to our table, mumbling under my breath about the miserliness of the Boone’s Lick Trail Inn. But on this day, bruised and battered from the day before and feeling undernourished, I turned to the owner and in true Oliver Twist-fashion said, “Could I have some more?” This lady looked at me like I had asked for her first-born child, but then scooped up a decent-sized helping. Armed with a sufficient amount of breakfast casserole, I returned triumphantly to our small table.
A logistical challenge associated with riding the entire Katy Trail involves determining how to get back to where you started after your ride has been completed. At one point as we had pondered various options and vendors, Bev just spit-balled the notion of turning around at Machens and riding our bikes back to Clinton, a veritable end-to-end-to-end ride. Luckily, this option never progressed beyond the notion stage.
There were several vendors offering shuttle services, and as we researched the various options, we quickly realized the importance of finding a reputable vendor to get us back to our car. Otherwise, we could theoretically be stuck in St. Charles as we waited for a shuttle that would never arrive. Based on our research and the recommendations we had received, we scheduled Katy Bike Rental in Defiance to pick us up that Saturday morning at 10:30 a.m. After breakfast, we packed our bags and panniers and prepared to be picked up. Still feeling sore from the accident, with some time before pick-up, we walked along Main Street, surveying the windows of shops and attractions that for the most part were not yet open. With a long shuttle ride ahead of us, it was good to stretch our legs.
Our shuttle driver arrived 15 minutes ahead of schedule, and we quickly found him to be both pleasant and reputable. He drove a cargo van with bike racks in the back, and he very cautiously loaded and secured our two bikes. We climbed in the back seats and by our 10:30 pick-up time, we were on our way back to Clinton, a 3½ hour drive. The shuttle was a bit expensive, but this guy from Katy Bike Rental knew what he was doing. We were tired, but after a largely enjoyable week of riding, we were ready to get home.
It was a pleasant ride, neither Bev nor me nor the driver saying much as we listened to country music playing on the van’s radio. For me, it was a time of reflection about what had just transpired and what we had accomplished. We had for some time imagined what it would be like to complete this trip, and now we had done so, resulting in some very good feelings of satisfaction and pride. We had spent the entire week traversing the state in a self-sufficient manner, and when issues had confronted us we had dealt with them. Having to train for, plan for, and complete such a ride cooperatively, Bev and I had worked very well together. And despite some of the unanticipated challenges we faced, we had a good time. It had been a great week.
We eventually arrived back at the Haysler House in Clinton, where we had left our vehicle. We provided the shuttle driver with a nice gratuity for his good service, and then did the same with the innkeeper for her trouble, and just like that we were on our way home, battered and bruised but still smiling nonetheless.
When it came to what we might call “adventure travel,” trips that would push us both physically and mentally, there were other adventures that were on our list of experiences that would be amazing and enjoyable to complete. Still, they had not previously been considered more than conceptual dreams, journeys that would be neat to complete but that we likely would not. This trip, though, served as a springboard for Bev and me, helping us to realize that we were far more capable than we had realized and that some of these “dream” adventures were perhaps much more realistic than we had recognized. Pushing your limits and expanding your horizons will do that to you.
Reference
Dufur, Brett, The Complete Katy Trail Guidebook, 10th Edition, Pebble Publishing Company, 2013
