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Maps lie - or sometimes they don't tell the whole truth. About a dozen years or so ago, while cycling in Kentucky on a lightly loaded road bike, I was happily trucking along along on a beautiful July morning south of Frankfort. I was headed for the great Smoky Mountains from my home in central Illinois. There I was on a wonderful stretch of secondary highway, smooth asphalt with little traffic, heading toward the Kentucky River. I'm planning to make it well into the foothills of the Cumberland Mountains before the end of the day, which will be over 100 miles of riding. Then it happened: I drop down into the river valley, enjoying a 45 MPH descent, when I suddenly come to the end of the road. 'Eh? What's this nonsense!' I think to myself. No bridge, no nothing!

I see a couple of old gents on a nearby porch, and I throw up my hands. "Used to be a ferry years ago, but it don't operate no more." one of them said to me. I talked with them for a few minutes, and was told I'd need to backtrack about 6 miles, then cut over to a major U.S. highway if I was going to get to where I planning to go this day. I guess it's my own fault for not thoroughly checking out my route with a local club. But who would ever think a state highway wouldn't cross a river? About a mile into my backtrack, I begin to think that maybe I should have asked these two old gents if they, or someone they knew, had a boat of some kind - even a rowboat - that could've ferried me across the Kentucky River. Well, it was a bit late for that brainstorm, now.

I stopped to look at the map again. I'm already not looking forward to the over 15 miles I'd have to ride down to Lancaster on U.S. Highway 27, where I'd pick up my nice secondary highway again. It was Sunday afternoon, and logic dictated to me that it would quite hectic, seeing that it was a major route to a recreational lake. Man, I hate being right all the time.

The first few miles weren't too bad, since it was a four lane stretch with a decent shoulder. But about two miles after the road went two lane, I was leading up a small caravan of angry drivers - too many little hills to provide much opportunity to pass safely very often. About halfway through this cycling hell. I am passed by a beat up old 60s Rambler with an unhappy redneck - whose gene pool I wouldn't want to take a dip in wearing a wetsuit - leaning out the window. It took me just a split second to realize he wasn't going to blow me a kiss. He yelled a few obscenities, then extended his

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