Anticipation to drive across Kansas didn't awaken me the morning of departure day, as I doubt such a thing exists. Lila's barking was the culprit, and my typical big-driving-day-please-don't-let-anything-go-wrong butterflies kept me awake.
The drive across Missouri was uneventful, but as usual, the trek across I-70 through my adopted state left me pondering two related questions. Why must Missouri have - and advertise so heavily - umpteen thousand adult stores, and why does the owner of Passion's - yes, that's Passion's with a possessive apostrophe - feel the need to add that apostrophe? For years I've been bugged by that establishment's billboards, but I finally reconciled that aggravation yesterday by convincing myself that Passion is actually a large cross-dressing man with killer calves and a slight five o'clock shadow who is living out his entrepreneurial dream.
I love Kansas City. It's always felt like the edge of the mythological American West. It has the greatest architectural salvage store in the country, and its neo-Classical Union Station is one of the finest railroad stations in the world. I stood under its clock at the turn of the millennium.
Part of my love for Kansas City traces back to a trip to the FFA (for you city kids, that would be Future Farmers of America - hey, I had horses, and it offered as much credit as did my human anatomy, physics, and calculus classes!) National Convention in Kansas City during my junior year in high school. During that trip, I ate at my first real steakhouse, saw my first stockyards, and snuck into the then boarded-up Union Station. I also sat on a plastic folding chair on the dirt arena floor of the American Royal and watched a concert by a relatively unknown country singer; I thought his songs had some broad appeal, his voice was fair and mildly distinctive, that he was unusually active on stage, and that his shirt was horrendous. His name was Garth Brooks.
The drive across Kansas was, well, a drive across Kansas. Something about its undulating rhythms under an expansive blue sky render it an unappreciated gem of a state through which to drive. However, I knew I could depend upon massive bug splats on the windshield, scenery punctuated by wind farms...
...and triple-digit temperatures:
I made a reservation for the Goodland, Kansas, KOA about 200 miles out, knowing it would force me to push the outer limit of my driving goal for the day rather than to fade and stop short in WaKeeney. I set up, crashed on the couch, and was thankful for a good first day.
