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.
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