Reluctantly leaving my fabulous lawn chair in Mary Bush's garage I continued muddling north to Logansport, Ind.  My speedometer, slowly clicking toward 90 miles while, sadly, my stamina and spirit were diminishing.
 
I had found the source of my slowness: a dime size hole in my rear rim. The crack was pushing up underneath one spoke like a root of a tree buckling a section of sidewalk. With every rotation of the wheel the rim wobbled and rubbed against the rear break creating a consistent drag.
 
I had always taken adversity in stride, figuring the good and the bad were all part of the adventure. However, it was becoming obvious I was ready to wave the white flag and somebody, anybody, could come save me.
 
Within six miles of town I saw a boy and his father playing football on their front lawn. I stopped to ask for help. "Go inside and get your mom," ordered the man with no sense of urgency. While waiting for "Mom" I swear I counted four, five and possibly six kids dart past the doorway. They were like little Who's in Whoville. Next thing I knew, two curious boys were standing by my side. They were eyeing me up, looking at my bright spandex and my dirty bike loaded with gear.
 
I was tired and I stunk. My eyes were drooping along with my shoulders and I'm sure I looked like a slack-jawed, pathetic mouth breather in a shiny orange and blue bike helmet. "Is this a race?" chirped the smallest barefoot boy. "No honey," I managed in a low, rasp. "This is vacation."
 
Thankfully, Mom -- Jill -- came out of the house and volunteered to take me to the bike shop in Logansport. We loaded the rig in her white pickup and Jill's son Jarrett climbed in the back seat.
 
They trucked me about six miles into town and right to the front door of Bickel's Bike Store on 5th Street. The store was open until 5 p.m., except Wednesdays when they were closed. It looked like I was spending the night.
 
Jill and Jarrett dropped me off at the local motel where I collapsed for the night. Early the next morning, with renewed energy I explored Logansport.
 
Logansport’s a nice, small town with mature trees and a lot of one-way streets. One of the gems of the community is a small diner on South 6th Street called The Whitehouse. From the outside, the business appeared long shut down. The sun had faded the black lettering of 'Whitehouse Hamburgers' written on the red Coca Cola sign. The green awning was severely weathered and rust stained the white sign above the door that touted, "Buy ‘em by the sack."  
 
Inside, the place was the size of a shoebox and there was not one empty space available for another cup on a shelf or sign on the wall. Lester Hettinger manned the grill; he had been punching toast, flipping eggs and serving burgers since 1950. "Place opened in 1941 and I've been here just about that long," said Hettinger who sported an autographed Allstate 400 Race Team hat.
 
The diner was warm and comfortable, like an extension of your kitchen where friends would gather in the morning for coffee and conversation. Red bar stools lined the counter and a couple of booths hugged the walls by the windows. "We had an astronaut visit here once," said Hettinger, pointing to a yellowing photo of astronaut Scott Altman stuck in the back window. Altman had been on the Columbia and Atlantis shuttle missions in 1999, 2000 and 2002.
 
I had my usual, coffee, one egg over easy and dry wheat toast. When I asked if they had peanut butter, Hettinger put the Jar of Jif on the counter. My kind of restaurant.
 
Down the street I hooked up with the mechanic at Bickel's Bike Shop. "Well let's see what we can do for you here," said owner Gene Lewellen who was about 64 years old and ran the shop as a form of relaxation and retirement. Searching through a series of rims and wheels Gene concluded we'd have to build a wheel to get me moving.
 
I oversaw the process, watching Gene closely as he pulled spokes from my wheel and threaded them into the new rim. "Do I make you nervous?" I asked, hovering over his shoulder. "Naw," he said with patience, although shortly thereafter Gene took a break for doughnuts, coffee and a smoke. I hadn't lost my touch; I can still drive any man up the wall.
 
While Gene was out running errands I finished lacing the wheel, Gene came back and trued it and within five hours I was on my way. Trying to maintain excellent customer service Gene gave me a good head start and drove me 30 miles out of town. He also bought me lunch. I told a friend I was very impressed; she said he obviously wanted to get me as far out of town as possible and was making sure I wouldn't come back.
 
I made it 60 miles further that day and stayed the night in Valparaiso. With threatening weather the remainder of the weekend I decided to hop a bus and head home. It was my final three days of vacation and I agreed with my friends who said, if I really wanted to bike in the rain I could do so once I returned to West Bend.

Next time: my last column.