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  • Writer's pictureAlana

62. Sebree to Fordsville, KY

June 14, 2024

Today, we had a mission and a deadline: Reach the pharmacy in Fordsville by 5 pm so I could refill my progesterone prescription, because that racoon ate my stash back in the Devil's Kichen campground (and is probably still sleeping off the aftereffects).

En route, always on the alert for ankle-hungry doggoes, we cracked each other up with text for a proposed cycling jersey: "If you can read this, and you are a dog, you are too close, and thank a teacher." This jersey will doubtless make us millions so we can retire and travel the world by bike and create more jerseys. Virtuous cycles all the way down.

Alas, the Fordsville pharmacy was not able to fill my prescription because of some bureaucratic nonsense Chez Kaiser, my insurance. So there we were in Fordsville, steamy temps still in the nineties and with no place to place to sleep.

The pharmacist pinged the First Baptist Church pastor. While we waited for him to return to the parsonage, we hung out at the only restaurant in town, a family-run pizza joint whose kind employees indulged our desire to tell travel tales and replied in kind.

By the time we had destroyed a large pizza, the pastor had returned to let us into the air-conditioned church, inviting us to eat anything we liked in the snackful kitchen.

I opted to sleep on a pew in the sanctuary, and awoke bathed in stainedglass light. The generosity of Kentucky Baptist churches toward cyclists is a wonder to behold.


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