The journey to Kingman begins with homemade blueberry pancakes. We got outta Dodge, and headed past feed lots and meat packaging plants. Through acres of corn and milo, and multicolored cows giving us the stink eye, we pedaled on towards a farm outside of Pratt. The couple we stayed with were lovely and Butch was an actual farmer. He gave me the run down on how to farm, the politics and frankly, the gamble. I had no idea the extent that chance plays in successful farming. The government's subsidy is practically nothing compared to the cost of renting land, machinery, seeds, fertilizer, and the regular cost of running a household and eating three times a day. If I were to start a farm without the family heirlooms of equipment and land, I couldn't do it. I doubt I could even obtain a loan for the amount needed to get a start. In my naiveté, I thought all farmer's owned the land they farmed. Wrong. Butch said he has at least ten different landlords and all with different contractual obligations. I felt pangs of guilt for the griping I have done having only one landlord.
The sunsets and rises in Kansas are truly amazing.
We got an early start into Pratt and stopped for groceries and second breakfast. We were intimidated at first to stop at the Serve-a-torium--Smorgasbord. It turned out to be a buffet/cafe with a smoking section, and thankfully a non. It's weird not to be in California, we forget about the indoor stink of stale cigarette smoke. The waitress also had red hair and looked to be our age. She asked if the bikes were ours and told us we were effing crazy. As I scoped out the buffet line, she told me that she would only charge me the kid's price, for a significant discount. When she came to the table with our drinks she said she would only charge us once for the buffet, but all three of us could eat. It was glorious. I personally ate four plates of food, literally. Towards the end of our meal, a group of American Legion Motorcycle riders joined us in the large dining hall. They were all burly and nearly every one of them was missing some teeth. They proudly wore their POW/MIA patches on their worn black vests. After they finished eating, a few of them meandered over to ask our story. This started a king of the mountain game of who had a better trip to California story. As they were finishing, one of the guys said that he paid our bill. Our waitress returned after they left and told us that they are the group that protects family and friends at the funerals that Fred Phelps terrorizes. This triggered a memory from "The Laramie Project," and I realized how incredible these men are and what a gift they are for the people they protect. In fact, they were on their way to guard a funeral that afternoon. Yeah American Legion Riders!!
After our nearly five hour meal at the Serve-a-torium, we got back on our bikes. We faced a headwind, but we made it to Kingman. The city was celebrating it's 150 year anniversary. I only wish we were there a day later. We could have seen a real cattle drive, chuck wagon and all. But instead we slept at the rodeo grounds and cooked our dinner in the hallway of the bathroom.
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