Turning the key again The road to St Louis
Part 3 — Louisville Memories and the Long Road West
Before I left Louisville, I needed to visit a few places that still held pieces of Susan and me. It felt like walking back through the pages of a book I’d quietly closed years ago.
My first stop was the church where we were married. Just pulling into the lot stirred something deep memories of us standing there, young and hopeful, believing in a future neither of us could fully see. From there I rode to the family center across from the apartment we once shared, and then down to her old place in Old Louisville. Each stop brought waves of memories some sharp, some soft, all of them heavy enough to slow my steps.
I made my way to Kingfish on the Ohio River, where we had our first date. I could see us there again, laughing over food, watching the river drift by like time that moved too fast. I ended my Louisville visit at the observation deck at the Kentucky Center for the Arts, overlooking the giant fountain in the middle of the Ohio River glowing with colors at night, a sight that always stopped me in my tracks. Standing there again made me realize how much of my story had roots in this city.
But daylight wasn’t waiting, and the ride to St. Louis was still ahead. My niece Amanda had offered me a place to stay, so I crossed the Ohio River into Indiana a route Susan and I had taken many times on the way to see Shelby. That story could fill its own chapter.
The eastern side of Indiana greeted me with rolling hills, but the farther west I rode, the flatter the land became. Oil pump stations rose from the fields like steel grasshoppers sights I never saw growing up in Virginia, and for that reason always felt strange and fascinating.
Interstate 64 eventually joined with I-55 for a short stretch before the two split, with 64 breaking off west toward St. Louis. I didn’t think the land could get any flatter, but it surprised me again. In the distance, little farmhouses and grain silos dotted the horizon. From the highway they looked like Monopoly hotels tiny, neat, and scattered across the board.
Soon the emptiness gave way to the first hints of the greater St. Louis area. Suburbs grew thicker, traffic grew faster, and once again my head was on a swivel. I pulled over to pinpoint the meeting spot where Amanda would meet me so I could follow her home. GPS set, I rode into the heart of Granite City a town marked by old steel mills and worn memories of better days.
Waiting for Amanda, I found a stretch of old Route 66. I followed it to an old bridge that once carried travelers across the Mississippi River. Now it was a Route 66 attraction, restored and mapped out for tourists. I was grateful there weren’t many people around and even more grateful to get off the bike for a
few minutes. Hours on the interstate will make a man appreciate any excuse to stretch.
I walked across the old bridge, taking pictures like I always did. But wearing heavy motorcycle boots proved to be a poor choice halfway across, my legs felt like concrete, and turning back became more appealing with each step. By the time I reached the freshly painted benches in the parking lot, I felt like I’d walked the length of the Mississippi itself.
Just as I settled into a much-needed rest, Amanda called. Her husband had tested positive for COVID.
It was 4:30 p.m.
I sat there for a moment, letting the news settle. Plans change fast on the road and even faster in life. I had to regroup.
Instead of staying in St. Louis, I decided to push deeper into Missouri and aim for Kingdom City, just off I-70. The problem? I’d be riding straight into rush-hour traffic and directly into the sunset. And it was still two hours away.
Riding west into a sinking sun is its own kind of challenge squinting, leaning forward, hoping your visor catches the glare just right. Add that to evening traffic with everyone racing home, and it becomes a test of patience and nerves. I kept my distance, held my lane, and stayed alert through miles that felt longer than they looked.
Finally, a sign for Kingdom City appeared. Then the Holiday Inn Express.
The sun was nearly down as I pulled in. I parked my bike my steady travel companion and swung a stiff leg over the saddle. The quiet hit me as soon as the engine stopped. A long day’s ride was finally over.
Inside, the cool air and soft lights of the lobby felt like an oasis.
Tonight I would rest. Tomorrow, another day of riding waited for me.
And somewhere along this long road, I hoped the pieces of myself I’d lost would begin finding their way home again.
