In conversations I've had along the way, a number of people have said something along the lines of "I don't think I could do what you're doing. I couldn't handle the uncertainty." But really, if you think about it, nothing in life is at all certain. All the things you bank on—your house, your car, your steady paycheck, your life's savings, your health, and the people who are important to you—can be gone in an instant. Certainty is nothing but a comfortable illusion, or so I often tell myself as I'm riding off into the unknown.

But comfort, illusory or otherwise, sure is a nice feeling to have. As I sat in a public library, not even out of Lexington yet, watching rain stream down the big plate-glass windows, contemplating the fact that I had no plan, no route, no known campgrounds, nobody to stay with between Lexington and Bowling Green some 200 miles away, and more turbulent weather in the forecast, I felt my courage leaching away with the rain. I couldn't think of anything to do but wait, and to call Josh if things didn't improve.

Around 4:30 the rain slowed to a sprinkle and I hit the road toward Versailles (pronounced the Kentucky way, not the French way: Ver-SALES). Thankfully, the rain tapered off and eventually stopped as I got out of the city and pedaled past more huge horse farms, a castle on a hill, the highest bridge I can remember since crossing the Hudson, and the Wild Turkey distillery. I assumed it was too late by then to take a tour, so I continued pedaling along, trying to decide whether the syrupy smell of corn mash that filled the air was pleasant or not. With a little more distance, the scent mellowed a bit and begain to resemble that of hot pancakes. I realized I was starving.

But I dutifully bypassed a number of pizza places and fast food joints in Lawrenceburg, thinking it best to get to the other side of town and secure a camping spot as quickly as possible before it got dark. My resolve was broken when I saw three blue soccer-uniformed ten-year-old boys standing by the side of the road, waving cardboard signs that implored me to "Eat at Sonic!" Josh and company had introduced me to Sonic on our ice cream run the previous evening, and I was instantly smitten. It's a 50's-style drive-in, complete with carhop on rollerskates to deliver your order, specializing in ice cream and deep-fried everything. "OK, I will!" I yelled back at the kids.

At the restaurant there were more soccer kids who informed me that Sonic would donate 10% of whatever I ordered to their team, which seemed like a fantastic excuse to order large quantities of food. As I munched on my chicken fingers, one of the moms, Linda, started chatting with me, and when she found out I had no place lined up for the night, she kindly offerred me a place to stay. I was grateful to accept, especially given the weather forecast which called for more storms that night. I was certain my mom would be relieved too, since she'd emailed me earlier that day to warn me of "straight-line winds that blew the roof off a schoolhouse in Arkansas." (Never mind that Arkansas is two states over. I'll have to remember to call her up this winter and say "Mom, there's a big blizzard in Indiana—better stock up on canned goods and kerosene.")

Later Linda's husband Russ, a University of Louisville professor with a penchant for banana malts, showed up after teaching his class on renewable energy and we all set out for their place a couple miles away. Their cool old farmhouse was built in 1864 and has only had three owners, including them. The original owners and their two sons are buried in the backyard. "I don't believe in ghosts," said Russ, "but I think the two sons still live in the house."

Russ and Linda were truly fascinating people to talk to well into the night over a cup of hot tea. They are the kind of people who randomly drop statements in passing that totally pique your curiosity and you're like, "Wait, back up a second. . ." Examples:

"Fifteen dollars isn't bad for paintball if it includes unlimited CO2."

"When our llama died of the meninga worm. . ."

"None of Michael's aunts would take him in after his mother died, so we did, even though I've never wanted to strangle a kid more in my life."

"Then that sewage line burst and was bubbling up out of the ground like a fountain. . . "

"So I said, we don't need a campsite, we'll camp right here in the woods."

"After Linda had both hips replaced. . ."

"We got the heaviest go-cart we could find, and what does Kyle do? Flips it over. Twice."

"When you try to shear a sheep and nick his skin, there's a purple ointment you put on it. We were embarrassed to let people see our polka-dotted sheep afterward."

I made them promise to show me the llamas in the morning.