Carbondale: Sucked

Here are the reasons why my Amtrak/bike trip to Carbondale sucked.

0. I forgot to bring Q-tips. I know, that one was entirely my fault, but nothing ruins a weekend like gunky ears.

1. The weather was terrible. That one isn't anybody's fault, except possibly mine for picking the wrong weekend to decide to do something quasi-spontaneous, but when I trouble myself to ride seven hours south by my lonesome on the world's most unbearably boring train, I do expect the weather to be ten degrees warmer than the gray November shitfest in Chicago from which I'm trying to escape. It also rained all day Sunday, with a couple of thunderstorms rolling through. I haven't any problem with rain, as a few of my readers are probably aware, but the only thing worse than being cold is being cold and wet.

2. Getting on the train was a big hassle. None of the conductors would bother to answer my polite inquiries as to when I was supposed to board and where I was supposed to go. Someone finally told me to wheel into the waiting area along with the business-class, senior-citizen, mobility-limited, assistance-requiring, and small-children-accompanying passengers, but then someone else told me I was supposed to wait and board with the regular passengers. So I wheeled down the platform with the regular passengers and asked one of the conductors which car I was supposed to board. She asked me where I was going, and I said I was going to Carbondale, and she pointed at a car and told me to board there.

Now, the last couple of times I've taken the Illini/Saluki, I've seen at least two people climb on board with bicycles and then noticed that they were stowed in one of the spaces reserved for passengers with disabilities, so that's what I was expecting. But the car I boarded was conspicuously lacking any such spaces. I wheeled down the length of the car to the luggage area (and probably ran over a few feet, given that I was not allowed to board and get my bike the hell out of the way before everyone else started cramming on board), only to find it occupied by three enormous suitcases that no doubt belonged to someone who'd been allowed on the train in one of the first rounds of boarding. I spotted a woman sitting nearby who was reading, and politely asked, excuse me, are these yours? She said yes, and I politely asked if she wouldn't mind moving them so I could wedge my bike against the side of the car so it wouldn't block the aisle or tip over into the aisle as soon as the train got moving. She looked up from her book again and muttered, "Oh, no thanks," and went back to reading her book.

No thanks? Did you even listen to the question that I asked you? Do you not see that I fracking have a bicycle and I need to put it somewhere on this car, and your enormous pile of crap is blocking the only conceivable space on this car where my bike would fit? Do I have some sort of magic invisible bicycle that only I can see? Maybe I do, because when I saw that there were no disabled spaces on this car, I asked the conductor again, which car am I supposed to be on? And she'd again insisted that if I was going to Carbondale then I had to be on this particular car, and then she had run off before I could even mutter another syllable.

People with bulky luggage were starting to back up behind me and murmur about the delay; I caught the phrases "damn bicyclists," "think they deserve," and "special treatment" under someone's breath. I heaved a heavy sigh, and then I remembered that this was going to be the weekend that I was not going to be treated like a doormat. So I decided to take "no thanks" as permission to move that woman's luggage myself. I turned to the woman behind me in the aisle and said "Hold this for me please" as I let my bike tip in her direction, then turned around and began shoving the other woman's suitcases out of the way. She looked back up from her book in protest: "Hey, that's mine!" "Well, the conductor said I need to put my bike here." Actually she didn't, but if I caused enough of a commotion about it perhaps she would then be forced to pay attention and let me on another car. I'd spent $300 on this trip; I was not going to be intimidated this time.

Anyway, the owner of the offending luggage finally heaved up out of her seat and laboriously began to drag her suitcases out of the way like it was just the biggest pain in the ass in the world. Sorry, no, I've had bigger, thanks to this bike whose existence you refused to acknowledge. And then, of course, I had to wrangle the damn thing into place. After about a minute of heaving, twisting, and shoving (as the passengers backed up farther down the aisle and the murmuring grew louder), she proclaimed, almost with glee, that my bike was not going to fit. "Yes it will, it has before," I grunted, released the lever on the seat, and gave one last shove. My bike finally wedged into place.

I had paid ten extra bucks (one way) to go through that ordeal. So much for that shit; next time I'll bring my folding bike for free and be just another regular passenger with an obnoxiously large piece of luggage. And if no one likes it, I'll just politely ask if they could hold it for me. The thing weighs about twenty pounds, you know.

3. The train was cold. I was not the only passenger of this opinion, judging from the number of people bundled up in coats and even mittens for the duration of the ride. I was wearing pretty much all the clothing I'd brought with me, and all of it was lightweight and meant for physical exertion. My feet went numb and my legs started twitching from the tension of being drawn up so tightly. It was most uncomfortable and it prevented me from sleeping, which I had planned to do on the train, having stayed up all the previous night.

4. Carbondale is the most bike-unfriendly city that tries to promote itself as bike-friendly that I have ever seen. And I've biked around Naperville a number of times, so that's saying something. I didn't think any town could do worse than Naperville, but Carbondale pulled it off. They are in sore need of a bike plan (or a much better bike plan, if they actually do have one) if they seriously plan to lure bicycle tourists to their town and residents who aren't just "college students" to commute, shop, and run errands by bike. (Something tells me that they don't plan to do either of those things, but don't take my word for it.) There were bike racks absolutely everywhere, but it was almost impossible to get around town. There were signs on all the major streets at the city limit proclaiming that bicycling on the sidewalk was prohibited, but almost everyone I saw was biking on the sidewalk anyway--and I don't much blame them, given the traffic flow, especially in the downtown area. There were a number of roads signed as bike routes, but they didn't lead anywhere, only to signs that said "END BIKE ROUTE" about twenty feet short of a major intersection. (The clear implication was that bikes are strongly discouraged from proceeding any farther, across the intersection, which of course results in the erroneous conclusion--by motorists and bicyclists alike, and likely even law-enforcement officials--that bikes are actually prohibited from proceeding any farther.)

Sweet holy mother of Christ, it was horrible. And I find it so hard to care--how often am I in Carbondale with my bike? But how can the people who are often in Carbondale with their bikes put up with it? I suppose it's telling that the marked bike routes seem biased toward leading people out of town from the SIU campus area. Shame on you, Carbondale. You try so hard to pitch yourself as bicyclists' gateway to the Shawnee National Forest, but then you screw them like this when they try to bike around town.

5. I was heckled. That's nothing new; indeed, it's to be expected, given the previous item, but I absolutely HATE being called a fag. First of all, everyone hates being called a fag. There are few words in American English more offensive than "fag," and if you say them on the record you'll have your ass sued off and be fired from your job in response to public outcry over your hateful act of whatever-ism. Second, I'm not gay. I don't even think I'm bi, despite the efforts of several women, and a couple of hopeful men with lots of booze, who tried to get me to swing that way. Third, I'M A WOMAN, DAMN IT! I know I'm not the womanliest woman in the world, but if I seem so effeminate to you, if I conform so poorly to your narrow standards of masculinity, then why don't you simply and rightly conclude that I'm actually female? Why do you instead conclude that I must be a gay man and then insult me accordingly? And if you're passing me closely enough to knock my rearview mirror out of alignment, then surely you're passing me closely enough to be able to see which sex I am? Being called a dyke is no less offensive than being called a fag, but at least it's more accurate. I'm called lots of hurtful things when I'm on my bike, but "fag" is the only one that makes me want to hurt somebody back. And it makes for a very poor first impression of a town.

6. The back-country roads were extraordinarily bumpy. You don't have to travel very far out of Carbondale before you find yourself in a seriously rural area with plenty of narrow, nearly deserted back roads. No doubt this is precisely why serious cyclists love to praise southern Illinois in general and the Carbondale area in particular so highly. But you must understand that this part of Illinois is not flat. In fact, it's about as far from flat as you can get. I understood this perfectly, being no stranger to southern Illinois, and had thought myself prepared for it. I had pored over my topographical maps, studied detailed descriptions of various recommended bicycle routes, carefully reread the pertinent chapters in Biking Illinois, and even closed my eyes and dredged up every memory I had of the southern Illinois back country: forested and very hilly, lots of narrow winding roads that go up and down and back and forth. Got it.

The one thing I hadn't counted on was their surface. It was like... it was like frozen gravel. That's the only way I can describe it. In fact, that's pretty much exactly what it is. They don't bother to pave rural back roads, especially down there, they just occasionally put down a fresh layer of tar and then a new layer of gravel. I knew that too and had seen it before, but I was quite unprepared for the effects of riding on it. Regular gravel at least has a bit of spring to it, but on this stuff my poor bike was rattling so hard I was afraid something was going to fall apart. But I didn't realize (although I should have) just how much energy I was wasting getting over the surface until it was too late.

I've finally found something my hybrid can't do. And I found it out the hard way.

I was heading west on Boskydell Road, having just turned off Springer Ridge Road. (I mention specific place names for future reference, as well as on the off chance that there's someone reading this who knows exactly where I'm talking about and can thus either verify the hellishness or prove that I'm an utter wimp.) A Real Cyclist on a Real Bike passed me at a pretty good clip, but he was polite enough to nod in my direction. I bumped downhill into the steep valley of one of the tributaries flowing out from Crab Orchard Lake, crossed the Illinois Central Railroad tracks, and began coasting uphill. (This is one of the few benefits of a heavy hybrid bike in a hilly area.) I realized that Real Cyclist had stopped for some reason, and as I had everything in the world in my bike bag, I asked if he needed anything. No, he was good. Okay then. I started pedaling up the rest of the sharp curve out of the valley.

Once free of that curve I discovered yet another curve. I also discovered that the hill began to rise more steeply. And then I ran out of momentum, and it was all I could do to keep from rolling downhill. I had to get off and walk. Real Cyclist was going to pass me again and see me walking my bike uphill like the sissy flatlander that I am, but I couldn't help it. The combination of hill, curve, and bumpy surface was simply beyond my capabilities; I accepted this.

It wasn't until I had dismounted that I realized how hard I was wheezing. And how blurry everything was beginning to look.

Real Cyclist noticed right away and asked if I was okay as he passed. I'll even go so far as to guess that he slowed down a little to match my speed, but maybe it just appeared that way. At any rate, he seemed concerned. Yes, I gasped, I'm okay. I'm from Chicago, which is very flat. (I've also got this huge bag and this heavy, inappropriate bike with clipless pedals, as I'm sure you've noticed.) He asked, "Do you have asthma?" "No... I'm just... out of shape." "You sure? 'Cause it sounds like you have asthma." "Yeah... I'm... fine." "Okay then, have a good ride."

I was assaulted by many memories as I struggled and gasped for breath. Most were from my brief stint on the varsity basketball team in high school, and basketball is not a sport for people who are out of shape, even on the B-squad at a school whose athletic prowess is so weak that people show up at halftime to watch the band and the dance team, because everyone practices just the same each day and runs the same series of ladder sprints at the end of each three-hour practice, but not everyone collapses and passes out afterward. Hmm. Just how long have I been "out of shape"? How many times has this happened? How bad has it ever gotten? How many people have looked at me with concern and asked if I had asthma? How "out of shape" can I be if I'm otherwise capable of riding my bike so much farther and longer than the average person riding to get back into shape? How often do "out of shape" people actually nearly black out because they can't seem to get enough oxygen into their lungs and thence their brain, despite breathing so hard after a sustained burst of exertion that it hurts like hell to do so? Holy shit, do I have asthma? Have I lived my whole life this way and never known?

I sort of prefer my "out of shape" theory, because that way it's my own damn fault but theoretically I could do something about it, namely, actually work out, whereas if I really do have asthma then I'm stuck having asthma and worrying about it all the time. But I guess it's time to see a doctor and find out for sure, before I wind up dead halfway up a hill in the middle of nowhere. Man, that's scary to think about.

Anyway, the next day I avoided the notorious climb out of Makanda [trust me, it's notorious] by avoiding Makanda altogether. I gave IDOT a big middle finger and took Giant City Road. There was indeed extremely heavy traffic, but there was also good pavement and better grading. If I'm going to have an asthma attack, or an out-of-shape attack, or whatever, I'd really prefer that there were lots of people nearby.

7. The motel had terrible service. It was only a step or two above a rat factory, but for what I paid I did have reason to expect better service. My confirmation letter said that check-in time was 4pm. I arrived at 4:15 and was told there were no nonsmoking rooms ready yet, so would I be okay with a smoking room? No, I would not be okay with a smoking room; if I had been okay with a smoking room, I would have reserved a damn smoking room. And if the room I reserved was not going to be ready by the time specified, then you should not have specified that particular time.

Anyway, I was told that it would be another 45 minutes before a nonsmoking room was ready, but I was free to leave and come back in an hour or so if I wanted to. I asked, can I just wait here in the lobby instead? The host said that yes, I could wait in the lobby, but I was also perfectly free to, you know, leave, and then come back in 45 minutes. Thanks, I replied, but I'll just wait here. So I parked my bike right next to the front door (I politely told the host that I'd keep it on the tile, so as not to ruin the carpet), peeled off a few sweaty, stinky layers, and plunked down on the couch with The God Delusion.

Actually no, I wasn't reading The God Delusion--I've hated Richard Dawkins since before hating Richard Dawkins was cool, and long before I acknowledged my atheism, so if you ask me both he and his damned godless book can go to hell--but it would have been a nice touch. Because about ten minutes later an elderly couple walked in, with everything about them screaming "heartland," and asked for a nonsmoking room. And then the host explained that it would be another 45 minutes to an hour before any nonsmoking rooms were available, but they were welcome to wait in the lobby. The couple took one look at me, and then my bike, and then another look at me: "No thanks, we'll try someplace else first."

I glanced up and saw the couple hurrying out the door, giving a wide berth to my bike as though it was some sort of dangerous animal. Then I caught the host's glance. "Excuse me a moment," he said, and ducked out of the lobby into the hallway, from which I overheard a heated discussion. A minute later he reappeared: "Miss, your room is ready." Well, how 'bout that, I'm still being called "miss" every once in a while. I thanked him most graciously as he handed me my room key, then I gathered my stinky stuff together and wheeled my bike to my room, which I found was not ready, as it hadn't been vacuumed and there was a pile of towels in the bathtub. But I was finally free to crank up the heat and take a nice scalding hot shower, and thus finally feel warm for the first time all day.

8. I didn't do any decent hiking. Here's the proof that I'm not actually a serious cyclist: I really couldn't care less about the wonderful bicycling in beautiful southern Illinois. I only bothered to drag my bike down there because I wanted to go for a nice hike someplace geologically and ecologically interesting, and I had to get there from the Carbondale Amtrak station. But Saturday's back-country experience left me too terrified to venture too deeply into the Shawnee National Forest, and then Sunday's rain left me reluctant to venture too far off my bike, as canyons are prone to flash-flooding, and sandstone gets very slippery when wet. And my shoes have no treads left on them, and I was alone.

So I ended up wasting an entire afternoon in Carbondale, which sucked.