Every year, there is an event called RAIN. RAIN stands for the Ride Across INdiana. Most people do this in one day, all 140-some miles. I did not, because my knees are approximately 100 years old. Also, I'm carrying things, and they're not.
I'm not good at leaving at a reasonable time, unless I'm under threat of discovery and... stern talking-to, I guess. Since I'm white and well-spoken, that's the extent of what I expect if I'm found stealth camping. Side note: "stealth camping" is not a term I created. I'm not trying to sound cool, someone else was. Don't judge the messenger.
Anyway, I started riding east from Pete's place around the crack of noon. I rode directly to the nearest train station intending to ask if they dealt with Amtrak tickets, because my knees wouldn't allow me to climb the smallest hill even in my lowest gear. I got off at every slight incline and pushed the bike while keeping my right knee locked and my left knee moving only up and down, because each knee was complaining about different things. I remembered I had some ibuprofen and took some on the way, and for once in my life, it worked. It probably never worked before because I always refused to take it. By the time I got to the train station I was able to actually ride, if not well. I rode past the train station because I am not secure enough in myself to say "I quit" and simply be satisfied with what I had done.
I could have gone home to move on with my life, but instead I kept heading east because I'm stubborn and it's a challenge now. A rail-trail took me out of Chicago and to the Indiana state line. I didn't make it much farther before I spotted a convenient trail into a secluded area. I still had time to kill, so I sprayed myself heavily with insect repellent and sat on a rock for an unknown amount of time. I'd like to say I was meditating on mysteries of the universe, but I was alternately fighting to keep songs out of my head, thinking about people I met recently, and creating backstory for a sci-fi video game. I may have fallen asleep for a while, too. Eventually the bug spray wore off and it started to rain, so I crawled into my bag to hide from all the nature.
No pictures today, too much hurt. I should have taken a picture of the first "Fire Pence" sign, though. I'm really curious what Indiana thinks of Trump when they lean Republican but also hate Trump's VP, Mike Pence, who is their current unpopular governor.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Monday, August 29, 2016
Chi-town - Days 73-77ish: Chicago, IL
I stayed in Chicago a while, hoping to let my knees heal up. The highlights were as follows:
First, the bad. Some kind of rash appeared on my face, reminiscent of chicken pox. Combined with the fever and joint pains, I think this was just a really mild instance of shingles, otherwise known as "revenge of the chicken pox" where the dormant virus decides to become active again. Unfortunately, ever since I got Chikungunya in Puerto Rico, joint pains and body aches from any infection are magnified, which might have contributed to the knee pain. Once my knees were inflamed, I think I caused actual damage by using them anyway, especially going from relaxing in Urbana to an all-day ride. My time in Chicago was not enough for a full recovery, but I was anxious about getting on with my trip and left anyway.
Second, the mediocre. Pete tried to take me on a tour of Chicago foods, which I was a little conflicted about. I've been eating vegetarian when reasonable options were available, but I don't think vegetables appear in the Chicago diet. I had a slice of Chicago deep-dish pizza, realized that the significance of the dish was just that it contained more cheese and meat than normal pizza, and felt reaffirmed that vegetarianism was going to be better for me in the long run. Apparently you can get gluten-free crust, though, if you're into that. They just make the pizza on a giant meat patty instead of pizza dough. It's like a gigantic, poorly-layered lasagna undiluted by something so boring as pasta. I didn't actually get to the other pieces of the Chicago trifecta, the Chicago hot dog and the Italian beef sandwich, because I felt like I understood the goal of Chicago cuisine pretty well already.
Finally, the good. I tried several flights of beer with Pete, but I think I'll need a few more before I can start pretending to have sophisticated opinions about local beer again. I met Pete's sister and her family and tried to run a game of Mysterium with them, only realizing halfway through that the set they had was "inspired by" the original Polish version that I knew. Pete had little sympathy for my struggles with the game until he ran the next instance.
My favorite scene from Chicago occurred here. Some background: Amazon makes a cylindrical device named Alexa. Alexa has no buttons. Once Alexa is plugged in and set up, you can yell at it (her?) from anywhere and ask it to do things, like Siri or Google. I notice that every device made to be yelled at is personified as female, but that's beside the point for now. Pete asked Alexa to play some Red Hot Chili Peppers, and it complied. I was surprised at how loud it could get, so Pete asked it to turn up to 10. It complied. Unfortunately, this also meant it was now jamming the one communication channel we had with it, and it couldn't hear us asking it to turn down. Pete's a big guy and can yell pretty loud, so it was really entertaining for me to watch him holding a futuristic black cylinder, yelling as loud as possible directly at it while it kept obliviously blasting away, happily complying with the last command it understood. The future is now.
I intended to meet up with a few other friends while in town, but I spent most of my time convalescing at Pete's place. I did manage to meet up with a woman I met on RAGBRAI and attend an improv show at the IO Theater together, which was great. We had tickets to a show-and-tell event, where periodically the players accepted questions from the audience, all eight of us, about what was going on behind the scenes like how they decided when to cut or where certain ideas came from. This was really interesting and apparently we asked good questions, because the owner of the theater rewarded us all with free VIP tickets. I guess that means I have to go back sometime. We spent the rest of that night talking to a couple other guests and some of the players before getting drinks elsewhere. We discussed things from social anxiety to feminism to her mom's chickens. She had to rescue a rooster the next day, which would definitely have made the blog if I got to participate. Oh, and she had a concert ukulele that I got to play, which made me very happy.
I very nearly left Chicago by taking a train back to Urbana and calling it quits, but I decided to stick it out through the pain and left for Indiana after a few days at Pete's. I would've stayed longer, but I could only stand so much reality TV.
First, the bad. Some kind of rash appeared on my face, reminiscent of chicken pox. Combined with the fever and joint pains, I think this was just a really mild instance of shingles, otherwise known as "revenge of the chicken pox" where the dormant virus decides to become active again. Unfortunately, ever since I got Chikungunya in Puerto Rico, joint pains and body aches from any infection are magnified, which might have contributed to the knee pain. Once my knees were inflamed, I think I caused actual damage by using them anyway, especially going from relaxing in Urbana to an all-day ride. My time in Chicago was not enough for a full recovery, but I was anxious about getting on with my trip and left anyway.
Second, the mediocre. Pete tried to take me on a tour of Chicago foods, which I was a little conflicted about. I've been eating vegetarian when reasonable options were available, but I don't think vegetables appear in the Chicago diet. I had a slice of Chicago deep-dish pizza, realized that the significance of the dish was just that it contained more cheese and meat than normal pizza, and felt reaffirmed that vegetarianism was going to be better for me in the long run. Apparently you can get gluten-free crust, though, if you're into that. They just make the pizza on a giant meat patty instead of pizza dough. It's like a gigantic, poorly-layered lasagna undiluted by something so boring as pasta. I didn't actually get to the other pieces of the Chicago trifecta, the Chicago hot dog and the Italian beef sandwich, because I felt like I understood the goal of Chicago cuisine pretty well already.
Finally, the good. I tried several flights of beer with Pete, but I think I'll need a few more before I can start pretending to have sophisticated opinions about local beer again. I met Pete's sister and her family and tried to run a game of Mysterium with them, only realizing halfway through that the set they had was "inspired by" the original Polish version that I knew. Pete had little sympathy for my struggles with the game until he ran the next instance.
My favorite scene from Chicago occurred here. Some background: Amazon makes a cylindrical device named Alexa. Alexa has no buttons. Once Alexa is plugged in and set up, you can yell at it (her?) from anywhere and ask it to do things, like Siri or Google. I notice that every device made to be yelled at is personified as female, but that's beside the point for now. Pete asked Alexa to play some Red Hot Chili Peppers, and it complied. I was surprised at how loud it could get, so Pete asked it to turn up to 10. It complied. Unfortunately, this also meant it was now jamming the one communication channel we had with it, and it couldn't hear us asking it to turn down. Pete's a big guy and can yell pretty loud, so it was really entertaining for me to watch him holding a futuristic black cylinder, yelling as loud as possible directly at it while it kept obliviously blasting away, happily complying with the last command it understood. The future is now.
I intended to meet up with a few other friends while in town, but I spent most of my time convalescing at Pete's place. I did manage to meet up with a woman I met on RAGBRAI and attend an improv show at the IO Theater together, which was great. We had tickets to a show-and-tell event, where periodically the players accepted questions from the audience, all eight of us, about what was going on behind the scenes like how they decided when to cut or where certain ideas came from. This was really interesting and apparently we asked good questions, because the owner of the theater rewarded us all with free VIP tickets. I guess that means I have to go back sometime. We spent the rest of that night talking to a couple other guests and some of the players before getting drinks elsewhere. We discussed things from social anxiety to feminism to her mom's chickens. She had to rescue a rooster the next day, which would definitely have made the blog if I got to participate. Oh, and she had a concert ukulele that I got to play, which made me very happy.
I very nearly left Chicago by taking a train back to Urbana and calling it quits, but I decided to stick it out through the pain and left for Indiana after a few days at Pete's. I would've stayed longer, but I could only stand so much reality TV.
Matter over mind - Day 72: Custer Park to Chicago, IL
The trip today was short, but also slow and painful. I woke up drenched in sweat and with angry, rigid knees. I managed to pack up and roll out anyway, squeaking along in a low gear, then stopped on a bridge over the Kankakee to collect myself.
The view was nice, and I considered it a mindfulness challenge to appreciate the sunrise on the water instead of focusing on my old-man aches and pains. The reframing helped me get going again, but it didn't stop me from cursing and complaining to no one in particular. I have a ways to go if I want to be a Zen master. Instead, I found a gas station convenience store and ate half a box of Reese's Puffs with milk. This powered me through some wealthy suburbs, past an alarming amount of Trump signs, and into Orland Park.
My friend Pete gave me the garage code, so I let myself inside. His mother introduced me to the place, repeatedly said I should take whatever I want and that I could stay as long as I want, and then went back to watching reality TV.
I'll describe my time in Chicago in another post. For now, here's sunrise on the Kankakee and a nice little stream that somehow survived in the suburbs. Maybe it'll grow up to be a real river like the Kankakee someday.
The view was nice, and I considered it a mindfulness challenge to appreciate the sunrise on the water instead of focusing on my old-man aches and pains. The reframing helped me get going again, but it didn't stop me from cursing and complaining to no one in particular. I have a ways to go if I want to be a Zen master. Instead, I found a gas station convenience store and ate half a box of Reese's Puffs with milk. This powered me through some wealthy suburbs, past an alarming amount of Trump signs, and into Orland Park.
My friend Pete gave me the garage code, so I let myself inside. His mother introduced me to the place, repeatedly said I should take whatever I want and that I could stay as long as I want, and then went back to watching reality TV.
I'll describe my time in Chicago in another post. For now, here's sunrise on the Kankakee and a nice little stream that somehow survived in the suburbs. Maybe it'll grow up to be a real river like the Kankakee someday.
Overachieving - Day 71: Urbana to Custer Park, IL
I finally convinced myself to leave again about two full weeks after I arrived in Urbana. I've come to really appreciate consistent access to air conditioning and protection from biting insects, hence the delay. It was tempting to just call it done. I hit all the major points I wanted to hit already, so the desire to finish the trip from here is mainly about completionism. I decided to leave, though, because I've learned that just being on the road invites interesting and unexpected stories. So, into the unexpected I went. After going north to Chicago to visit some friends, that is. The unexpected would come after that.
It was about 142 miles from Urbana to my destination in Chicago, which I considered attempting in one sprint. I wasn't that motivated, though, and I wanted to arrive at a reasonable hour, so I aimed instead to find a place to camp along the Kankakee river. This turned out to be a very good decision for a couple reasons. First, I spent about 10 miles grinding into a headwind while going the wrong way, and second, my knees started hurting pretty severely while I was still at least thirty miles from the river.
The ride itself would have been quite pleasant if it weren't for my knee issues. I rode through a town that was very proud of some decommissioned WWII-era planes, met a group of ten children and one dog trying to get a truck out of the mud with no adults in sight (they succeeded), and bothered a Spanish-speaking family for some water when three towns in a row had no services. At one point, I sat and ate a peanut butter and honey roll (wrap?) directly beneath a neighborhood watch sign. Sure enough, I think the whole neighborhood watched me do it. No one said anything. It was awkward.
My knee problems got worse throughout the day, and I was really struggling by the time I found a place to camp in a little secluded nook behind a cemetery. I had a lot of trouble sleeping due to temperature regulation issues, and I was pretty certain I had a mild fever. After getting in and out of my sleeping setup multiple times, I finally drifted off to sleep.
Here's one of the planes I mentioned, as well as a row of cloned corn just in case that freaks anyone out.
It was about 142 miles from Urbana to my destination in Chicago, which I considered attempting in one sprint. I wasn't that motivated, though, and I wanted to arrive at a reasonable hour, so I aimed instead to find a place to camp along the Kankakee river. This turned out to be a very good decision for a couple reasons. First, I spent about 10 miles grinding into a headwind while going the wrong way, and second, my knees started hurting pretty severely while I was still at least thirty miles from the river.
The ride itself would have been quite pleasant if it weren't for my knee issues. I rode through a town that was very proud of some decommissioned WWII-era planes, met a group of ten children and one dog trying to get a truck out of the mud with no adults in sight (they succeeded), and bothered a Spanish-speaking family for some water when three towns in a row had no services. At one point, I sat and ate a peanut butter and honey roll (wrap?) directly beneath a neighborhood watch sign. Sure enough, I think the whole neighborhood watched me do it. No one said anything. It was awkward.
My knee problems got worse throughout the day, and I was really struggling by the time I found a place to camp in a little secluded nook behind a cemetery. I had a lot of trouble sleeping due to temperature regulation issues, and I was pretty certain I had a mild fever. After getting in and out of my sleeping setup multiple times, I finally drifted off to sleep.
Here's one of the planes I mentioned, as well as a row of cloned corn just in case that freaks anyone out.
Friday, August 19, 2016
Mission complete - Lounging in Urbana, IL
The only important event in the past two weeks was finding a baby bunny. I held it for a bit. Now that that's accomplished, I'm not sure what's left to do in life.
Monday, August 15, 2016
New home - Day 70, Peoria to Urbana, IL
Our host led us through the early part of today's ride to show us the best way out of town. He was riding an unloaded, superlight road bike, so he set a brisk pace for us. Pack mentality kicked in and we put in a quick 20 miles first thing that morning.
After the quick start, Mike and I took a break by raiding a local grocery's discount, about-to-expire section. In addition to whatever I had eaten before leaving, I ate 1.2 pounds of potato salad, 2 bagels with generous helpings of cream cheese, a pint of whole milk, 5 molasses cookies, a bunch of grapes, a banana, some samples of Mike's haul, and possibly some things I've forgotten.
It was a little while before we got back on the road, but we eventually did. We had more farm roads in store, but nearly all were paved. We followed the Constitution Trail into Bloomington and saw a grain elevator with some strange specks on the side. On closer inspection, the specks turned out to be a climbing wall. Someone had the genius idea of turning disused grain elevators into climbing gyms once they had been surrounded by urban sprawl, and this was apparently the 4th such gym they had set up.
We left Bloomington on Highway 150, which meant dealing with moderate traffic even though it paralleled a much more modern 4-lane highway. We were doing well on time, so we stopped in a small town named Le Roy and, somewhat unintentionally, fell asleep in their central park. I awoke to discover that we were no longer doing well on time. We continued on Highway 150 for most the way to Urbana, but as 5 PM and rush hour approached, we abandoned the straight-shot highway in favor of more protected farm roads. We saw a few local road cyclists among the corn and soy, which we took to be a good sign.
Eventually, we made it to Champaign, which is part of the same urban area as Urbana as indicated in the name of the local university: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Having basically completed the day's journey, we again napped on a firehouse lawn. Eventually they came to see what we were up to, so we made the last 3 miles to the place that will be my home for the next year.
Part of what spurred this trip was the fact that my girlfriend Halley needed to move to Urbana-Champaign to complete an internship so she can become Dr. Halley. She had only recently arrived, but was nice enough to cook dinner for Mike and I once we showed up. It felt kind of surreal, but nice, to see her out here.
Mike and I didn't spend too much more time awake. I don't know how people like Laura Wilcox, winner of this year's Trans-America race, manage to average 240 miles a day; I end up pretty wiped after 100 miles. It's not my energy levels as much as it other parts of me, specifically my butt, which had chafed to the point of actually tearing a little when I sat down to use a toilet at the firehouse (sorry). Suffice it to say that I will be happy to spend a week or two here before continuing on.
After the quick start, Mike and I took a break by raiding a local grocery's discount, about-to-expire section. In addition to whatever I had eaten before leaving, I ate 1.2 pounds of potato salad, 2 bagels with generous helpings of cream cheese, a pint of whole milk, 5 molasses cookies, a bunch of grapes, a banana, some samples of Mike's haul, and possibly some things I've forgotten.
It was a little while before we got back on the road, but we eventually did. We had more farm roads in store, but nearly all were paved. We followed the Constitution Trail into Bloomington and saw a grain elevator with some strange specks on the side. On closer inspection, the specks turned out to be a climbing wall. Someone had the genius idea of turning disused grain elevators into climbing gyms once they had been surrounded by urban sprawl, and this was apparently the 4th such gym they had set up.
We left Bloomington on Highway 150, which meant dealing with moderate traffic even though it paralleled a much more modern 4-lane highway. We were doing well on time, so we stopped in a small town named Le Roy and, somewhat unintentionally, fell asleep in their central park. I awoke to discover that we were no longer doing well on time. We continued on Highway 150 for most the way to Urbana, but as 5 PM and rush hour approached, we abandoned the straight-shot highway in favor of more protected farm roads. We saw a few local road cyclists among the corn and soy, which we took to be a good sign.
Eventually, we made it to Champaign, which is part of the same urban area as Urbana as indicated in the name of the local university: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Having basically completed the day's journey, we again napped on a firehouse lawn. Eventually they came to see what we were up to, so we made the last 3 miles to the place that will be my home for the next year.
Part of what spurred this trip was the fact that my girlfriend Halley needed to move to Urbana-Champaign to complete an internship so she can become Dr. Halley. She had only recently arrived, but was nice enough to cook dinner for Mike and I once we showed up. It felt kind of surreal, but nice, to see her out here.
Mike and I didn't spend too much more time awake. I don't know how people like Laura Wilcox, winner of this year's Trans-America race, manage to average 240 miles a day; I end up pretty wiped after 100 miles. It's not my energy levels as much as it other parts of me, specifically my butt, which had chafed to the point of actually tearing a little when I sat down to use a toilet at the firehouse (sorry). Suffice it to say that I will be happy to spend a week or two here before continuing on.
Home stretch - Day 69: Moline to Peoria, IL
Finally, a day without too much to write about!
By the time I woke up and showered, our host had come back to life. I assumed he had no recollection of locking us out. He seemed happy to see us, so we didn't remind him.
We left Moline and followed the Hennepin Canal Trail east. Most of it was very poorly maintained, but it made for an interesting ride, if not an efficient one. It turns out that Mike has an eye for photography, so my current Facebook photo is now my silhouette emerging from one of many underpass tunnels on the route. This one was made of corrugated pipe, with light reflecting off of each corrugated ridge to make a cool glowing effect.
The poor condition of the trail made it seem to last forever. Eventually we ended up on farm roads, some paved and some not, and connected with a rail-trail that promised to bring us into Peoria to meet up with a host that we had met on RAGBRAI. He advised that we should try to avoid Peoria traffic and said he'd pick us up outside of town, so he gave us a ride for a few miles into Peoria proper. I felt the same conflict that I had with prior ride offers, but there was no point in fighting it if I had accepted the others. We already had something to be proud of having done ~100 miles mostly through dirt that day. If needed, I can do penance by doing a few penalty laps once I get to the end.
Our host was, again, very kind. They had two daughters who had moved out and left behind vacant bedrooms, so they were well-equipped to handle us. They did our laundry, prepared dinner for us, and brought us beer from their basement collection, further increasing my already-unrepayable karmic debt. They reviewed our planned route to Urbana, also, and confirmed that Google's suggestion seemed best.
Though I enjoy camping, I have to admit that it was nice to sleep in an actual bed, especially given the density of things that want to bite me out here.
By the time I woke up and showered, our host had come back to life. I assumed he had no recollection of locking us out. He seemed happy to see us, so we didn't remind him.
We left Moline and followed the Hennepin Canal Trail east. Most of it was very poorly maintained, but it made for an interesting ride, if not an efficient one. It turns out that Mike has an eye for photography, so my current Facebook photo is now my silhouette emerging from one of many underpass tunnels on the route. This one was made of corrugated pipe, with light reflecting off of each corrugated ridge to make a cool glowing effect.
The poor condition of the trail made it seem to last forever. Eventually we ended up on farm roads, some paved and some not, and connected with a rail-trail that promised to bring us into Peoria to meet up with a host that we had met on RAGBRAI. He advised that we should try to avoid Peoria traffic and said he'd pick us up outside of town, so he gave us a ride for a few miles into Peoria proper. I felt the same conflict that I had with prior ride offers, but there was no point in fighting it if I had accepted the others. We already had something to be proud of having done ~100 miles mostly through dirt that day. If needed, I can do penance by doing a few penalty laps once I get to the end.
Our host was, again, very kind. They had two daughters who had moved out and left behind vacant bedrooms, so they were well-equipped to handle us. They did our laundry, prepared dinner for us, and brought us beer from their basement collection, further increasing my already-unrepayable karmic debt. They reviewed our planned route to Urbana, also, and confirmed that Google's suggestion seemed best.
Though I enjoy camping, I have to admit that it was nice to sleep in an actual bed, especially given the density of things that want to bite me out here.
Breaking and Entering - Day 68.5: Muscatine, IA to Moline, IL
While RAGBRAI officially ended in Muscatine, IA, Mike and I only stayed there long enough to treat ourselves to Thai food. We extended the day another ~33 miles to Moline, IL, where I had arranged a WarmShowers host.
Originally, I had contacted a woman about our age who had made a profile on Warm Showers. She said she was at a party and wouldn't be coming home that night, but gave us her roommate's number instead. He seemed confused by the whole situation, but gave us his address and said he had no problem with us staying there. There was a metal show going on outside, and he'd be the guy in the "Hillary for Prison" shirt.
The address he gave us turned out to be a bar. It was a little while before I realized that his apartment was above the bar. Still in my bike shorts and reflective vest, I wheeled my bike through a mob of thrashing metalheads and carried it up to what I hoped was his balcony, then locked it up and went looking for his shirt. I finally found him inside and significantly drunk. He bought me a beer and we talked for a while while Mike went to grab pizza. Our host apparently assumed that the woman I originally contacted had only signed up for WarmShowers to find hookups, so he wasn't sure why she sent us to him, and unsubtly tried to ask about our sexualities. I wasn't sure what to do with that. He said we should sleep in her bed in case she came home. We didn't. He also said she left for the party after getting mad at him for drunkenly peeing on the floor, but he described how the truth was that someone removed the screen on their window and broke in to, apparently, pass out on their carpet, piss themselves, and then leave without being detected. I just nodded.
Mike showed up later with pizza. Our host showed us around his apartment and introduced us to his very lovable German Shepard, and we headed back to the bar. An 18-year-old that worked at the pizza shop showed up later, and explained that he was homeless and recognized Mike as homeless or a traveler, and wanted to show us one of his favorite sleeping spots. I told our host that we'd be back. He looked like he was pretty well entrenched at the bar at that point, anyway. The spot turned out to be the roof of an eleveator shaft for a parking garage that required a full muscle-up to scale -- not just climbing a wall, but a ledge with no assistance from one's legs. Neither Mike nor I had that kind of upper-body strength, though I think I made a valiant effort. Instead, we stood below the ledge and chatted up at the kid, discussing what it was like being homeless in Molin, and what strategies he had developed to get by.
We returned to the bar to find that our host had, unsurprisingly, disappeared. He had also locked us out of his apartment. We saw him stumble around in his kitchen, but he was too focused on maintaining his own balance to notice us. His theory about someone breaking in to wet the carpet seemed even less plausible at this point. He did tell me exactly how to break in to his apartment without leaving a trace, though. So I did that. Mike and I made ourselves at home while the dog excitedly greeted us. Thankfully, the dog was not a very good guard despite her breed. Mike, the dog, and I all slept in the living room.
Originally, I had contacted a woman about our age who had made a profile on Warm Showers. She said she was at a party and wouldn't be coming home that night, but gave us her roommate's number instead. He seemed confused by the whole situation, but gave us his address and said he had no problem with us staying there. There was a metal show going on outside, and he'd be the guy in the "Hillary for Prison" shirt.
The address he gave us turned out to be a bar. It was a little while before I realized that his apartment was above the bar. Still in my bike shorts and reflective vest, I wheeled my bike through a mob of thrashing metalheads and carried it up to what I hoped was his balcony, then locked it up and went looking for his shirt. I finally found him inside and significantly drunk. He bought me a beer and we talked for a while while Mike went to grab pizza. Our host apparently assumed that the woman I originally contacted had only signed up for WarmShowers to find hookups, so he wasn't sure why she sent us to him, and unsubtly tried to ask about our sexualities. I wasn't sure what to do with that. He said we should sleep in her bed in case she came home. We didn't. He also said she left for the party after getting mad at him for drunkenly peeing on the floor, but he described how the truth was that someone removed the screen on their window and broke in to, apparently, pass out on their carpet, piss themselves, and then leave without being detected. I just nodded.
Mike showed up later with pizza. Our host showed us around his apartment and introduced us to his very lovable German Shepard, and we headed back to the bar. An 18-year-old that worked at the pizza shop showed up later, and explained that he was homeless and recognized Mike as homeless or a traveler, and wanted to show us one of his favorite sleeping spots. I told our host that we'd be back. He looked like he was pretty well entrenched at the bar at that point, anyway. The spot turned out to be the roof of an eleveator shaft for a parking garage that required a full muscle-up to scale -- not just climbing a wall, but a ledge with no assistance from one's legs. Neither Mike nor I had that kind of upper-body strength, though I think I made a valiant effort. Instead, we stood below the ledge and chatted up at the kid, discussing what it was like being homeless in Molin, and what strategies he had developed to get by.
We returned to the bar to find that our host had, unsurprisingly, disappeared. He had also locked us out of his apartment. We saw him stumble around in his kitchen, but he was too focused on maintaining his own balance to notice us. His theory about someone breaking in to wet the carpet seemed even less plausible at this point. He did tell me exactly how to break in to his apartment without leaving a trace, though. So I did that. Mike and I made ourselves at home while the dog excitedly greeted us. Thankfully, the dog was not a very good guard despite her breed. Mike, the dog, and I all slept in the living room.
RAGBRAI - Day 61-68, Glenwood, IA to Moline, IL
I'm just going to condense everything about RAGBRAI into one post, because to do otherwise would be way too long.
I woke up from my hidey-hole along the Wabash Trail and arrived in Glenwood, IA, at about 7 AM on RAGBRAI day zero. To refresh, RAGBRAI stands for the Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa, and it's the event that I had been aiming for since leaving Hutchinson, KS. In short, it claims to be the longest and oldest touring cycling event in the world, where about 20,000 cyclists get together to form a massive rolling party from one end of Iowa to the other. The route isn't the most direct, but takes riders about 50-75 miles per day through a bunch of small towns and interesting sites.
Though I had a blast overall, the whole event was very commercialized, which was a letdown compared to stories I'd read about the RAGBRAI of old. There were vendors everywhere selling food and goodies at inflated prices. Some places asked $8 for a shower. At one point, a bike mechanic refused to let me use his tire pump unless I put something in the tip jar first, even though he had plenty of other business and no immediate need for the pump. Maybe that would've changed if he knew I was on a longer journey.
The dedicated freeloader can, however, find all the elements of Ye Olde RAGBRAI still present, and the event is still a lot of fun on a budget. Team Good Beer arranged with Left Hand Brewing and others to set up a free microbrew tent along the route every day. Local kids line parts of the route armed with squirt guns while their parents watch the freak show roll by. Each town tries to outdo the next with live entertainment. At the center of it all are the riders themselves, which is really where one should look for the spirit of the event anyway. Riding self-supported meant that I could ignore whatever "official" parts of the event I wanted.
A bit of social anxiety prevented me from participating as fully as I wanted, but I did manage to meet people along the way. On day zero, I spent a lot of time harassing people who were waiting to buy vendor beer, trying to convince them to come with me to the local grocery and split a six-pack. I'm much more able to interact with people when I feel I can offer them some kind of service; in this case, the local grocery meant more and better beer for less money, not to mention directly supporting local business. I made some friends that way.
Backpocket Brewing set up the most popular stops every day, usually just before the halfway point and just before the end town. I stopped at each of these, and usually drank a Murderhorn or two at the day's-end site - all beer was the same price, and Murderhorn is a tasty strong blonde with an ABV of over 10%, so I'm not sure why they bothered with other choices. I spent a lot of time running through the typical Trans-America FAQs. A lot of people stayed with their teammates, but I was able to find a few RAGBRAI orphans who seemed approachable. I started Team Generic with another guy in a plain T-shirt. A couple people were from Chicago, and invited me to drop by. One even had a ukulele I could play when I got there. I ran into Deanna and Sonia a few times. I met another bearded, dark-haired, kind of awkward Trans-America cyclist from Portland, who is in all those aspects much like myself. I would run into Mike repeatedly throughout the rest of RAGBRAI, and repeatedly had to let people know that we were not brothers.
Through Mike, I met Team Hot Sauce and Team Party Pants, two of the most dedicated groups of partiers on the ride. I ended up at an off-route party with them and several other fraternity-esque teams, and was amazed that they could drink like they did and ride the whole week. It turned out that many of them rode the team bus instead of their bike for a few days. It also helped that, like most RAGBRAI riders, they had a bus to carry all their stuff for them. Jerseys for Team Hot Sauce came equipped with a "hot pocket" on the back, with a bottle of Fireball Whiskey printed on the actual jersey to remind them where it goes. Fireball, of course, is the "hot sauce" for which they are named. Team Party Pants definitely delivered on their name, with an array of designs including rainbow tiger stripes and leopard print to be worn on the bike, and in at least one case, a shiny metallic man-thong for off the bike.
A few of the other teams on the ride included:
The bikes were interesting, too. Most were super-light road bikes, in many cases carbon fiber. A few people lounged on high-tech recumbents. Some, like myself, were on touring or mountain bikes, loaded down with racks, panniers, and other equipment. These were generally unregistered riders like myself who had no support team to rely on. A surprising number of tandem (two-person) bikes were present, including one with an articulated pool-noodle-person as the rear rider, with its feet taped to the pedals to give the impression that it was participating. Tandems were mostly ridden by couples, hence the alternate name: divorce bikes. One family rode what I will call a super-tandem, putting five people - two adults, one teen, and two smaller children - together on one vehicle.
Some brave souls took novelty bikes, though I don't know how many actually rode the entire route. A couple bikes had superfat tires as wide as my fist. One tall bike was present, created by welding one bike frame on top of another. Some single-speed masochists struggled their way up hills for no good reason. A couple people used hand-bikes, powering themselves with their arms the whole way. A genuine 19th-century Pennyfarthing participated, though the rider had previously ridden it from San Francisco to Boston, so I guess that was no big feat. Two longboarders made it. A rollerblader was rumored, but I never saw them. One guy with impressive facial hair finished the route on a touring unicycle, which is apparently a real thing. Two people just ran the route, in at least one case pushing a stroller with water and other equipment inside.
The riders themselves came from all over the US, with a few from places like Tokyo or New Zealand. I got a free beer from someone I later learned was a state legislator, who may or may not also be bananaman ("We never realized a man in a banana suit could be so popular!"). All ages were represented, with three riders over 90, several children on tandems or on their own, and at least one infant in a trailer. A range of body types were present. Lance Armstrong was there as he apparently always is. In all, the ridership itself made a very good argument for bikes as practical transit for a wider range of people than I initially expected.
In all, I have no regrets with my decision to kill time and add several hundred miles to make RAGBRAI. If nothing else, the variety was nice, and it's worth it to have the roads (mostly) closed while crossing an entire state. It was jarring to always have people around, and I fought with some depressed, alone-in-a-crowd kind of feelings, but I was happy to meet the people that I did. If nothing else, they tended to have beer and distracted the most annoying kinds of bugs.
Pics, in no particular order:
I woke up from my hidey-hole along the Wabash Trail and arrived in Glenwood, IA, at about 7 AM on RAGBRAI day zero. To refresh, RAGBRAI stands for the Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa, and it's the event that I had been aiming for since leaving Hutchinson, KS. In short, it claims to be the longest and oldest touring cycling event in the world, where about 20,000 cyclists get together to form a massive rolling party from one end of Iowa to the other. The route isn't the most direct, but takes riders about 50-75 miles per day through a bunch of small towns and interesting sites.
Though I had a blast overall, the whole event was very commercialized, which was a letdown compared to stories I'd read about the RAGBRAI of old. There were vendors everywhere selling food and goodies at inflated prices. Some places asked $8 for a shower. At one point, a bike mechanic refused to let me use his tire pump unless I put something in the tip jar first, even though he had plenty of other business and no immediate need for the pump. Maybe that would've changed if he knew I was on a longer journey.
The dedicated freeloader can, however, find all the elements of Ye Olde RAGBRAI still present, and the event is still a lot of fun on a budget. Team Good Beer arranged with Left Hand Brewing and others to set up a free microbrew tent along the route every day. Local kids line parts of the route armed with squirt guns while their parents watch the freak show roll by. Each town tries to outdo the next with live entertainment. At the center of it all are the riders themselves, which is really where one should look for the spirit of the event anyway. Riding self-supported meant that I could ignore whatever "official" parts of the event I wanted.
A bit of social anxiety prevented me from participating as fully as I wanted, but I did manage to meet people along the way. On day zero, I spent a lot of time harassing people who were waiting to buy vendor beer, trying to convince them to come with me to the local grocery and split a six-pack. I'm much more able to interact with people when I feel I can offer them some kind of service; in this case, the local grocery meant more and better beer for less money, not to mention directly supporting local business. I made some friends that way.
Backpocket Brewing set up the most popular stops every day, usually just before the halfway point and just before the end town. I stopped at each of these, and usually drank a Murderhorn or two at the day's-end site - all beer was the same price, and Murderhorn is a tasty strong blonde with an ABV of over 10%, so I'm not sure why they bothered with other choices. I spent a lot of time running through the typical Trans-America FAQs. A lot of people stayed with their teammates, but I was able to find a few RAGBRAI orphans who seemed approachable. I started Team Generic with another guy in a plain T-shirt. A couple people were from Chicago, and invited me to drop by. One even had a ukulele I could play when I got there. I ran into Deanna and Sonia a few times. I met another bearded, dark-haired, kind of awkward Trans-America cyclist from Portland, who is in all those aspects much like myself. I would run into Mike repeatedly throughout the rest of RAGBRAI, and repeatedly had to let people know that we were not brothers.
Through Mike, I met Team Hot Sauce and Team Party Pants, two of the most dedicated groups of partiers on the ride. I ended up at an off-route party with them and several other fraternity-esque teams, and was amazed that they could drink like they did and ride the whole week. It turned out that many of them rode the team bus instead of their bike for a few days. It also helped that, like most RAGBRAI riders, they had a bus to carry all their stuff for them. Jerseys for Team Hot Sauce came equipped with a "hot pocket" on the back, with a bottle of Fireball Whiskey printed on the actual jersey to remind them where it goes. Fireball, of course, is the "hot sauce" for which they are named. Team Party Pants definitely delivered on their name, with an array of designs including rainbow tiger stripes and leopard print to be worn on the bike, and in at least one case, a shiny metallic man-thong for off the bike.
A few of the other teams on the ride included:
- Team Butt Ice, who has outlived their former sponsor by the same name, which made a real product for sore butts;
- Team Monkey Butt, whose jerseys included an image of a monkey cyclist with a red, swollen ass -- presumably, former customers of Butt Ice;
- Team Good Beer, as mentioned previously, whose jerseys were printed to resemble lederhosen and dirndls;
- Team Roadkill, who were blamed for decorating roadkill with Mardi Gras beads despite that being the work of Team Fur Bandits;
- Team Bad Music, blasting the bottom-40 hits of today and yesterday from a tricked-out tandem;
- Team KYBO, named for a company that used to make portapotties - supposedly, it stands for Keep Your Bowels Open, but I'm guessing that's a backronym;
- Team Plywood: "Easy to lay, fun to nail";
The bikes were interesting, too. Most were super-light road bikes, in many cases carbon fiber. A few people lounged on high-tech recumbents. Some, like myself, were on touring or mountain bikes, loaded down with racks, panniers, and other equipment. These were generally unregistered riders like myself who had no support team to rely on. A surprising number of tandem (two-person) bikes were present, including one with an articulated pool-noodle-person as the rear rider, with its feet taped to the pedals to give the impression that it was participating. Tandems were mostly ridden by couples, hence the alternate name: divorce bikes. One family rode what I will call a super-tandem, putting five people - two adults, one teen, and two smaller children - together on one vehicle.
Some brave souls took novelty bikes, though I don't know how many actually rode the entire route. A couple bikes had superfat tires as wide as my fist. One tall bike was present, created by welding one bike frame on top of another. Some single-speed masochists struggled their way up hills for no good reason. A couple people used hand-bikes, powering themselves with their arms the whole way. A genuine 19th-century Pennyfarthing participated, though the rider had previously ridden it from San Francisco to Boston, so I guess that was no big feat. Two longboarders made it. A rollerblader was rumored, but I never saw them. One guy with impressive facial hair finished the route on a touring unicycle, which is apparently a real thing. Two people just ran the route, in at least one case pushing a stroller with water and other equipment inside.
The riders themselves came from all over the US, with a few from places like Tokyo or New Zealand. I got a free beer from someone I later learned was a state legislator, who may or may not also be bananaman ("We never realized a man in a banana suit could be so popular!"). All ages were represented, with three riders over 90, several children on tandems or on their own, and at least one infant in a trailer. A range of body types were present. Lance Armstrong was there as he apparently always is. In all, the ridership itself made a very good argument for bikes as practical transit for a wider range of people than I initially expected.
In all, I have no regrets with my decision to kill time and add several hundred miles to make RAGBRAI. If nothing else, the variety was nice, and it's worth it to have the roads (mostly) closed while crossing an entire state. It was jarring to always have people around, and I fought with some depressed, alone-in-a-crowd kind of feelings, but I was happy to meet the people that I did. If nothing else, they tended to have beer and distracted the most annoying kinds of bugs.
Pics, in no particular order:
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Killing time - Day 60: Bellevue to Omaha, NE
I left the registration booth at 6:30 AM without incident, and spent about an hour and a half using their free showers for myself and my laundry. I got onto a library's wifi, discovered I was basically in Omaha, and decided to visit the city proper.
I found a coffee shop on the edge of the Old Market area, and they said I could stay there as long as I wanted. So I did. The shop become my HQ for the day, from which I periodically set out to try nearby breweries. I caught up on my blog a little, charged everything I owned to max, and generally did what I could to abuse their hospitality.
Outside of the coffee shop, I spent most of my time at Brickway Brewery. I spent about an hour chatting with a woman about her travels and my own, met another cross-country cyclist on his way to RAGBRAI, and apparently just missed Deanna and Sonia by about five minutes as if this were somehow the only bar in town. The beers were good, especially their Epic Stout, but I'm pretty sure nobody wants more detailed reviews.
I stayed in the coffee shop until they closed at 10 PM. I stayed out front until 11 PM. Finally, I left for Glenwood where RAGBRAI starts, and promptly got stopped trying to cross a pedestrian bridge. A small crowd had gathered part of the way up, so I rang my bell to try and get through. Then someone informed me that there was a jumper on the bridge, and snidely added "Thanks for being respectful". I'm not sure how I was supposed to know that was what was going on. I assumed there was music in the park down below or something, since people had gathered there too. Also, is it any more respectful to ogle at a suicidal person? I figured this probably wasn't the time to point that out. I napped for a bit in the park below, near enough so that I could hear when the cops drove away. When they left, one cop apologized for the delay and explained there was just a super rare Pokemon that they had to catch up there.
I made it across the bridge, bumbled my way through the park on the other side, talked with a homeless dude and considered sleeping there, decided against it, and emerged into a Harrah's parking lot. This was kind of surreal to me. Coming from Sacramento, I had grown up under the unreasonable assumption that Nevada was the only place where Harrah's existed. Some big event was just getting out, so I made my way through snarled traffic until emerging into Council Bluffs proper. Eventually I found another rail-trail, found a wide spot that seemed kind of hidden, and fell asleep.
The only pictures I took: abusing the ability to charge devices and a beard update.
I found a coffee shop on the edge of the Old Market area, and they said I could stay there as long as I wanted. So I did. The shop become my HQ for the day, from which I periodically set out to try nearby breweries. I caught up on my blog a little, charged everything I owned to max, and generally did what I could to abuse their hospitality.
Outside of the coffee shop, I spent most of my time at Brickway Brewery. I spent about an hour chatting with a woman about her travels and my own, met another cross-country cyclist on his way to RAGBRAI, and apparently just missed Deanna and Sonia by about five minutes as if this were somehow the only bar in town. The beers were good, especially their Epic Stout, but I'm pretty sure nobody wants more detailed reviews.
I stayed in the coffee shop until they closed at 10 PM. I stayed out front until 11 PM. Finally, I left for Glenwood where RAGBRAI starts, and promptly got stopped trying to cross a pedestrian bridge. A small crowd had gathered part of the way up, so I rang my bell to try and get through. Then someone informed me that there was a jumper on the bridge, and snidely added "Thanks for being respectful". I'm not sure how I was supposed to know that was what was going on. I assumed there was music in the park down below or something, since people had gathered there too. Also, is it any more respectful to ogle at a suicidal person? I figured this probably wasn't the time to point that out. I napped for a bit in the park below, near enough so that I could hear when the cops drove away. When they left, one cop apologized for the delay and explained there was just a super rare Pokemon that they had to catch up there.
I made it across the bridge, bumbled my way through the park on the other side, talked with a homeless dude and considered sleeping there, decided against it, and emerged into a Harrah's parking lot. This was kind of surreal to me. Coming from Sacramento, I had grown up under the unreasonable assumption that Nevada was the only place where Harrah's existed. Some big event was just getting out, so I made my way through snarled traffic until emerging into Council Bluffs proper. Eventually I found another rail-trail, found a wide spot that seemed kind of hidden, and fell asleep.
The only pictures I took: abusing the ability to charge devices and a beard update.
Shadowrun - Day 59: Lincoln to Bellevue, NE
I had a couple days to kill before heading to Iowa to meet up with RAGBRAI, so I spent most of today eating bagels and being useless at Bagels n' Joe while Deanna and Sonia left for Omaha. A few people told me that Omaha was really worth visiting, but I liked the idea of getting to the start of RAGBRAI early to have a rest day or two and to get in before it became a gigantic commercial event.
At something like 5 PM I finally left for Plattsmouth, NE on the Iowa border, most of the way to Glenwood. The late start wasn't entirely due to laziness. A major heat wave had been making this entire week difficult, with the humidity pushing the heat index over 120 F on some days even though the absolute temperature hardly broke 100. I had been told that many of the farm roads out this direction were paved, so riding at night didn't seem like such a bad idea.
The first portion of my route was another crushed limestone rail-trail. I don't mind dirt, and dedicated bike trails tend to be a lot more shady and less trafficked than the alternatives. Along the way, I stopped in a small town named Eagle to refill my water. I saw a man out watering his garden and tried to say hi, but he ignored me for maybe a full minute before realizing that I just wanted water. He immediately apologized, explaining that he thought I was "a Jehovah's Witness or something". When he learned that I was biking across the country, it just about blew his mind that I had ended up in front of his house in Eagle, Nebraska. He invited me inside, introduced me to his wife, reheated a burger patty for me, and gave me a ham sandwich and some chips for the road. I didn't spend too long there because I was a little nervous about my late start, but now I kind of regret taking off as soon as I did.
The rail-trail deteriorated as I got farther from Lincoln, eventually leading to a complete washout with no way around. I took some unpaved farm roads to circumvent the washout and eventually made it to a nice, smooth section that had been paved about one week before I got there. Down the road a ways, I met an old man out for his evening walk and asked if he knew where I could refill my water. He said I could follow him to his place, so I walked with him for about fifteen minutes, answering all the usual questions along the way.
It was pretty dark once I left there, but that's what lights are for. I quickly discovered that my headlamp had turned itself on and died in my bag, but the largely flat terrain meant that I wasn't going too fast for my front light to handle. As it got darker, I realized that the near-full moon did a better job of illuminating the street than my light, so I went dark save for a rear blinker. This made the night much more magical. I didn't like the humidity, but the bugs did, and this meant lots of bites around sunset. It also meant that the fireflies were out in full force, and I had just been too focused on the little spot of light directly in front of me to notice. The cloud of phosphorescent green specks floating gently over miles of gently-rolling farmland made for a spectacular view, but attempts to take a picture resulted in nothing but ruined night vision. A tripod and a DSLR would've made a great long exposure shot.
I got to Plattsmouth after midnight and couldn't find a suitable hiding place to sleep. A family was out playing Pokemon Go together, so I bothered them to ask about my options. The father knew a free campground about an hour north, but didn't know the name. It was farther than I wanted to go, so I kept looking. I found the one bar that was still open, but didn't go inside. It was loud, I wasn't feeling super extroverted, and everyone seemed far too drunk to be interesting. They did have unsecured WiFi, though, so I found directions to the free campground and set off again.
In short, I think Google tried to get me captured and sent to a corporate black site, then tried to get me killed when I chickened out. Or I've just played too much Shadowrun. Either way, here's what happened.
First, Google took me down a long road, deserted besides a couple on a Harley that passed me part way down. Deserted roads were expected, given that it was about 2 AM in middle-of-nowhere, Nebraska. The road then started to get cracked and overgrown, eventually skirting a dilapidated industrial area. The Harley couple passed me again, heading back to the freeway. This was explained when the road ran into a reinforced concrete barrier a bit later, with an impressive array skid marks stopping just short of, and sometimes at, the concrete. "That's fine," I thought. "No road is closed to bikes. Google knows best." I heaved my bike over the barrier and kept going.
The road hit another barrier, this time painted yellow and black and braced with metal supports like it was made to repel a vehicular assault. "It's probably fine," I thought. "That Air Force base I saw on the map is way north of here, and this place is obviously abandoned." I again hefted 71 lbs of bike and gear over the barrier. Next, Google instructed me to turn and scale a 10-foot fence with curls of barbed wire on top. "It probably meant the next street, not this one," I hedged. "Plus, that looks like the kind of thing someone might electrify." The next street had a similar fence, but with a motorized gate and guardhouse built into it. This was cool. Maybe it was unlocked?
In my defense, there was no obvious way around this place without getting on a major highway at night. I also figure that stealth ops rarely wear safety-yellow retroreflective vests the way I was.
I tossed a piece of rebar at the gate and saw no sparks. I propped it up carefully against the gate, thinking maybe it needed to be grounded. No sparks. I still didn't trust that electrified fences worked the way they do in movies, so I prodded the gate with my bike tire. It didn't budge. I went back to try the previous fence. Also no luck, and with multiple large padlocks on it. I examined the map and tried to find a better option.
Around this time, I noticed that the obviously-abandoned guard house now had a light on inside. This significantly shortened my planning horizon and I bolted back to the freeway. The map indicated a nearby street that led to a railyard, and on the other side of that railyard was a street that picked up Google's instructions from the other side of cement-barrier-and-barbed-wire-land. So I headed that way. This street led to a small trailer park with an angry dog to trailer ratio of about 3, so my presence must have woken up the entire community. The roads were also dirt, so I couldn't get anywhere fast. I got off to walk, then drew my bear spray and removed the safety. I didn't encounter any dogs that were motivated enough to jump their fences, unlike previous encounters.
The road ended in bushes and grass about as tall as my bike. I plowed through it and emerged in the railyard. With dogs still barking behind me and the near-certainty that somebody was loading their gun in response, I didn't bother checking for ticks before working my way over sharp rocks, about six sets of tracks, and bunch more tall grass on the opposite side. I emerged on a small road and followed it to another road which, Google informed me, should have crossed back over the railyard and rejoined my planned route. Instead, it ran into a concrete barrier and stopped. This time, though, I could clearly see the barriers on the opposite side of the tracks, and what looked like a clear shot beyond that. So I went ahead and crossed again.
Once across, some shipping containers revealed themselves to be temporary housing units, situated like another guardhouse but meant to not appear as such from the outside. There was a truck out front. I was in, though, so I kept going. I got rid of the reflective vest, figuring it best to not invite confrontation. It seemed like this had to be a public road, anyway.
Google and the Pokemon-playing father had both promised me that there was a bike path ahead. The Pokemon player said he'd even done this ride before. It would be a right turn just past a bridge, and sure enough, I found a dirt path turning right along a levi immediately after a bridge. The path hit a locked gate, but there appeared to be a paved path a little ways below, going under the bridge. I started trying to roll my bike down the steep hill toward it. Turns out the steep cliff turned into a vertical wall at the bottom. It appeared to be maybe 2 feet tall, so I tried to drop my back wheel down it. It was closer to 5 feet, and the weight of my bike dragged me off the wall with it. I tossed the bike aside, landed with a roll (thanks Judo), and felt badass despite the fact that I just fell off a wall. I made sure nothing was wrong with the bike, took off down the trail, and promptly felt much less badass when I noticed a perfectly nice paved trail that I could have used to join this trail gracefully.
The nicely-paved bike trail was much more pleasant than anything I had experienced that day. I was still riding a bit of an adrenaline high, the temperature had finally cooled off to something reasonable, and a few fireflies were still out, making the last few miles feel exceptionally free and invigorating. I made it to the free campground I had been told about, but couldn't find the actual tent-camping area. Instead, I found a registration booth with a single computer set up inside for campers to register. I tried to register, but found that the computer had no internet connection. I wasn't looking forward to dealing with the heat inside my bivy sack or the bugs outside of it, and the registration booth was air-conditioned, had outlets to charge my lights, and probably would be deserted until tomorrow afternoon when new campers arrived. So, I opened notepad, typed "Wake me up if I need to leave - Dave" in size 36 font, and went to sleep in the corner.
Not many pictures today, just a funny sign and the building that became my campsite. The sign is about a street named A, so it looks like someone made a sign to say "Stop, a street!" If that's not funny, it's because you had to be there.
At something like 5 PM I finally left for Plattsmouth, NE on the Iowa border, most of the way to Glenwood. The late start wasn't entirely due to laziness. A major heat wave had been making this entire week difficult, with the humidity pushing the heat index over 120 F on some days even though the absolute temperature hardly broke 100. I had been told that many of the farm roads out this direction were paved, so riding at night didn't seem like such a bad idea.
The first portion of my route was another crushed limestone rail-trail. I don't mind dirt, and dedicated bike trails tend to be a lot more shady and less trafficked than the alternatives. Along the way, I stopped in a small town named Eagle to refill my water. I saw a man out watering his garden and tried to say hi, but he ignored me for maybe a full minute before realizing that I just wanted water. He immediately apologized, explaining that he thought I was "a Jehovah's Witness or something". When he learned that I was biking across the country, it just about blew his mind that I had ended up in front of his house in Eagle, Nebraska. He invited me inside, introduced me to his wife, reheated a burger patty for me, and gave me a ham sandwich and some chips for the road. I didn't spend too long there because I was a little nervous about my late start, but now I kind of regret taking off as soon as I did.
The rail-trail deteriorated as I got farther from Lincoln, eventually leading to a complete washout with no way around. I took some unpaved farm roads to circumvent the washout and eventually made it to a nice, smooth section that had been paved about one week before I got there. Down the road a ways, I met an old man out for his evening walk and asked if he knew where I could refill my water. He said I could follow him to his place, so I walked with him for about fifteen minutes, answering all the usual questions along the way.
It was pretty dark once I left there, but that's what lights are for. I quickly discovered that my headlamp had turned itself on and died in my bag, but the largely flat terrain meant that I wasn't going too fast for my front light to handle. As it got darker, I realized that the near-full moon did a better job of illuminating the street than my light, so I went dark save for a rear blinker. This made the night much more magical. I didn't like the humidity, but the bugs did, and this meant lots of bites around sunset. It also meant that the fireflies were out in full force, and I had just been too focused on the little spot of light directly in front of me to notice. The cloud of phosphorescent green specks floating gently over miles of gently-rolling farmland made for a spectacular view, but attempts to take a picture resulted in nothing but ruined night vision. A tripod and a DSLR would've made a great long exposure shot.
I got to Plattsmouth after midnight and couldn't find a suitable hiding place to sleep. A family was out playing Pokemon Go together, so I bothered them to ask about my options. The father knew a free campground about an hour north, but didn't know the name. It was farther than I wanted to go, so I kept looking. I found the one bar that was still open, but didn't go inside. It was loud, I wasn't feeling super extroverted, and everyone seemed far too drunk to be interesting. They did have unsecured WiFi, though, so I found directions to the free campground and set off again.
In short, I think Google tried to get me captured and sent to a corporate black site, then tried to get me killed when I chickened out. Or I've just played too much Shadowrun. Either way, here's what happened.
First, Google took me down a long road, deserted besides a couple on a Harley that passed me part way down. Deserted roads were expected, given that it was about 2 AM in middle-of-nowhere, Nebraska. The road then started to get cracked and overgrown, eventually skirting a dilapidated industrial area. The Harley couple passed me again, heading back to the freeway. This was explained when the road ran into a reinforced concrete barrier a bit later, with an impressive array skid marks stopping just short of, and sometimes at, the concrete. "That's fine," I thought. "No road is closed to bikes. Google knows best." I heaved my bike over the barrier and kept going.
The road hit another barrier, this time painted yellow and black and braced with metal supports like it was made to repel a vehicular assault. "It's probably fine," I thought. "That Air Force base I saw on the map is way north of here, and this place is obviously abandoned." I again hefted 71 lbs of bike and gear over the barrier. Next, Google instructed me to turn and scale a 10-foot fence with curls of barbed wire on top. "It probably meant the next street, not this one," I hedged. "Plus, that looks like the kind of thing someone might electrify." The next street had a similar fence, but with a motorized gate and guardhouse built into it. This was cool. Maybe it was unlocked?
In my defense, there was no obvious way around this place without getting on a major highway at night. I also figure that stealth ops rarely wear safety-yellow retroreflective vests the way I was.
I tossed a piece of rebar at the gate and saw no sparks. I propped it up carefully against the gate, thinking maybe it needed to be grounded. No sparks. I still didn't trust that electrified fences worked the way they do in movies, so I prodded the gate with my bike tire. It didn't budge. I went back to try the previous fence. Also no luck, and with multiple large padlocks on it. I examined the map and tried to find a better option.
Around this time, I noticed that the obviously-abandoned guard house now had a light on inside. This significantly shortened my planning horizon and I bolted back to the freeway. The map indicated a nearby street that led to a railyard, and on the other side of that railyard was a street that picked up Google's instructions from the other side of cement-barrier-and-barbed-wire-land. So I headed that way. This street led to a small trailer park with an angry dog to trailer ratio of about 3, so my presence must have woken up the entire community. The roads were also dirt, so I couldn't get anywhere fast. I got off to walk, then drew my bear spray and removed the safety. I didn't encounter any dogs that were motivated enough to jump their fences, unlike previous encounters.
The road ended in bushes and grass about as tall as my bike. I plowed through it and emerged in the railyard. With dogs still barking behind me and the near-certainty that somebody was loading their gun in response, I didn't bother checking for ticks before working my way over sharp rocks, about six sets of tracks, and bunch more tall grass on the opposite side. I emerged on a small road and followed it to another road which, Google informed me, should have crossed back over the railyard and rejoined my planned route. Instead, it ran into a concrete barrier and stopped. This time, though, I could clearly see the barriers on the opposite side of the tracks, and what looked like a clear shot beyond that. So I went ahead and crossed again.
Once across, some shipping containers revealed themselves to be temporary housing units, situated like another guardhouse but meant to not appear as such from the outside. There was a truck out front. I was in, though, so I kept going. I got rid of the reflective vest, figuring it best to not invite confrontation. It seemed like this had to be a public road, anyway.
Google and the Pokemon-playing father had both promised me that there was a bike path ahead. The Pokemon player said he'd even done this ride before. It would be a right turn just past a bridge, and sure enough, I found a dirt path turning right along a levi immediately after a bridge. The path hit a locked gate, but there appeared to be a paved path a little ways below, going under the bridge. I started trying to roll my bike down the steep hill toward it. Turns out the steep cliff turned into a vertical wall at the bottom. It appeared to be maybe 2 feet tall, so I tried to drop my back wheel down it. It was closer to 5 feet, and the weight of my bike dragged me off the wall with it. I tossed the bike aside, landed with a roll (thanks Judo), and felt badass despite the fact that I just fell off a wall. I made sure nothing was wrong with the bike, took off down the trail, and promptly felt much less badass when I noticed a perfectly nice paved trail that I could have used to join this trail gracefully.
The nicely-paved bike trail was much more pleasant than anything I had experienced that day. I was still riding a bit of an adrenaline high, the temperature had finally cooled off to something reasonable, and a few fireflies were still out, making the last few miles feel exceptionally free and invigorating. I made it to the free campground I had been told about, but couldn't find the actual tent-camping area. Instead, I found a registration booth with a single computer set up inside for campers to register. I tried to register, but found that the computer had no internet connection. I wasn't looking forward to dealing with the heat inside my bivy sack or the bugs outside of it, and the registration booth was air-conditioned, had outlets to charge my lights, and probably would be deserted until tomorrow afternoon when new campers arrived. So, I opened notepad, typed "Wake me up if I need to leave - Dave" in size 36 font, and went to sleep in the corner.
Not many pictures today, just a funny sign and the building that became my campsite. The sign is about a street named A, so it looks like someone made a sign to say "Stop, a street!" If that's not funny, it's because you had to be there.
Friday, August 12, 2016
In my own way - Day 58: Washington State Lake, KS, to Lincoln, NE
The route I had planned to begin with today started off with a significant amount of dirt, so I split off from the others as they went to find pavement.
My bike doesn't make dirt easy, but it does make it manageable. Being the only person with a rigid bike on some of the trails around Corvallis, Oregon in grad school really helped with handling skills, as well. Overall, I've come to really like dirt sections when I find them. They require more effort, definitely, and I hate having to apply brakes downhill, but I enjoy feeling like I'm really a part of the area I'm riding through. Paved areas make it feel a little like an amusement park ride on rails, except with occasional massive trucks whooshing past to keep you on edge. On dirt, I ride however and wherever I want, and dangers are usually apparent in advance if I stay observant. Scanning the road for riding conditions is actually kind of nice to keep my brain engaged in something other than asking "Am I there yet?". On the road, I'm constantly anxious about not being far enough to the right, and every vehicle represents a potential danger that I have very little control over. So I was happy to keep to dirt for now.
There was no sign welcoming me to Nebraska, but there was a telltale wiggle in the road where the Nebraska side hadn't quite matched up with the Kansas portion. The wiggle was on top of a hill, so I stopped to take in the view. While there, I watched a plume of dust approach from the Nebraska side. It eventually became an ATV. The driver said he had a hell of a time trying to figure out what I was from a distance, and asked if I was "one of those gravel racers". I didn't even know that gravel racing was its own sport, but apparently it's popular around here.
The dirt finally ended at Endicott, where I bothered another local for water. This one was on her way out the door, but seemed happy to help. She didn't go through the typical FAQs, though, so I'm not sure what she thought I was doing there. I left Endicott to find a rail-trail that Google promised was nearby, but only managed to find a faint trace of a long-dead path. It was overgrown to the point that even a mountain bike couldn't clear it. Instead, I improvised my way to Beatrice.
Beatrice is a reasonably large city, complete with all the chain restaurants one would expect. I ordered just enough to justify my existence at Burger King, plugged in everything I had to charge, and found a Warm Showers host in Lincoln. He said two others would be staying there too, so it looked like I would be running into Deanna and Sonia again after all.
On attempting to leave, I found that one side of my lock wouldn't release. It's a relatively heavy U-lock, which was overkill enough that almost every other cyclist had commented on it. It was very effective at keeping me from stealing my own bike, though. The cashier informed me that the nearest bike shop was in Lincoln, and the nearest car place was several miles away. Continuing the trend of misinformation from locals, I found an auto shop on the next block. I really wish people could just say "I'm not sure".
The auto shop guys tried a few approaches to cut the lock, but couldn't get through it. It turned out that it just needed a little lubricant. I'd been using chain lube on it after it rained to avoid rust, but I hadn't thought to apply any after all the dust I'd exposed it to since the last real rainstorm. Given that the lock was heavy and about 8 years old, not to mention that many Trans-America riders don't even carry locks, I ditched it in favor of a light cable lock from Walmart. There wasn't a local bike shop available, sorry purists.
I found a well-maintained section of the rail-trail that I encountered earlier and followed that all the way to Lincoln. On the way, I refilled my water at a little bar in Pickrell that was packed with old-timers, several of whom thought they had heard about my trip somewhere because clearly only one person would be crazy enough to bike across the US. I told them that maybe 1000 people do this every year. They were still kind enough to fill my bottles with ice and pointed me to a hose out back that I could douse myself with if desired. I desired.
Deanna and Sonia arrived in Lincoln shortly before I did, via their own route. We met up on the way to the Warm Showers host. The trip there was interesting, taking us through 15-20 miles of bike paths winding through the entire city. From my brief impression it looks like Lincoln has an even more impressive network of bike routes than Denver, at least in the city core. It was getting late at this point, so we were in a hurry to avoid keeping our host waiting. Deanna had a data signal and acted as navigator, riding ahead. Sonia lagged behind, and I tried to stay in between so Sonia could see where we were going. At some point, I mistook a different cyclist for Deanna, and didn't realize until they stopped to catch a Pokemon. Turns out Sonia also had a data signal, so my herding-dog instinct to keep both in sight was totally unnecessary.
Our host had taken his truck out to face the dirt road he lived on, illuminating it with his headlights for us. His house could have been featured on MTV. We stored our bikes in a side-building that was larger than most freestanding homes. This was his hobby building, housing a tricked-out Nissan 350Z, an old roadster that I didn't recognize, some road bikes, an array of shop tools, and a crazy amount of trophies and awards earned by him or his son in various sports and car shows. The main house had a basement large enough to house a small family, a large hot tub, an old Coke ten-cent vending machine stocked with beer, and a few hallways that I never explored. We were fed deli-made sandwiches, energy bars, and some high-end electrolyte mix before starting laundry, having a couple beers, and going to sleep.
My bike doesn't make dirt easy, but it does make it manageable. Being the only person with a rigid bike on some of the trails around Corvallis, Oregon in grad school really helped with handling skills, as well. Overall, I've come to really like dirt sections when I find them. They require more effort, definitely, and I hate having to apply brakes downhill, but I enjoy feeling like I'm really a part of the area I'm riding through. Paved areas make it feel a little like an amusement park ride on rails, except with occasional massive trucks whooshing past to keep you on edge. On dirt, I ride however and wherever I want, and dangers are usually apparent in advance if I stay observant. Scanning the road for riding conditions is actually kind of nice to keep my brain engaged in something other than asking "Am I there yet?". On the road, I'm constantly anxious about not being far enough to the right, and every vehicle represents a potential danger that I have very little control over. So I was happy to keep to dirt for now.
There was no sign welcoming me to Nebraska, but there was a telltale wiggle in the road where the Nebraska side hadn't quite matched up with the Kansas portion. The wiggle was on top of a hill, so I stopped to take in the view. While there, I watched a plume of dust approach from the Nebraska side. It eventually became an ATV. The driver said he had a hell of a time trying to figure out what I was from a distance, and asked if I was "one of those gravel racers". I didn't even know that gravel racing was its own sport, but apparently it's popular around here.
The dirt finally ended at Endicott, where I bothered another local for water. This one was on her way out the door, but seemed happy to help. She didn't go through the typical FAQs, though, so I'm not sure what she thought I was doing there. I left Endicott to find a rail-trail that Google promised was nearby, but only managed to find a faint trace of a long-dead path. It was overgrown to the point that even a mountain bike couldn't clear it. Instead, I improvised my way to Beatrice.
Beatrice is a reasonably large city, complete with all the chain restaurants one would expect. I ordered just enough to justify my existence at Burger King, plugged in everything I had to charge, and found a Warm Showers host in Lincoln. He said two others would be staying there too, so it looked like I would be running into Deanna and Sonia again after all.
On attempting to leave, I found that one side of my lock wouldn't release. It's a relatively heavy U-lock, which was overkill enough that almost every other cyclist had commented on it. It was very effective at keeping me from stealing my own bike, though. The cashier informed me that the nearest bike shop was in Lincoln, and the nearest car place was several miles away. Continuing the trend of misinformation from locals, I found an auto shop on the next block. I really wish people could just say "I'm not sure".
The auto shop guys tried a few approaches to cut the lock, but couldn't get through it. It turned out that it just needed a little lubricant. I'd been using chain lube on it after it rained to avoid rust, but I hadn't thought to apply any after all the dust I'd exposed it to since the last real rainstorm. Given that the lock was heavy and about 8 years old, not to mention that many Trans-America riders don't even carry locks, I ditched it in favor of a light cable lock from Walmart. There wasn't a local bike shop available, sorry purists.
I found a well-maintained section of the rail-trail that I encountered earlier and followed that all the way to Lincoln. On the way, I refilled my water at a little bar in Pickrell that was packed with old-timers, several of whom thought they had heard about my trip somewhere because clearly only one person would be crazy enough to bike across the US. I told them that maybe 1000 people do this every year. They were still kind enough to fill my bottles with ice and pointed me to a hose out back that I could douse myself with if desired. I desired.
Deanna and Sonia arrived in Lincoln shortly before I did, via their own route. We met up on the way to the Warm Showers host. The trip there was interesting, taking us through 15-20 miles of bike paths winding through the entire city. From my brief impression it looks like Lincoln has an even more impressive network of bike routes than Denver, at least in the city core. It was getting late at this point, so we were in a hurry to avoid keeping our host waiting. Deanna had a data signal and acted as navigator, riding ahead. Sonia lagged behind, and I tried to stay in between so Sonia could see where we were going. At some point, I mistook a different cyclist for Deanna, and didn't realize until they stopped to catch a Pokemon. Turns out Sonia also had a data signal, so my herding-dog instinct to keep both in sight was totally unnecessary.
Our host had taken his truck out to face the dirt road he lived on, illuminating it with his headlights for us. His house could have been featured on MTV. We stored our bikes in a side-building that was larger than most freestanding homes. This was his hobby building, housing a tricked-out Nissan 350Z, an old roadster that I didn't recognize, some road bikes, an array of shop tools, and a crazy amount of trophies and awards earned by him or his son in various sports and car shows. The main house had a basement large enough to house a small family, a large hot tub, an old Coke ten-cent vending machine stocked with beer, and a few hallways that I never explored. We were fed deli-made sandwiches, energy bars, and some high-end electrolyte mix before starting laundry, having a couple beers, and going to sleep.
Splat - Day 57: Bennington to Washington State Lake, KS
We had tailwinds and an easy start today, but encountered a few more hazards to navigation than previously. Also, there was a distinct lack of interesting towns or people in general. In short, it was the kind of day that I think I enjoy more than most.
Deanna, Sonia, and I are all very used to being told what to expect and finding that advice to be totally wrong. Just yesterday, we were told that Bennington was about 30, 18, and 15 miles from Salina. It ended up being about 12. So, we didn't think much of Vanessa's warning that we would see "nothing out that way" leaving Bennington to go north, though I did pack a bit of extra food.
Turns out Vanessa was right. I didn't see a public-facing building all day, just corn, soy, and an occasional clump of houses that managed to earn a name on the map. Eventually, in Oak Hill -- literally, a hill with a few oak trees and a church -- I was able to find someone willing to let us refill our water from a pump in their yard. They looked pretty unhappy about it, but we would have been significantly less happy without water, so I didn't feel too bad about bothering them.
The main obstacle today was the fact that Google has few qualms about sending bikes down dirt roads, some with pools of loose dirt that did a great job of catching tires. This was a moderate problem for me with 26" x 1.5" (relatively wide, hybrid-style) tires on a mountain bike frame, but it presented some real issues for Deanna and Sonia on 700 x 23 or 700 x 28 (relatively narrow, road-style) tires. I definitely did my share of sliding and wobbling through soft spots, but they each took at least one fairly nasty fall. They had amazing attitudes about it, though. Deanna even seemed excited to have earned a scraped knee from having the kind of adventures that she hadn't had since middle school. In fact, the main problem seemed to be that I annoyed them by being upset with myself for having chosen the route on which they fell. They were right to feel that way, I think, because that attitude implies a lack of respect for their ability to choose for themselves. I probably wouldn't have felt so bad if it had been Ethan and John, for instance, so I was pretty clearly revealing some inherent sexism. That only made me feel worse, though, instead of relieving guilt about the route choice.
It was getting dark by the time we discovered that the last 5 miles or so would all be dirt. Sonia took another fall that involved some helmet damage, and by absolute luck, one of the few vehicles we'd seen all day showed up and offered to give us a ride to our destination. I had the same conflict as I did in Hutchinson, where I didn't want to take a ride but also didn't want to look like a macho asshole. Having already cheated on the route once, I decided to take the ride. Maybe it's just post-hoc rationalization to resolve cognitive dissonance, but it's probably good to remind myself to focus on the experience rather than the technicalities.
Deanna, Sonia, and I are all very used to being told what to expect and finding that advice to be totally wrong. Just yesterday, we were told that Bennington was about 30, 18, and 15 miles from Salina. It ended up being about 12. So, we didn't think much of Vanessa's warning that we would see "nothing out that way" leaving Bennington to go north, though I did pack a bit of extra food.
Turns out Vanessa was right. I didn't see a public-facing building all day, just corn, soy, and an occasional clump of houses that managed to earn a name on the map. Eventually, in Oak Hill -- literally, a hill with a few oak trees and a church -- I was able to find someone willing to let us refill our water from a pump in their yard. They looked pretty unhappy about it, but we would have been significantly less happy without water, so I didn't feel too bad about bothering them.
The main obstacle today was the fact that Google has few qualms about sending bikes down dirt roads, some with pools of loose dirt that did a great job of catching tires. This was a moderate problem for me with 26" x 1.5" (relatively wide, hybrid-style) tires on a mountain bike frame, but it presented some real issues for Deanna and Sonia on 700 x 23 or 700 x 28 (relatively narrow, road-style) tires. I definitely did my share of sliding and wobbling through soft spots, but they each took at least one fairly nasty fall. They had amazing attitudes about it, though. Deanna even seemed excited to have earned a scraped knee from having the kind of adventures that she hadn't had since middle school. In fact, the main problem seemed to be that I annoyed them by being upset with myself for having chosen the route on which they fell. They were right to feel that way, I think, because that attitude implies a lack of respect for their ability to choose for themselves. I probably wouldn't have felt so bad if it had been Ethan and John, for instance, so I was pretty clearly revealing some inherent sexism. That only made me feel worse, though, instead of relieving guilt about the route choice.
It was getting dark by the time we discovered that the last 5 miles or so would all be dirt. Sonia took another fall that involved some helmet damage, and by absolute luck, one of the few vehicles we'd seen all day showed up and offered to give us a ride to our destination. I had the same conflict as I did in Hutchinson, where I didn't want to take a ride but also didn't want to look like a macho asshole. Having already cheated on the route once, I decided to take the ride. Maybe it's just post-hoc rationalization to resolve cognitive dissonance, but it's probably good to remind myself to focus on the experience rather than the technicalities.
Living history - Day 56: Hutchinson to Bennington, KS
Apparently, Hutchinson is the dividing line between humid, flat, desolate Kansas and beautiful, rolling, Windows-default-desktop-background Kansas. The ride north from Hutchinson was beautiful and nearly traffic-free, and a strong tailwind helped reinforce my positive feelings for the ride. It also helped that Zach's mother had prepared a little lunchbox with convenient road food.
Other than a question or two about navigation, we had no problems getting to Marquette, home of a pretty impressive motorcycle museum with a large wooden rocking-motorcycle out front. I took Deanna and Sonia's picture on it, but I was too programmed by traditional masculinity to have any interest in such silliness myself. I didn't go into the motorcycle museum because they had the wrong kind of bikes for me, but I did appreciate a flyer on the outside of it advertising that Marquette welcomed cyclists of my kind as well. Only after leaving did I realize I should have taken a picture or two for friends.
Salina was the next notable city we went through. Salina is relatively large for Kansas, and had some neat artwork and a great coffee shop / bookstore named Ad Astra. We spent a while there charging devices, getting iced drinks, and tearing through a bag of burgers from a place called Cozy Inn which deals exclusively in delicious sliders made with an abundance of onions. We found out about Ad Astra from someone driving down the street who shouted that we should go there because that's where weird-looking people go. I felt pretty good about being included in that category, instead of just watching weird-looking people from afar and wishing I had the consistent confidence to pull off something more interesting than default acceptability.
The tailwind and lack of navigation issues continued all the way to Bennington. The first person we spoke with, Vanessa, asked where we typically sleep, which is one of a long list of FAQs that I get on the road. I responded with "Don't know where we'll be tonight, but we generally camp wherever we won't bother anyone. Sometimes in the woods, sometimes in a nice person's yard." Vanessa, it turned out, was a nice person. She advised us to check out the local soda fountain and find her at the library when we were done.
The Bennington soda fountain is a real piece of living history. I would wager that the woman who runs it, as well as the college student who was staffing it, both know more than anyone I've met about the history of soda drinks. They're also happy to make them for you in authentic style, whether you want a chocolate soda, a grape phosphate, or a Green River float. Apparently, Green River is a near-extinct soda that used to be as ubiquitous as Dr. Pepper or Coca-Cola. Bennington is one of two locations in the US where you can still get real Green River syrup mixed with real acid phosphate, as opposed to imitation Green River mixed with phosphoric acid, both of which are very important distinctions if you're into this kind of thing. The soda fountain was complete with vintage pinball games and soda-themed memorabilia, including a Dr. Pepper electric guitar.
Vanessa found us before we found her. Turns out that she not only runs the library, but is responsible for its existence in the first place. She bought an old church for $1 after explaining that she intended to continue the building's legacy as a house of learning, and has been working hard to do just that. To support the place, she sells old books out of the basement, organizes talks and classes, and has a flock of pink lawn flamingos out front that, for a small donation, will migrate to a lawn of your choice as a prank. Best of all, she's totally on-board with my belief that makerspaces represent the future of libraries, and has created a little arts-and-crafts space in the basement as a start in that direction.
Vanessa's son has wanted for ages to take a long bike trip. Both he and his sister had personalities that I can only describe as very "from the internet", which I can totally relate to, so I enjoyed talking with them. They busted out an impromptu grape-and-cheese platter that was very welcome. Eventually, I went outside to engage in my nightly ritual of escaping into my bivy to get away from biting insects, escaping back out of the bivy to avoid roasting myself, and then putting on long sleeves and pants, spraying myself with too much bug repellent, and flopping on top of the bivy to sleep.
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Other than a question or two about navigation, we had no problems getting to Marquette, home of a pretty impressive motorcycle museum with a large wooden rocking-motorcycle out front. I took Deanna and Sonia's picture on it, but I was too programmed by traditional masculinity to have any interest in such silliness myself. I didn't go into the motorcycle museum because they had the wrong kind of bikes for me, but I did appreciate a flyer on the outside of it advertising that Marquette welcomed cyclists of my kind as well. Only after leaving did I realize I should have taken a picture or two for friends.
Salina was the next notable city we went through. Salina is relatively large for Kansas, and had some neat artwork and a great coffee shop / bookstore named Ad Astra. We spent a while there charging devices, getting iced drinks, and tearing through a bag of burgers from a place called Cozy Inn which deals exclusively in delicious sliders made with an abundance of onions. We found out about Ad Astra from someone driving down the street who shouted that we should go there because that's where weird-looking people go. I felt pretty good about being included in that category, instead of just watching weird-looking people from afar and wishing I had the consistent confidence to pull off something more interesting than default acceptability.
The tailwind and lack of navigation issues continued all the way to Bennington. The first person we spoke with, Vanessa, asked where we typically sleep, which is one of a long list of FAQs that I get on the road. I responded with "Don't know where we'll be tonight, but we generally camp wherever we won't bother anyone. Sometimes in the woods, sometimes in a nice person's yard." Vanessa, it turned out, was a nice person. She advised us to check out the local soda fountain and find her at the library when we were done.
The Bennington soda fountain is a real piece of living history. I would wager that the woman who runs it, as well as the college student who was staffing it, both know more than anyone I've met about the history of soda drinks. They're also happy to make them for you in authentic style, whether you want a chocolate soda, a grape phosphate, or a Green River float. Apparently, Green River is a near-extinct soda that used to be as ubiquitous as Dr. Pepper or Coca-Cola. Bennington is one of two locations in the US where you can still get real Green River syrup mixed with real acid phosphate, as opposed to imitation Green River mixed with phosphoric acid, both of which are very important distinctions if you're into this kind of thing. The soda fountain was complete with vintage pinball games and soda-themed memorabilia, including a Dr. Pepper electric guitar.
Vanessa found us before we found her. Turns out that she not only runs the library, but is responsible for its existence in the first place. She bought an old church for $1 after explaining that she intended to continue the building's legacy as a house of learning, and has been working hard to do just that. To support the place, she sells old books out of the basement, organizes talks and classes, and has a flock of pink lawn flamingos out front that, for a small donation, will migrate to a lawn of your choice as a prank. Best of all, she's totally on-board with my belief that makerspaces represent the future of libraries, and has created a little arts-and-crafts space in the basement as a start in that direction.
Vanessa's son has wanted for ages to take a long bike trip. Both he and his sister had personalities that I can only describe as very "from the internet", which I can totally relate to, so I enjoyed talking with them. They busted out an impromptu grape-and-cheese platter that was very welcome. Eventually, I went outside to engage in my nightly ritual of escaping into my bivy to get away from biting insects, escaping back out of the bivy to avoid roasting myself, and then putting on long sleeves and pants, spraying myself with too much bug repellent, and flopping on top of the bivy to sleep.
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