Left Pikeville, Ky. around 7 a.m. and headed west up Hwy. 23. The Kentucky roads are fabulous. Huge shoulders with rumble strip, I feel like I’ve finally got a room of my own.

Tried finding a hometown diner but nothing’s open. Make my way to Prestonburg and take a brief detour into town to pick up a speedometer. Mine is either broken or just plain worn out. I tried going without it, but I find it’s essential to determine my location and the distance between towns.
 
I stop and ask for directions from a group of men sitting at the side of the road. The fellas are busy spittin' and chewin' and watching their kids beg for money in the middle of the street. It's the Kentucky way of fundraising. I've seen it a couple of times: kids standing in the middle of a highway with a big gallon-size ice cream bucket looking for dollars and dimes to help fund anything from their sports teams to upcoming surgeries.
 
One of the guys steps away from his car and starts giving me detailed directions. His buddy soon comes over and pushes him away and tries to make it "real easy." The first man seemed a little offended.  "May I introduce you to Mr. Rand McNally," said the Barney Rubble-looking guy who got scooted away. Oh did he howl at his own joke. The other fellas by the car snickered a little, but this man laughed so hard tobacco juice came out his nose.
 
I got into Salyersville, Ky. around 1 p.m. Eddie strikes up a conversation with me at one of the gas station rest stops. We talk about my bike and drag racing. He’s towing his car up to Clay City and asks if I want a ride. I figure it’ll be the last time I hitch and the ride will get me clear of the mountains so I accept.
 
Eddie is in his mid-fifties and works in the coalmines. “It pays about $75,000 a year,” he said. “Pretty safe, good insurance. Just about everybody in Kentucky works in the mines.” We chat about racing; Eddie is hauling his buddy’s car to the track. It’s a dark blue 1970 Camero. We stop for lunch at Dairy Queen and Eddie drops me off outside the track near Clay City.
 
Within a mile I’m greeted by five dogs. Big dogs. I feel like they’re going to knock me over. I’m screaming for them to "‘GO HOME."  The commotion brings two barefoot boys racing down their driveway and WHAT do they say?? ‘What’s your name’ and ‘Where are you going?’ They don’t bother with the dogs. Matter of fact, their dog follows them down the drive and joins in the chase.
 
I figure this is SUCH a big racing area I yell at the kids; “I’m Richard Petty’s granddaughter and I’m going to the races, now CALL OFF THESE DOGS!”
I make my way 18 miles up the road to Winchester, Ky. The scenery is fantastic with large horse farms and huge black barns full of yellowing tobacco. I pass through West Bend, Ky. to take pictures and a huge snake slithers across the road.
 
Pastor Janice at Mercy House puts me up for the night. Mercy House is a rehab facility in Winchester. Pastor Janice is in her mid-60s. She likes black. Her dress is black, she wears very heavy black eye makeup and her hair is so jet black it’s almost purple like in the Superman comics.  She invites me back for the Baptist service at 6pm.
 
I cruise around Winchester for a bit. Small town, many businesses along the main drag are closed and not because it’s a Saturday afternoon but because they’ve gone under. I head back to church; you can hear the singing outside the building. Inside, it’s every stereotype of a southern service. A lot of evangelizing, hands raised in prayer. One woman at the front of church, the only woman at the front of church, is jumping around so much you would swear she was possessed. Probably not the right thing to say but she was excited about Jesus. Her blonde headed boy was following her lead. The woman must burn 1,000 calories alone just going to church.
 
Pastor Janice picks up the mic and starts into the sermon. She’s free thinking and also giving a spontaneous shout-out to folks she recognizes in the pews. “Hi Pedro,” she says to a man who probably could have done without the name mention.

I stay about a half hour then call it a night and Buck, who runs the Mercy House shows me my room. “I put clean sheets on the bed and here’s a key to your room and a key to the women’s bathroom.” Buck has been at the house for about 16 years. He has tattoos on his arms, which are hard to decipher because of a series of nasty burn marks. It looks like he was pulled from a fire, ran back in and had to be rescued again.
 
Buck is in his 50s and very difficult to understand. He doesn’t mind me bringing my bike into my room, although when I go to take a shower I notice he’s mopping the floors. The place is clean and the one thing I regret is when I exit the shower I can tell Buck had been waiting. “I have some watermelon in my room if you want to come have a piece.”
 
I decline and tell Buck I have to put on a lot of miles the next day. I get back to the room and regret my response. I don’t think Buck was hitting on me, I just think he’s lonely.  Normally, people welcome me into their lives and their homes because the rest of the 364 days of the year are all the same. I’m something different. I’m fresh ears for their stories. I have to learn to make a little more time for the Bucks of the world in exchange for the many clean rooms, free meals and hot showers.