Along Came Polly

Day 65

Berea, KY to Hazard, KY

Distance: 95 miles

Climbing: 7,694 ft

Dogs: leashed, unleashed, slobbery

Having had a “dry” night last night, I expected to wake up this morning feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.  And I guess that for someone who’s really NOT a morning person I was my version of it: eyes half-open and frizzy-haired.

I knew it was going to be a challenging day. From here on in, there are no easy days left. 

The level of the challenge depends upon on the length of the ride and the headwind. Other than that, there will be hills (steep ones), there will be crap road surfaces, and the occasional shit driver will buzz around your arse like an irritating fly while you are going uphill – but in the scheme of things…

Today was pretty pucker, as it goes.  Had a great breakfast at the hotel and a relatively relaxed start, which I really probably should not have had given how many miles I had to do, but hey.

I stopped for a coffee and a donut in the small town of McKee, which had far too many stores, gas stations etc for the apparent number of residents – I wondered if it had anything to do with the detention centre nearby but… well, who knows. Steed and all the gear is intact, so…

Lunch was in a great little café in Booneville, a BLT with sweet iced tea, and I girded my loins for 45 miles more of climbing.

But just before lunch, I had seen a great little sign telling me that I had 23 miles to go to lunch, and a few more than that to my final destination. While taking a photo of that I made the acquaintance of Polly.

Polly Price, St Bernard, "I always have a nip of
Bourbon around my neck honey.. yeah, stick your tongue
out honey, I say, I say, stick your tongue our"

Oh, is that all?

This section of the map says something along the lines of “loose dogs abound in rural Kentucky” which is true. But I still try the dog whisperer approach each time before any other option. It works most times. Today, with Polly, it just meant that she wanted to play even more, and when she knew I was going, to lie down in the middle of the road and refuse to move even when her owner came out apologetically and tried to get her large carcass to shift.

It was good though that I got to talk to Polly, a beautiful St Bernard. I’d seen a sign back in McKee about the local “Festival of Hope Dog Show”, which I’d narrowly missed (last weekend). It had all manner of categories including: shortest/longest legs; shortest/longest ears; best costume; best personality; most talented… etc. And I wondered what sort of hell this was?!

“’T’was a tricky time for me honey,” Polly said, lowering her eyes. “I used to win the biggest dog prize every year. Then a dang Newfoundland moves in next village, and…” she looked away.

“And so I learned some tricks. Just like that Miss America and her cups, and I yowled the tune to Pharrell Williams “Happy” while I juggled with shots of bourbon from this flask around my neck.”

“So?”  I asked, desperate to know. “You must have won most talented with that?”

But she just shook her furry head.

“Judges were from a dry county,” she shrugged. “Who knew?”

Anyhow, eventually I managed to disengage Polly from either my bodily parts or (more popular) bits of Steed, and we continued on our way.

Reaching Buckhorn, I stopped again to top up with water and spoke to the guy in the store there, who told me I was about to face what he had heard was “the hardest hill in the whole of the TransAm”.

In fact, there were three hills. I could see that from the elevation chart. But it was the first one I needed to look out for, apparently.

Duly warned, I decided to suck up an energy gel before setting off from the store, and so the hill was manageable, if gut wrenching. And the next two, as billed, were not as bad.

Then, miles further on, just before Hazard, a fourth one appeared. The first section was, I have to say, pretty severe, but in the end it probably wasn’t quite bad as “piggingly steep hill number one”.

A final jaunt up the shoulder of the super-fast expressway and I arrived just before dark to the Super 8.

All that remained was to pick my way across the adjacent parking lots in order to eat my own body weight in chicken fajitas (despite leaving 2/3 of the plate) and to drink a couple of jumbo margaritas (not monsters, mind you). The evidence is clear.

Me x