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The Man with the Backward Feet

Ken and I have spent a lot of years traveling America's back roads, especially Route 66, and along the way we've met some unforgettable people. One encounter remained a mystery for years—until recently.

We were traveling through Kansas in our old yellow Essex coupe, exploring the eleven-mile stretch of historic Route 66. At one point we pulled off beside a large cornfield because of a sign that caught our attention. The sign said, "Field of Dreams."

There wasn't much else there. Just a cornfield, a little dirt pull-off, and the sign. We sat for a few minutes looking across the corn, talking about the movie and wondering whether there was any connection at all, or whether someone had simply decided that every cornfield deserved its own Field of Dreams sign.

As we sat there talking, a man suddenly appeared beside Ken's window.

Neither of us had seen him approach.

He introduced himself, Dean Walker, and told us he was Vice-Pesident of lthe general store down the road. We chatted for a few minutes, and then he asked, "I bet you've never seen anyone do this."

Before either of us knew what was happening, he

explained that he could turn his feet around backwards.

Naturally, we were skeptical. Then he asked Ken to get out of the car and help him.

The man put one hand onto the car for support and instructed Ken to kick one foot around. Ken was reluctant—most people don't spend their vacations kicking strangers—but he finally obliged. Sure enough, the foot rotated around until it pointed backward. Then the man had him do the same thing with the other foot.

There he stood, perfectly calm, both feet facing backward.I wish I had taken a photograph.

We talked for a few more minutes, and then he announced matter-of-factly, "Well, I can't go anywhere until I get my feet turned around again."

So Ken helped him reverse the process. By the time Ken had gotten back into the car, Dean Walker was nowhere to be seen. The incident felt pretty surreal.i

A short while later, we stopped at the general store the man had mentioned. There he was again, talking with visitors as though nothing unusual had happened.

For years afterward, Ken and I would occasionally tell the story of "the man with the backward feet." Then one day we were watching television and suddenly there he was—our mysterious roadside acquaintance—performing the same backward-feet demonstration.

Years later, while reminiscing about our Route 66 adventures, we finally pieced together the mystery. The man was almost certainly Dean "Crazy Legs" Walker, a well-known Route 66 personality in Kansas who became famous for his unusual flexibility and his friendly conversations with travelers passing through the area.

The mystery was solved, but the memory remained just as delightful.

Looking back, I suspect the "Field of Dreams" sign was simply one of those whimsical Route 66 attractions—a sign beside a cornfield placed there to make travelers smile and stop for a moment. It certainly worked on us.

And if we hadn't stopped to look at that cornfield, we might never have met Dean Walker.

That's Route 66 for you.

Sometimes the road gives you exactly the adventure you didn't know you were looking for.

400,000 of them.
And the adventure still continues.
More to come.

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Mary and Ken’s 400,000 Mile Rideabout
Part 1 — The Beginning
Our 400,000-mile rideabout in a 1927 Essex street rod really began back in the early 1990s in Vermont.
Ken and I were out wandering the back roads one afternoon when we spotted an old car body sitting out in a pasture among the cows, propped up on rocks and slowly returning to the earth. Ken had been dreaming about building a street rod for years, so we stopped and talked with the farmer.
By the end of the conversation, we owned it.
What came home was mostly just the cab and trunk of an old 1927 Essex coupe. Ken built the frame himself and spent the next couple of years working on it whenever he could find spare time. Finally, in 1993, we got it on the road and headed to our first car show about 70 miles away.
And we never really stopped.
Over the years we drove that little yellow coupe to every contiguous state in the United States and through parts of Canada including Ontario, Quebec, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia.
We crossed the country multiple times, camped in Yellowstone with gear strapped to the roof, and followed the weather wherever it seemed happiest.
Sometimes we left our 36-foot motorhome sitting in the yard and traveled with nothing more than tents, sleeping bags, a camp stove, and curiosity.
The car slowly evolved over the years. Eventually it gained roll-up windows, an odometer, and a gas gauge.
But in the beginning, it was just us, the road, and a willingness to figure things out as we went along.
One thing we learned quickly:
A bright yellow 1927 Essex coupe attracts conversations everywhere it goes. Over the years we drove that little yellow coupe to every contiguous state in the United States and through parts of Canada including Ontario, Quebec, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia. We crossed the country multiple times, camped in Yellowstone with gear strapped to the roof, and followed the weather wherever it seemed happiest.
Sometimes we left our 36-foot motorhome sitting in the yard and traveled with nothing more than tents, sleeping bags, a camp stove, and curiosity.
The car slowly evolved over the years. Eventually it gained roll-up windows, an odometer, and a gas gauge. But in the beginning, it was just us, the road, and a willingness to figure things out as we went along.
One thing we learned quickly:
A bright yellow 1927 Essex coupe attracts conversations everywhere it goes.
Gas station stops became half-hour visits. Restaurant parking lots turned into storytelling sessions. Small towns waved us into parades. Car shows appeared unexpectedly along the road, and suddenly we were participants instead of travelers.
The car introduced us to America in a way few things could.
We discovered hidden towns, forgotten roads, and extraordinary people. One of those discoveries was Creede, Colorado, an old silver mining town we first visited around 1995 that still seemed frozen in another era.
Over time, the miles added up.
400,000 of them.
And the adventure still continues.
More to come.

Original 5"×7" Alcohol Ink paintings by G.G. Chicky
Text by https://chatgpt.com/s/m_69ed1870c504819199b837d15a8bedae