As Mark makes his way from San Francisco to New York, he will be sending journal entries from the road. Click the button below to expand that day's journal entry. Click the button to collapse the entry.
It is finished... October 14. The self-appointed task of traveling on a bicycle from coast to coast across the United States on the Lincoln Highway, using a portable, liquid oxygen system, is finished. Now its time to come to an accounting, to balance the ledger. First, let me say that the trip was a self-appointed task because no one made me do it. It was not my destiny. When Jesus was crucified by the Romans he uttered in Aramaic: “Eli, Eli, lemana shabakthani” or “My God, my God, for this purpose I was spared?” My point is not to compare myself to Jesus, but to reflect that the bicycle trip was not necessarily my destiny. No one said that I had to do it. It was just something I always wanted to do. The possibility that it may have been an obsessive compulsion is beside the point. Its done. Complete. Finished. Here is a checklist summary of bike trip facts and opinions. Who were the participants? two Cheyenneites, Mark and Ardath Junge. Mark rode the bicycle and wrote the articles, and Ardath did everything else. What was the purpose of the trip? The personal goal was to bicycle across America and eventually write a book about the experience. The corporate goal was to create public awareness of the benefits of portable, liquid oxygen. The supplementary oxygen device I use is called HELiOS, an acronym for high efficiency liquid oxygen system. In Greek it is the name of the sun god who drives his chariot across the sky each day, covering a lot more miles than I did each day on my bicycle. But then, HELiOS had horses to pull his two-wheeled carriage. When was the trip and how long did it last? We left San Francisco on June 12 and officially arrived in New York City on October 5, a total of nearly four months. What was the trip route? It was west to east, beginning on the shore of the Pacific at San Francisco and followed the route of the Lincoln Highway, crossing eleven states: California, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. In addition, it entered two other states West Virginia and New York and transected four state capitols: Sacramento, Carson City, Salt Lake City and Cheyenne. The trip ended on the Atlantic Coast, at Times Square in downtown Manhattan. What was the distance of the trip? According to my bicycle odometer, the transcontinental trip was 3,497 miles long. Since the route of the highway is actually fifty miles less, the additional mileage was due to my periodically getting lost. Before you criticize , remember that Odysseus was also waylaid returning from the Trojan War, and Homer did not discount his adventures. Besides, Odysseus eventually made it back to Hellas and Ardath and I will be back in Cheyenne soon. Any new records established? The first bicycle trip across the nation was undertaken about a century ago so, no, Im not the first person to make this bicycle trip. And certainly it took me longer than most people who bike across the country. However, I may be the first to do it with his nose connected to an oxygen hose. Why was the trip taken? I already told you that. However, because the purpose of the trip changed somewhat, I need to explain further. Travel stimulates my body, blood and brain, and that ought to be reason enough to make the trip. But I also wanted to travel America at ground level, not just be a passive observer looking through a windshield. I wanted to see the rural and urban countryside, hear the people, and smell the land. I wanted to feel the sun on my skin, even that radiant heat that boils up from hot macadam beneath ones bicycle tires. And yes, even though I live in a windy state, I wanted to feel the wind. But I wanted to feel it at my back, or maybe a breeze that I created myself. The crosswinds and headwinds I encountered taught me that you cant have everything. I was curious to see the physical remains of the Lincoln Highway that gave romance to the road, at a time during early modern American history when cars began to replace horses. My wife, Ardath, and I actually saw many sites along the highway more than we imagined still existed including remnants of the original paved road. We saw motor courts, diners, mom and pop cafes, and enough canopied filling stations to line Lincolnway in Cheyenne, end to end. The Lincoln Highway links many themes in American history, but by traveling the opposite way our forbears settled the country, we turned the pages of American history from back to front. We started with the California gold rush and ended in colonial Indian battles. Generally speaking, the further we traveled east, the more interest we saw in the nations first transcontinental highway. Iowa is the location of the national headquarters of the LH Association, and Indiana and Illinois have marked the route well, but the best interpretation of LH-era history is found along the Lincoln Highway Heritage Corridor in central and western Pennsylvania. Today the Lincoln Highway is not uniformly wide or well manicured. Constructed mainly of concrete or asphalt, it is in some places a four-lane highway with a median strip and paved shoulders, and in other places a two-lane, brick street with curbs and gutters. In some places road shoulders consist of cracked asphalt or gravel, and in other places there no shoulders at all. Speed limits vary officially from 15 mph to 65 mph, although they are often theoretical. When I asked an Ohio highway patrolman along one particularly narrow stretch of the road why truck drivers were allowed to exceed the speed limit, the response was that it was too dangerous to try and stop them on the highway.
October 14. The self-appointed task of traveling on a bicycle from coast to coast across the United States on the Lincoln Highway, using a portable, liquid oxygen system, is finished. Now its time to come to an accounting, to balance the ledger.
First, let me say that the trip was a self-appointed task because no one made me do it. It was not my destiny. When Jesus was crucified by the Romans he uttered in Aramaic: “Eli, Eli, lemana shabakthani” or “My God, my God, for this purpose I was spared?”
My point is not to compare myself to Jesus, but to reflect that the bicycle trip was not necessarily my destiny. No one said that I had to do it. It was just something I always wanted to do. The possibility that it may have been an obsessive compulsion is beside the point. Its done. Complete. Finished. Here is a checklist summary of bike trip facts and opinions.
Who were the participants? two Cheyenneites, Mark and Ardath Junge. Mark rode the bicycle and wrote the articles, and Ardath did everything else.
What was the purpose of the trip? The personal goal was to bicycle across America and eventually write a book about the experience. The corporate goal was to create public awareness of the benefits of portable, liquid oxygen. The supplementary oxygen device I use is called HELiOS, an acronym for high efficiency liquid oxygen system. In Greek it is the name of the sun god who drives his chariot across the sky each day, covering a lot more miles than I did each day on my bicycle. But then, HELiOS had horses to pull his two-wheeled carriage.
When was the trip and how long did it last? We left San Francisco on June 12 and officially arrived in New York City on October 5, a total of nearly four months.
What was the trip route? It was west to east, beginning on the shore of the Pacific at San Francisco and followed the route of the Lincoln Highway, crossing eleven states: California, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. In addition, it entered two other states West Virginia and New York and transected four state capitols: Sacramento, Carson City, Salt Lake City and Cheyenne. The trip ended on the Atlantic Coast, at Times Square in downtown Manhattan.
What was the distance of the trip? According to my bicycle odometer, the transcontinental trip was 3,497 miles long. Since the route of the highway is actually fifty miles less, the additional mileage was due to my periodically getting lost. Before you criticize , remember that Odysseus was also waylaid returning from the Trojan War, and Homer did not discount his adventures. Besides, Odysseus eventually made it back to Hellas and Ardath and I will be back in Cheyenne soon.
Any new records established? The first bicycle trip across the nation was undertaken about a century ago so, no, Im not the first person to make this bicycle trip. And certainly it took me longer than most people who bike across the country. However, I may be the first to do it with his nose connected to an oxygen hose.
Why was the trip taken? I already told you that. However, because the purpose of the trip changed somewhat, I need to explain further.
Travel stimulates my body, blood and brain, and that ought to be reason enough to make the trip. But I also wanted to travel America at ground level, not just be a passive observer looking through a windshield. I wanted to see the rural and urban countryside, hear the people, and smell the land. I wanted to feel the sun on my skin, even that radiant heat that boils up from hot macadam beneath ones bicycle tires. And yes, even though I live in a windy state, I wanted to feel the wind. But I wanted to feel it at my back, or maybe a breeze that I created myself. The crosswinds and headwinds I encountered taught me that you cant have everything.
I was curious to see the physical remains of the Lincoln Highway that gave romance to the road, at a time during early modern American history when cars began to replace horses. My wife, Ardath, and I actually saw many sites along the highway more than we imagined still existed including remnants of the original paved road. We saw motor courts, diners, mom and pop cafes, and enough canopied filling stations to line Lincolnway in Cheyenne, end to end.
The Lincoln Highway links many themes in American history, but by traveling the opposite way our forbears settled the country, we turned the pages of American history from back to front. We started with the California gold rush and ended in colonial Indian battles.
Generally speaking, the further we traveled east, the more interest we saw in the nations first transcontinental highway. Iowa is the location of the national headquarters of the LH Association, and Indiana and Illinois have marked the route well, but the best interpretation of LH-era history is found along the Lincoln Highway Heritage Corridor in central and western Pennsylvania.
Today the Lincoln Highway is not uniformly wide or well manicured. Constructed mainly of concrete or asphalt, it is in some places a four-lane highway with a median strip and paved shoulders, and in other places a two-lane, brick street with curbs and gutters. In some places road shoulders consist of cracked asphalt or gravel, and in other places there no shoulders at all. Speed limits vary officially from 15 mph to 65 mph, although they are often theoretical. When I asked an Ohio highway patrolman along one particularly narrow stretch of the road why truck drivers were allowed to exceed the speed limit, the response was that it was too dangerous to try and stop them on the highway.
The stuff that litters the roads shoulders ranges from chunks of tire and twisted metal to clothes and toys. Road kills range from bloated deer to frogs that look like inkblots, so flat they could be used as bookmarks. The condition of the road, and the flotsam and jetsam that collects on its borders, make me speculate: would a transcontinental bike path be possible in this country? I would highly recommend this trip to historians. Nothing like getting out of ones chair and actually seeing the places you have read about, eh? Fresh images of America may not totally replace images that are already deeply engraved on your brain, but at least they will force your brain to be more elastic and inclusive. For example, heres one way in which my understanding of American history has changed. After seeing the site of Washingtons Crossing of the Delaware on Christmas night, 1776, I dont understand why the general and his troops did not take the metal truss bridge over the Delaware River instead of choosing to cross in those cold, rocking Durham boats. Also, since it appears that that there are many good places in Trenton to eat, including ethnic foods, fast food and so forth, I dont know why our commander-in-chief chose to tough it out with skimpy rations at Valley Forge. And why werent his troops issued boots with Vibram soles to replace their rag and leather ones? To me that is just pure government bungling, plain and simple. All that history stuff aside, I guess I found out some things about myself I didnt know. Before the trip began I doubted my ability to accomplish the actual physical feat of bicycling across the continent. My doubt diminished somewhat after crossing Donner Pass and the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and diminished greatly after bicycling over a whole series of mountain ranges in Nevada. By the time I reached Cheyenne I was certain that the trip was only a matter of mental endurance, not physical strength. Since I had transported myself across high altitudes during some outrageously hot summer temperatures, the lower altitudes of the Midwest, even during the hot and humid month of August, no longer seemed intimidating. The up-and-down pedaling in Pennsylvania did not surprise me, even though it was fatiguing. Bill Roe, the Davis, California biker who completed the LH trip in 1997 at the age of 57, warned me about these mountains which, because of their altitude, I considered only hills. His prediction that once I cleared the Alleghenies I was pretty much home free was correct. Bigger obstacles than geography were choosing the best route and negotiating incessant urban traffic. My advice to those who may attempt this trip is to find a wife or a partner who is willing to put up with almost anything and call it a good time, even when your cohort doesnt necessarily think shes having a good time. The partner must be patient and know that she will gradually come to enjoy four months of driving, filling up the gas tank, laundering, keeping track of expenses, arranging for pleasant motel quarters each evening and hauling luggage into and out of the room. Actually, Ardath enjoyed the trip thoroughly. She enjoyed meeting other Americans who had tales to tell, some of them incredible, which was a bonus for her. Particularly immigrants. These people generally were refreshing to meet, because of their attitudes. It is difficult for them to get here and stay here, and they are happy to have the freedom to improve their lives and the lives of their family members. Finally, I doubted my ability to be a spokesperson for those people in this country who are oxygen-dependent. I doubted that I could inspire anybody to do anything. Well, it just goes to show you what corporate goodwill meaning the body of people as well as Tyco Corporation itself can do. I am now a believer in the collective psychic power of people. It also helps, of course, to have a little guardian angel on your shoulder, but I cannot suggest where to find one. Theres an old Lutheran hymn that instructs: if you cannot sing like angels, if you cannot preach like Paul, if you cannot rouse the wicked from the dread of judgment, or be a watchman standing high on Zions wall to point out heavens path, you can still be like faithful Aaron, holding up the prophets hands. In other words, there is always something you can do to help. If, by riding on a bicycle seat for four months, I made a contribution to the cause of oxygen-dependent people, not only by preaching the gospel of oxygen portability, but actually demonstrating that being dependent upon oxygen does not preclude living a productive life, I am fulfilled. If I can show oxygen-dependent people that not only is it possible to continue their lifestyles, but that it is possible to fulfill their own dreams, then I have succeeded beyond my expectations. The time I spent on a bike truly becomes justifiable. Further, this trip also suggests that it is possible for a person to do nearly anything he wants to do if he has a will to do it. It all starts with an idea. The rest is logistics. Thank you, Tyco Healthcare and Tyco International, for supporting the trip that Ardath and I made across this country and for your generous donations to the American Lung Association and the Cheyenne Family YMCA. Thank you, employees of Puritan-Bennett, for making a portable liquid oxygen system that allows oxygen-dependent people to reclaim independent lives. Thank you, Reed Eckardt and the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle, and your readers, for sticking with Ardath and me during the saga of the past four months. Finally, our thanks goes to the American people whose great generosity and goodwill propelled us across this nation. Mark Junge
I would highly recommend this trip to historians. Nothing like getting out of ones chair and actually seeing the places you have read about, eh? Fresh images of America may not totally replace images that are already deeply engraved on your brain, but at least they will force your brain to be more elastic and inclusive.
For example, heres one way in which my understanding of American history has changed. After seeing the site of Washingtons Crossing of the Delaware on Christmas night, 1776, I dont understand why the general and his troops did not take the metal truss bridge over the Delaware River instead of choosing to cross in those cold, rocking Durham boats. Also, since it appears that that there are many good places in Trenton to eat, including ethnic foods, fast food and so forth, I dont know why our commander-in-chief chose to tough it out with skimpy rations at Valley Forge. And why werent his troops issued boots with Vibram soles to replace their rag and leather ones? To me that is just pure government bungling, plain and simple.
All that history stuff aside, I guess I found out some things about myself I didnt know. Before the trip began I doubted my ability to accomplish the actual physical feat of bicycling across the continent. My doubt diminished somewhat after crossing Donner Pass and the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and diminished greatly after bicycling over a whole series of mountain ranges in Nevada. By the time I reached Cheyenne I was certain that the trip was only a matter of mental endurance, not physical strength. Since I had transported myself across high altitudes during some outrageously hot summer temperatures, the lower altitudes of the Midwest, even during the hot and humid month of August, no longer seemed intimidating.
The up-and-down pedaling in Pennsylvania did not surprise me, even though it was fatiguing. Bill Roe, the Davis, California biker who completed the LH trip in 1997 at the age of 57, warned me about these mountains which, because of their altitude, I considered only hills. His prediction that once I cleared the Alleghenies I was pretty much home free was correct. Bigger obstacles than geography were choosing the best route and negotiating incessant urban traffic.
My advice to those who may attempt this trip is to find a wife or a partner who is willing to put up with almost anything and call it a good time, even when your cohort doesnt necessarily think shes having a good time. The partner must be patient and know that she will gradually come to enjoy four months of driving, filling up the gas tank, laundering, keeping track of expenses, arranging for pleasant motel quarters each evening and hauling luggage into and out of the room.
Actually, Ardath enjoyed the trip thoroughly. She enjoyed meeting other Americans who had tales to tell, some of them incredible, which was a bonus for her. Particularly immigrants. These people generally were refreshing to meet, because of their attitudes. It is difficult for them to get here and stay here, and they are happy to have the freedom to improve their lives and the lives of their family members.
Finally, I doubted my ability to be a spokesperson for those people in this country who are oxygen-dependent. I doubted that I could inspire anybody to do anything. Well, it just goes to show you what corporate goodwill meaning the body of people as well as Tyco Corporation itself can do. I am now a believer in the collective psychic power of people. It also helps, of course, to have a little guardian angel on your shoulder, but I cannot suggest where to find one.
Theres an old Lutheran hymn that instructs: if you cannot sing like angels, if you cannot preach like Paul, if you cannot rouse the wicked from the dread of judgment, or be a watchman standing high on Zions wall to point out heavens path, you can still be like faithful Aaron, holding up the prophets hands. In other words, there is always something you can do to help. If, by riding on a bicycle seat for four months, I made a contribution to the cause of oxygen-dependent people, not only by preaching the gospel of oxygen portability, but actually demonstrating that being dependent upon oxygen does not preclude living a productive life, I am fulfilled.
If I can show oxygen-dependent people that not only is it possible to continue their lifestyles, but that it is possible to fulfill their own dreams, then I have succeeded beyond my expectations. The time I spent on a bike truly becomes justifiable. Further, this trip also suggests that it is possible for a person to do nearly anything he wants to do if he has a will to do it. It all starts with an idea. The rest is logistics.
Thank you, Tyco Healthcare and Tyco International, for supporting the trip that Ardath and I made across this country and for your generous donations to the American Lung Association and the Cheyenne Family YMCA. Thank you, employees of Puritan-Bennett, for making a portable liquid oxygen system that allows oxygen-dependent people to reclaim independent lives. Thank you, Reed Eckardt and the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle, and your readers, for sticking with Ardath and me during the saga of the past four months.
Finally, our thanks goes to the American people whose great generosity and goodwill propelled us across this nation.
Mark Junge
Notes From the Lincoln Highway: Historic preservation axiom: “a building that is used is a building that is saved” ...Johnnie's Diner, or “What? Do I sound funny?” ...Gettysburg ...Not another hurricane! ...visits to Intercourse and Paradise, Pa. ...a New York state of mind. Sept. 25. Today, while Ardath walks through Buchanan State Forest east of Breezewood, Pa., I'm biking the Lincoln Highway over the last two major summits of the Alleghenies that block my path east to Philadelphia. Sideling Hill and Tuscarora Mountain are not formidable by Wyoming standards. But to a bicycle rider, even one accustomed to Cheyenne's 6,100-foot altitude, pedaling up 2,000-foot hills in the space of just a few miles is still a chore. My HELiOS liquid, portable oxygen tank is working just fine, thank you. It fits nicely in the outer pocket of a water reservoir strapped to my back. I should qualify that statement and say that it works fine as long as I breathe deeply through the cannula in my nose, trusting my heart and lungs to take care of the rest. To cardiologist Dr. Rick Davis and pulmonologist Dr. Laura Brausch, both of Cheyenne, I must say that the pedaling seldom gets so strenuous that I have to get off and walk, though I do stop occasionally to take photos. The further east Ardath and I travel on the Lincoln Highway, the more motor courts we pass. Years ago motor-court cabins were a vast improvement on camping outdoors, ameliorating the suffering experienced with rain or mosquitoes. A simple boxlike wooden cabin provided a roof over one's head and the necessaries for cooking. Some even had indoor toilets. Today these once-cozy huts are in varied states of use or non-use. Some are abandoned, others have been remodeled and are used as motel rooms. A few are private living quarters. Still others are being adaptively re-used. Let me give you an example. In the tall trees up Sideling Hill east of Breezewood, are five wooden structures: four red cabins and a white office building. It is a business complex that appears abandoned, although a weathered sign says, “Open.” There's not much in the way of signage, but what remains gives passersby an idea of the nature of the business. A fluorescent chartreuse sign advertises novelties and the artistry of exotic dancers. Attached to the outside walls of a cabin are plywood cutouts portraying voluptuous, semi-reclining female figures. Funny how, if I zoom in with my camera, these cutouts become abstracts, sort of like Rorschach tests, although viewed from the highway there is no mistaking the symbolism. Oh, well, my job is not to speculate or let my mind wander. I need to get over the Alleghenies. “Onward and upward” as Wyoming's premier historian, T.A. Larson, used to say. The next summit, Tuscarora, is the last major mountain ridge I'll have to cross. With a few diminutive exceptions, the rest of Pennsylvania ought to be downhill. At McConnellsburg I meet Ardath at Johnnie's Diner for lunch. It seems that the waitress talks funny. It's a quick patter, and if I don't listen carefully, it sounds almost like a foreign language. She has a twang that sounds suspiciously like that of my brother-in-law, Jim Hannigan, who was raised in Philadelphia. At one point the waitress asks me to repeat one of my questions. Seems like she can't understand me. I'm feeling like the “odd man out” in this neck of the woods. From McConnellsburg east, the number of antique stores increases. Ardath mentions to one owner that she thinks one would eventually run out of antiques. The response is no, the nature of East Coast history is such that they don't run out. Her subtle hint is that there is a lot of history piled up in the East. She discreetly says nothing about Wyomingites being relative latecomers to American history. It also seems like more murals are popping up on barns and brick walls. Lincoln Highway signage is also more frequent. By designating U.S. 30 as the “Heritage Corridor,” Pennsylvania has done much to make the traveler aware of the culture and history along the road. Sept. 26. East of Chambersburg I pass Michaux and Caledonia state parks. A sign marks a leaf-strewn path through the dense forest that covers these mountains. It is the point where the 2,167-mile-long, Appalachian Trail meets the Lincoln Highway. What a pleasant fall day. It is tempting to wander off into the woods like a bear going over the mountain to see what he can see.
Sideling Hill and Tuscarora Mountain are not formidable by Wyoming standards. But to a bicycle rider, even one accustomed to Cheyenne's 6,100-foot altitude, pedaling up 2,000-foot hills in the space of just a few miles is still a chore.
My HELiOS liquid, portable oxygen tank is working just fine, thank you. It fits nicely in the outer pocket of a water reservoir strapped to my back.
I should qualify that statement and say that it works fine as long as I breathe deeply through the cannula in my nose, trusting my heart and lungs to take care of the rest. To cardiologist Dr. Rick Davis and pulmonologist Dr. Laura Brausch, both of Cheyenne, I must say that the pedaling seldom gets so strenuous that I have to get off and walk, though I do stop occasionally to take photos.
The further east Ardath and I travel on the Lincoln Highway, the more motor courts we pass. Years ago motor-court cabins were a vast improvement on camping outdoors, ameliorating the suffering experienced with rain or mosquitoes. A simple boxlike wooden cabin provided a roof over one's head and the necessaries for cooking. Some even had indoor toilets.
Today these once-cozy huts are in varied states of use or non-use. Some are abandoned, others have been remodeled and are used as motel rooms. A few are private living quarters. Still others are being adaptively re-used. Let me give you an example.
In the tall trees up Sideling Hill east of Breezewood, are five wooden structures: four red cabins and a white office building. It is a business complex that appears abandoned, although a weathered sign says, “Open.”
There's not much in the way of signage, but what remains gives passersby an idea of the nature of the business. A fluorescent chartreuse sign advertises novelties and the artistry of exotic dancers. Attached to the outside walls of a cabin are plywood cutouts portraying voluptuous, semi-reclining female figures.
Funny how, if I zoom in with my camera, these cutouts become abstracts, sort of like Rorschach tests, although viewed from the highway there is no mistaking the symbolism.
Oh, well, my job is not to speculate or let my mind wander. I need to get over the Alleghenies. “Onward and upward” as Wyoming's premier historian, T.A. Larson, used to say.
The next summit, Tuscarora, is the last major mountain ridge I'll have to cross. With a few diminutive exceptions, the rest of Pennsylvania ought to be downhill.
At McConnellsburg I meet Ardath at Johnnie's Diner for lunch. It seems that the waitress talks funny. It's a quick patter, and if I don't listen carefully, it sounds almost like a foreign language. She has a twang that sounds suspiciously like that of my brother-in-law, Jim Hannigan, who was raised in Philadelphia.
At one point the waitress asks me to repeat one of my questions. Seems like she can't understand me. I'm feeling like the “odd man out” in this neck of the woods.
From McConnellsburg east, the number of antique stores increases. Ardath mentions to one owner that she thinks one would eventually run out of antiques. The response is no, the nature of East Coast history is such that they don't run out. Her subtle hint is that there is a lot of history piled up in the East. She discreetly says nothing about Wyomingites being relative latecomers to American history.
It also seems like more murals are popping up on barns and brick walls. Lincoln Highway signage is also more frequent. By designating U.S. 30 as the “Heritage Corridor,” Pennsylvania has done much to make the traveler aware of the culture and history along the road.
Sept. 26. East of Chambersburg I pass Michaux and Caledonia state parks. A sign marks a leaf-strewn path through the dense forest that covers these mountains. It is the point where the 2,167-mile-long, Appalachian Trail meets the Lincoln Highway.
What a pleasant fall day. It is tempting to wander off into the woods like a bear going over the mountain to see what he can see.
Arriving at the western fringe of Gettysburg in twilight, the landscape is tranquil. Near the entrance to Gettysburg Battlefield Park, I photograph statues of Civil War soldiers silhouetted against a cloud-dappled sky. Here in 1863, one of the world's most famous battles was fought. The casualties -- killed, wounded, captured or missing in action --numbered about 50,000, which was one-quarter to one-third of the troops of the Northern and Southern armies engaged in the battle. As I coast downhill through the battlefield to this evening's motel, I see a man walking along the other side of the highway. He's dressed in a Civil War enlisted man's uniform and wearing the familiar, flat, circular hat with a visor. He tells Ardath that he believes the woods around the battlefield are haunted. Sept. 27. I couldn't stand the thought of another continental breakfast this morning, so Ardath and I go into town to eat. But not before visiting the small museum next to our motel. This is a stone house that General Robert E. Lee used during the Battle of Gettysburg. The museum displays are easy to understand, and the artifacts in the display cases are sobering. It's amazing how these Civil War relics can bring a hardened historian's mind right into battle. We choose Dunlap's Diner in Gettysburg for breakfast. The food is hearty but, the “fat boy” donuts are not very fat. After returning to the motel and performing the ritual preparatory to biking -- putting on Lycra pants and shirt and leather biking shoes, strapping on the Camelback, filling the HELiOS and affixing the cannula to my nose, donning my helmet and checking to make sure the camera and cell phone are in the handlebar bag -- I set off for downtown Gettysburg then York, Lancaster, the Amish country of Paradise, Gap and Sadsburyville. An account of the Gettysburg Address indicates that President Lincoln was the guest of Gettysburg attorney, David Wills, on Nov. 18, 1863, when he wrote the address affirming America's faith in government of the people, by the people and for the people. If the account is correct, Lincoln wrote it just a few yards from the highway that bears his name. Sept. 28. It has been raining off and on all day. This time Hurricane Jeanne is the culprit. By early afternoon it becomes downright miserable to see through my glasses and watch for traffic along the main street through York. What might have been a delightful ride on sidewalks that separate porch stoops from street, past narrow alleys and row houses separated only by a common wall becomes a task requiring more dedication than I expected to muster. With nothing but commercial strips and semi-urban, semi-rural countryside to look forward to after leaving York, I decide enough is enough. But before I can call Ardath, she rings me up and says she is coming back to fetch me as soon as she can get turned in the right direction. Sept. 29. Today is overcast, but there is no rain. A school crossing guard in York whose name is Jeanne tells me the hurricane whose effects were felt in Pennsylvania was named for her. York and Lancaster are quaint and historic. Signs remind travelers that so-and-so, a person who signed the Declaration of Independence, is buried right over here in the churchyard or died in an old building down the street. Outside these towns are commercial areas with all of the usual strip mall markings: tanning and nail salons, electronics, auto parts stores, video and discount stores and an occasional Asian eatery. Ardath decides to visit a quilt museum a few miles north of the Lincoln Highway. In the town of Intercourse, she finds roads speckled with grey (Amish) or black (Mennonite) buggies drawn by horses. For me, the route east of Lancaster Paradise, Sadsburyville and Gap is latticed with businesses selling Amish products such as shoofly pie and sweatshirts that read “I (heart) Intercourse.” There are a few Amish outlets, but no buggies, along this stretch of U.S. 30. This is the heaviest truck and car traffic I've seen on a highway that is better suited for horse-drawn buggies. Sept. 30. This morning I am preparing to bike into the “City of Brotherly Love.” The mere mention of Philadelphia makes Ardath nervous: She does not like driving in big cities. She keeps making the mental slip of referring to Philadelphia as “Pittsburgh,” a place where it seemed she was nearly ready to cash in her chips. Oct. 5 is the day we're due to arrive in New York City's Times Square. Ardath and I are becoming both anxious and nervous.
Here in 1863, one of the world's most famous battles was fought. The casualties -- killed, wounded, captured or missing in action --numbered about 50,000, which was one-quarter to one-third of the troops of the Northern and Southern armies engaged in the battle.
As I coast downhill through the battlefield to this evening's motel, I see a man walking along the other side of the highway. He's dressed in a Civil War enlisted man's uniform and wearing the familiar, flat, circular hat with a visor. He tells Ardath that he believes the woods around the battlefield are haunted.
Sept. 27. I couldn't stand the thought of another continental breakfast this morning, so Ardath and I go into town to eat. But not before visiting the small museum next to our motel.
This is a stone house that General Robert E. Lee used during the Battle of Gettysburg. The museum displays are easy to understand, and the artifacts in the display cases are sobering. It's amazing how these Civil War relics can bring a hardened historian's mind right into battle.
We choose Dunlap's Diner in Gettysburg for breakfast. The food is hearty but, the “fat boy” donuts are not very fat.
After returning to the motel and performing the ritual preparatory to biking -- putting on Lycra pants and shirt and leather biking shoes, strapping on the Camelback, filling the HELiOS and affixing the cannula to my nose, donning my helmet and checking to make sure the camera and cell phone are in the handlebar bag -- I set off for downtown Gettysburg then York, Lancaster, the Amish country of Paradise, Gap and Sadsburyville.
An account of the Gettysburg Address indicates that President Lincoln was the guest of Gettysburg attorney, David Wills, on Nov. 18, 1863, when he wrote the address affirming America's faith in government of the people, by the people and for the people. If the account is correct, Lincoln wrote it just a few yards from the highway that bears his name.
Sept. 28. It has been raining off and on all day. This time Hurricane Jeanne is the culprit.
By early afternoon it becomes downright miserable to see through my glasses and watch for traffic along the main street through York. What might have been a delightful ride on sidewalks that separate porch stoops from street, past narrow alleys and row houses separated only by a common wall becomes a task requiring more dedication than I expected to muster.
With nothing but commercial strips and semi-urban, semi-rural countryside to look forward to after leaving York, I decide enough is enough. But before I can call Ardath, she rings me up and says she is coming back to fetch me as soon as she can get turned in the right direction.
Sept. 29. Today is overcast, but there is no rain. A school crossing guard in York whose name is Jeanne tells me the hurricane whose effects were felt in Pennsylvania was named for her.
York and Lancaster are quaint and historic. Signs remind travelers that so-and-so, a person who signed the Declaration of Independence, is buried right over here in the churchyard or died in an old building down the street.
Outside these towns are commercial areas with all of the usual strip mall markings: tanning and nail salons, electronics, auto parts stores, video and discount stores and an occasional Asian eatery.
Ardath decides to visit a quilt museum a few miles north of the Lincoln Highway. In the town of Intercourse, she finds roads speckled with grey (Amish) or black (Mennonite) buggies drawn by horses.
For me, the route east of Lancaster Paradise, Sadsburyville and Gap is latticed with businesses selling Amish products such as shoofly pie and sweatshirts that read “I (heart) Intercourse.” There are a few Amish outlets, but no buggies, along this stretch of U.S. 30. This is the heaviest truck and car traffic I've seen on a highway that is better suited for horse-drawn buggies.
Sept. 30. This morning I am preparing to bike into the “City of Brotherly Love.” The mere mention of Philadelphia makes Ardath nervous: She does not like driving in big cities. She keeps making the mental slip of referring to Philadelphia as “Pittsburgh,” a place where it seemed she was nearly ready to cash in her chips.
Oct. 5 is the day we're due to arrive in New York City's Times Square. Ardath and I are becoming both anxious and nervous.
...Spooky times in the City of Brotherly Love September 30. Thinking that biking into urban Philadelphia along the Lincoln Highway which at this point is a busy U.S. 30 might be a little scary, I stop at a bicycle shop in Paoli west of Philly. One young man lubricates my bike chain and checks tire pressurea, while another employee gives me directions. He says that once I get through Valley Forge I can really fly down the Schuylkill River Trail to downtown Philadelphia. With instructions that appear rather easy to follow, I’m confident that biking twenty miles down the Schuylkill River Trail will bring me to an art museum in downtown Philly where the faithful Ardath will be waiting. There we can have some supper and maybe, if I get there before closing time, we can even spend a little time at the museum. That’s our well-laid plan, Robert Burns notwithstanding. Optimistically, I cross the street in front of the bike shop, labor up a short incline and cross the commuter tracks at Paoli. Looking down over the bridge, I see a small group of teenagers on the sidewalk below, waiting for the train to take them home from school. Some are playing cards and talking. They wave to the man above taking photos, while two others are wrapped in a languid embrace. Biking along a winding road through an affluent Philadelphia suburb set amongst woods and rolling hills, it seems that I may be off the track. Consulting with a school bus driver, I am able to find Valley Forge Park, but using a Philadelphia area map, I can’t differentiate roads from park turnoffs, and park turnoffs from park trails. More directions and a park map help me pick a route through the park to the Schuylkill River Trail. The scale of the National Park Service map is small, so I frequently ask for directions as I worm my way through the scenic park, past Baron Von Steuben’s statue facing a large meadow where the Prussian drillmaster disciplined the ragtag, colonial troops during the American Revolution, teaching them how to use their bayonets. Leaving the park at rush hour, I cross a busy urban street and follow a sign into a dead-end parking lot. I ask a nearby biker for directions. It’s simple, he says. A few yards ahead I take a path to my right, cross the river on an enclosed pedestrian walkway, and on the other side of the Schuylkill, I’ll find the trail. OK, no problem, thanks. But there is a problem. Two trails lead to the right. One appears to end abruptly against a fence and busy road, while the other looks like a mountain bike trail. My Lilliputian brain is becoming fatigued and I make my first major mistake. The fence must mean one route is temporarily blocked off, so it figures that the mountain bike trail, although rough looking, is the one that will take me downriver to the bridge. I can’t ride this trail so I lift the bike over rocks, past gashes in the black soil caused by the downpour from the recent series of hurricanes. Coming out of the woods into a parking lot surrounded by what appear to be dormitories, I realize that I’ve made a mistake. But I don’t want to go back over the obstacle course so I continue east to a dead end. “Is this a campus?” I ask a man with an armload of packages. “No, it’s an apartment complex,” he tells me. “Can you tell me how to get to the Schuylkill River Trail?” “Uhhhh, not really,” he slowly replies, “but if you go out of this parking lot and make a right you’ll get back to the main road.” “OK, thanks.” I turn right out of the parking lot. “Crap!” I’ve hit another dead-end. What the fellow really meant to tell me was to make a left out of the parking lot, then jog right onto the road. Should I lift my bike up over these weeds and cross over the steel guardrail along that busy highway ahead? I look it over a couple of times, start to penetrate the weeds, then decide “better not.” and head back, eventually finding my way to the highway. Battling five o-clock traffic, I manage to cross two busy traffic arteries and re-enter the peaceful Valley Forge National Park. Wait a minute! What am I doing back in the park? I follow joggers up and down a path, and wind up at a familiar urban road crossing. I’ve made an awkward ellipse. I’m right back where I started. I forge ahead once again to the dead-end parking lot and this time take the other trail, find the bridge and covered pedestrian walkway, cross the Schuylkill, and see a sign, “Schuylkill River Trail.” Great except that now it’s nearly 5:30pm. In a couple of hours it will be too dark to ride this dank trail through a bower of woods, vines and rock cliffs that flank the river. I call Ardath to let her know that I’ve finally found the trail but it will take a while. She surmises she can walk the trail toward me for a little exercise. I pedal east down the Schuylkill River Trail through dense vegetation, into a worn-out neighborhood where kids are playing street basketball on building-enclosed courts, past industrial and commercial and industrial sites, and beneath high-voltage power poles. At one point I hear cheering through the trees to my right. I turn my head to catch glimpses of girls rowing on the Schuylkill River, exhorted by a megaphone-holding coach standing in a motorboat to larboard.
With instructions that appear rather easy to follow, I’m confident that biking twenty miles down the Schuylkill River Trail will bring me to an art museum in downtown Philly where the faithful Ardath will be waiting. There we can have some supper and maybe, if I get there before closing time, we can even spend a little time at the museum. That’s our well-laid plan, Robert Burns notwithstanding.
Optimistically, I cross the street in front of the bike shop, labor up a short incline and cross the commuter tracks at Paoli. Looking down over the bridge, I see a small group of teenagers on the sidewalk below, waiting for the train to take them home from school. Some are playing cards and talking. They wave to the man above taking photos, while two others are wrapped in a languid embrace.
Biking along a winding road through an affluent Philadelphia suburb set amongst woods and rolling hills, it seems that I may be off the track. Consulting with a school bus driver, I am able to find Valley Forge Park, but using a Philadelphia area map, I can’t differentiate roads from park turnoffs, and park turnoffs from park trails. More directions and a park map help me pick a route through the park to the Schuylkill River Trail.
The scale of the National Park Service map is small, so I frequently ask for directions as I worm my way through the scenic park, past Baron Von Steuben’s statue facing a large meadow where the Prussian drillmaster disciplined the ragtag, colonial troops during the American Revolution, teaching them how to use their bayonets.
Leaving the park at rush hour, I cross a busy urban street and follow a sign into a dead-end parking lot. I ask a nearby biker for directions. It’s simple, he says. A few yards ahead I take a path to my right, cross the river on an enclosed pedestrian walkway, and on the other side of the Schuylkill, I’ll find the trail. OK, no problem, thanks.
But there is a problem. Two trails lead to the right. One appears to end abruptly against a fence and busy road, while the other looks like a mountain bike trail. My Lilliputian brain is becoming fatigued and I make my first major mistake. The fence must mean one route is temporarily blocked off, so it figures that the mountain bike trail, although rough looking, is the one that will take me downriver to the bridge.
I can’t ride this trail so I lift the bike over rocks, past gashes in the black soil caused by the downpour from the recent series of hurricanes. Coming out of the woods into a parking lot surrounded by what appear to be dormitories, I realize that I’ve made a mistake. But I don’t want to go back over the obstacle course so I continue east to a dead end. “Is this a campus?” I ask a man with an armload of packages. “No, it’s an apartment complex,” he tells me. “Can you tell me how to get to the Schuylkill River Trail?” “Uhhhh, not really,” he slowly replies, “but if you go out of this parking lot and make a right you’ll get back to the main road.” “OK, thanks.”
I turn right out of the parking lot. “Crap!” I’ve hit another dead-end. What the fellow really meant to tell me was to make a left out of the parking lot, then jog right onto the road. Should I lift my bike up over these weeds and cross over the steel guardrail along that busy highway ahead? I look it over a couple of times, start to penetrate the weeds, then decide “better not.” and head back, eventually finding my way to the highway.
Battling five o-clock traffic, I manage to cross two busy traffic arteries and re-enter the peaceful Valley Forge National Park. Wait a minute! What am I doing back in the park? I follow joggers up and down a path, and wind up at a familiar urban road crossing. I’ve made an awkward ellipse. I’m right back where I started. I forge ahead once again to the dead-end parking lot and this time take the other trail, find the bridge and covered pedestrian walkway, cross the Schuylkill, and see a sign, “Schuylkill River Trail.” Great except that now it’s nearly 5:30pm. In a couple of hours it will be too dark to ride this dank trail through a bower of woods, vines and rock cliffs that flank the river. I call Ardath to let her know that I’ve finally found the trail but it will take a while. She surmises she can walk the trail toward me for a little exercise.
I pedal east down the Schuylkill River Trail through dense vegetation, into a worn-out neighborhood where kids are playing street basketball on building-enclosed courts, past industrial and commercial and industrial sites, and beneath high-voltage power poles. At one point I hear cheering through the trees to my right. I turn my head to catch glimpses of girls rowing on the Schuylkill River, exhorted by a megaphone-holding coach standing in a motorboat to larboard.
As it gets darker it seems that the trail is getting slimier with mud and water. Two bikers who had passed me earlier are returning, and one makes eye contact with me. His eyes appear to be saying, “What are you doing?” A mile or two along the trail I discover the reason for his querulous expression. A mile or two ahead I run into thirty yards of water and mud the trail is washed out. Now what? There appears to be some dry pavement up ahead so I decide to get off my bike and walk through. The water and mud are cold and my $200 leather biking shoes are totally submerged, but I don’t care as I slog through the muck. Now it’s really getting dark. No one is on the trail. No noise. The vegetation is a musty rain forest. Finally, I can go no further on the trail. It divides. There are three possibilities but no directions for any of them. Straight ahead, in the gloaming, the trail peters out at a pile of sawdust in a fenced lot. To the left is a rough path sharply angled up a steep hill through the trees. It doesn’t seem like a bike path and I don’t want to expend the energy it will take to explore the possibility that it might be. To the right is a steep decline leading to a stop sign at an intersection. There’s really no choice. The intersection might provide a clue. At the stop sign I stop and look to my right. I stare. Through a dark mist, there appears to be a lake flooding the road and trees appear to be reflecting in the water of the submerged road. What the ? When a car passes in front of me and slowly disappears into the lake, I realize that I am experiencing a type of optical illusion similar to that of a desert traveler who sees blue water on the desert. What appeared to be reflections in a lake are actually trees beyond a little rise in the road. I decide to turn left and head east. An occasional car passes in this pitch-black night, confirming that there must be civilization somewhere ahead. An SUV approaches, its headlights forming two bouncing beams through the night mist. I’m in a spooky scene from a Stephen King novel. On the other side of the road is a young woman walking a huge mastiff on a leash. He is straining toward me. I ask the woman if I’m headed toward the Philadelphia Art Museum. She looks at me strangely and says, “Oh, noooo. Really?” I quickly get a feeling that I’m totally lost. “I’m afraid you’re a long ways from the art museum.” “How far?” I ask her, wondering how I could possibly get so lost on an urban bike path. “Oh, gee, it must be ten miles, she says apologetically.” I’m shocked. Already I’ve come more than twenty miles on this trail, only to have it dissolve into nothingness. “You can continue taking this road which turns into a trail, or you can go left under a bridge, then take a right on the highway and get into the city. It has a bike lane.” “Thank you,” I tell her. Thinking she will think I’m a lunatic posing as a biker, I decide not to express my frustration further, and begin pedaling down the street. “Good luck”, she calls plaintively from behind me. A few yards down the road I get off the bike again and call Ardath. It’s going to be later than I thought but don’t worry, I tell her. Ardath has a hesitation sound in her voice. She has been having problems herself, driving in downtown Philadelphia. She tells me not to go any further. She is worried that I don’t have lights with me and I’m in a strange part of town. She will pick me up. “But, Ardath, how can you pick me up until you know where I am?” She insists that I stay put. “Listen, you don’t get it. As soon as I find out where I am I can give you some directions. Otherwise you’ll be driving for the sake of driving.” Finally, I convince her, telling her I will try to find some landmarks, then call her back. I push down the aerial on the cell phone, get back on the bike and turn left under a gloomy, dimly lit, film noir bridge. I admit to myself: “I have absolutely no idea where I’m at in this city.” After getting somewhat garbled directions from two Latinos on a street corner, I begin searching for the busiest street I can find. Soon I find myself riding on Main Street in a Philadelphia suburb named Manayauk. The scene changes dramatically. Elevated from the murky bottomland of the Schuylkill, I’m in a busy neighborhood with shops, restaurants, vehicular traffic and lots of young people walking and talking along the sidewalks. I park the bike on a sidewalk next to The Fairway Connection, a golf collectibles store where Linda Tuti and her assistant, Jasmine, provide me respite from paved streets. I call Ardath to give her a set of directions dictated by these shopkeepers. We park near Main Street, eat supper and head for our hotel in the heart of downtown Philadelphia. At a postage stamp-sized parking lot between tall buildings, a fidgety young man comes up to the car window and tells me that our hotel uses the parking lot and tells us, yes, the lot is patrolled at night. He takes our $12 and leaves. We never see him again. Three policemen standing nearby tell us that they cannot guarantee the van’s safety here and that thieves even break into their own patrol cars. After pulling the spare bike from the roof of the van and driving into the hotel’s secure lot, Ardath and I find our room, slip the card into the door lock and fall, exhausted, into bed. More anon, Mark
A mile or two along the trail I discover the reason for his querulous expression. A mile or two ahead I run into thirty yards of water and mud the trail is washed out. Now what? There appears to be some dry pavement up ahead so I decide to get off my bike and walk through. The water and mud are cold and my $200 leather biking shoes are totally submerged, but I don’t care as I slog through the muck.
Now it’s really getting dark. No one is on the trail. No noise. The vegetation is a musty rain forest.
Finally, I can go no further on the trail. It divides. There are three possibilities but no directions for any of them. Straight ahead, in the gloaming, the trail peters out at a pile of sawdust in a fenced lot. To the left is a rough path sharply angled up a steep hill through the trees. It doesn’t seem like a bike path and I don’t want to expend the energy it will take to explore the possibility that it might be. To the right is a steep decline leading to a stop sign at an intersection. There’s really no choice. The intersection might provide a clue.
At the stop sign I stop and look to my right. I stare. Through a dark mist, there appears to be a lake flooding the road and trees appear to be reflecting in the water of the submerged road. What the ? When a car passes in front of me and slowly disappears into the lake, I realize that I am experiencing a type of optical illusion similar to that of a desert traveler who sees blue water on the desert. What appeared to be reflections in a lake are actually trees beyond a little rise in the road. I decide to turn left and head east. An occasional car passes in this pitch-black night, confirming that there must be civilization somewhere ahead. An SUV approaches, its headlights forming two bouncing beams through the night mist. I’m in a spooky scene from a Stephen King novel.
On the other side of the road is a young woman walking a huge mastiff on a leash. He is straining toward me. I ask the woman if I’m headed toward the Philadelphia Art Museum. She looks at me strangely and says, “Oh, noooo. Really?” I quickly get a feeling that I’m totally lost.
“I’m afraid you’re a long ways from the art museum.” “How far?” I ask her, wondering how I could possibly get so lost on an urban bike path. “Oh, gee, it must be ten miles, she says apologetically.” I’m shocked. Already I’ve come more than twenty miles on this trail, only to have it dissolve into nothingness. “You can continue taking this road which turns into a trail, or you can go left under a bridge, then take a right on the highway and get into the city. It has a bike lane.” “Thank you,” I tell her. Thinking she will think I’m a lunatic posing as a biker, I decide not to express my frustration further, and begin pedaling down the street. “Good luck”, she calls plaintively from behind me. A few yards down the road I get off the bike again and call Ardath. It’s going to be later than I thought but don’t worry, I tell her. Ardath has a hesitation sound in her voice. She has been having problems herself, driving in downtown Philadelphia. She tells me not to go any further. She is worried that I don’t have lights with me and I’m in a strange part of town. She will pick me up. “But, Ardath, how can you pick me up until you know where I am?” She insists that I stay put. “Listen, you don’t get it. As soon as I find out where I am I can give you some directions. Otherwise you’ll be driving for the sake of driving.”
Finally, I convince her, telling her I will try to find some landmarks, then call her back. I push down the aerial on the cell phone, get back on the bike and turn left under a gloomy, dimly lit, film noir bridge. I admit to myself: “I have absolutely no idea where I’m at in this city.” After getting somewhat garbled directions from two Latinos on a street corner, I begin searching for the busiest street I can find. Soon I find myself riding on Main Street in a Philadelphia suburb named Manayauk. The scene changes dramatically. Elevated from the murky bottomland of the Schuylkill, I’m in a busy neighborhood with shops, restaurants, vehicular traffic and lots of young people walking and talking along the sidewalks.
I park the bike on a sidewalk next to The Fairway Connection, a golf collectibles store where Linda Tuti and her assistant, Jasmine, provide me respite from paved streets. I call Ardath to give her a set of directions dictated by these shopkeepers.
We park near Main Street, eat supper and head for our hotel in the heart of downtown Philadelphia. At a postage stamp-sized parking lot between tall buildings, a fidgety young man comes up to the car window and tells me that our hotel uses the parking lot and tells us, yes, the lot is patrolled at night. He takes our $12 and leaves. We never see him again. Three policemen standing nearby tell us that they cannot guarantee the van’s safety here and that thieves even break into their own patrol cars.
After pulling the spare bike from the roof of the van and driving into the hotel’s secure lot, Ardath and I find our room, slip the card into the door lock and fall, exhausted, into bed.
More anon, Mark
Sept. 20. This morning in Pittsburgh we leave our hotel near Little Italy. I head east, trying to follow the city streets that would have been used by Lincoln Highway travelers. In many places, the only available room to bike is on the sidewalk. Not all of the crosswalks are handicap-accessible, so I have to ease over the curbs. Eventually I turn onto Braddock Avenue, following it through east Pittsburgh. Near the Monongahela River, Braddock is lined with old commercial brick-and-frame buildings. Some are abandoned and weathering away. One that is still in business grabs my attention, so I stop to take a photo. It’s the “Steel City” pawnshop with a sign painted in Pittsburgh Steelers black and gold. The lyrics in Guy Mitchell’s 1952 song surface in my brain: “There’s a pawnshop on a corner in Pittsburgh, Pa., And I walk up and down ’neath the clock. By the pawnshop on a corner in Pittsburgh, Pa., But I ain’t got a thing left to hock.” I am approached by a young woman who asks me for some money to buy Huggies. There is not much money in my handlebar bag, but I give her some loose change. I wonder if I can take her photo. She smilingly obliges. Afterward she comes up close and pleads for more money, asking me if she can do something nice for me. I’m not sure if I am blushing, but I smile and tell her, “No, thank you, I need to move on.” As she walks over to the store across the street, I get back on my bike and reflect on this modest proposal. Where Braddock parallels the Monongahela, coasting past the entrance to U.S. Steel’s Edgar Thomson mill, I encounter a changing shift of steel workers. They represent a class of people who helped establish Pittsburgh’s reputation as a blue-collar town. The three o’clock traffic is heavy when I leave the mill, and it does not abate until I climb out of the Monongahela Valley and move east toward Greensburg. Sept. 21. Today, traffic seems exceptionally heavy on U.S. Highway 30. It seems like I’m fighting for every foot of pavement, riding on, then off, then on again, a narrow shoulder that merges with driveways, which, in turn, merge with paved asphalt or concrete aprons of strip mall parking lots. At times I’m pushed over to gravel or whatever allows me to get through this urban sprawl. Later in the day, as I move further east, traffic abates a little. West of Ligonier, U.S. 30 eastbound traffic splits away from the westbound lanes. I see a blue badge-like sign in the median. It describes the history of a two-story stone building to my right. As I take a photo, a man introduces himself as Vic Smith. He engages me in conversation about the 1815 colonial building that once was the boyhood home of Pennsylvania Gov. William F. Johnston and is now a National Historic Landmark. I tell Vic about my plans to bike over a major summit of the Alleghenies east of Ligonier. I continue down the highway and cross U.S. 30 to Ligonier. Something tells me that this town deserves a quick run-through. Besides, main streets in places like Ligonier usually connect back to the main highway on the other side of town, and a slight detour will be a pleasant break from whooshing cars and trucks. Ligonier is everything one would expect of a genteel village in Pennsylvania’s rolling countryside. I follow Main Street to a roundabout at the heart of town. Here, drivers circle a park and gazebo to obtain a panoramic view of old buildings and quaint shops that form the perimeter. Placed on the apron of the roundabout is a Lincoln Highway display. Next to a concrete Lincoln Highway post is an informative sign. By touching two contact points on the sign with a piece of metal from along road, I trigger a recorded message describing life along the old Lincoln Highway. The display is part of the Lincoln Highway Heritage Corridor, a route marked by signs, barns painted with Lincoln Highway murals, fiberglass gas pumps painted with historic themes and displays such as this one that also contain informative brochures. Across the street from the display is the Citizens Bank, formerly the Mellon bank. As you may recall from your history classes, Andrew Mellon was a financial wizard who was named secretary of the treasury by President Harding in 1921. Whether he was a lovable philanthropist or a robber baron probably depends upon your political point of view. As I stand astride my bike, Vic Smith pulls up in his car. He tells me that he got to thinking about my plan to bike over Laurel Hill, a major summit east of Ligonier. He drove here to find me, because he could not imagine anyone trying to cross the 2,920-foot summit this late in the afternoon. Besides, he says, cell phones don’t work very well along these mountain ridges. Vic says he has talked to bicyclists who are acquainted with the ride and who recommend my starting early tomorrow. I thank him, and tell him that I plan to bike to the summit this evening, but no further.
In many places, the only available room to bike is on the sidewalk. Not all of the crosswalks are handicap-accessible, so I have to ease over the curbs.
Eventually I turn onto Braddock Avenue, following it through east Pittsburgh. Near the Monongahela River, Braddock is lined with old commercial brick-and-frame buildings. Some are abandoned and weathering away.
One that is still in business grabs my attention, so I stop to take a photo. It’s the “Steel City” pawnshop with a sign painted in Pittsburgh Steelers black and gold. The lyrics in Guy Mitchell’s 1952 song surface in my brain:
“There’s a pawnshop on a corner in Pittsburgh, Pa.,
And I walk up and down ’neath the clock.
By the pawnshop on a corner in Pittsburgh, Pa.,
But I ain’t got a thing left to hock.”
I am approached by a young woman who asks me for some money to buy Huggies. There is not much money in my handlebar bag, but I give her some loose change. I wonder if I can take her photo. She smilingly obliges.
Afterward she comes up close and pleads for more money, asking me if she can do something nice for me. I’m not sure if I am blushing, but I smile and tell her, “No, thank you, I need to move on.” As she walks over to the store across the street, I get back on my bike and reflect on this modest proposal.
Where Braddock parallels the Monongahela, coasting past the entrance to U.S. Steel’s Edgar Thomson mill, I encounter a changing shift of steel workers. They represent a class of people who helped establish Pittsburgh’s reputation as a blue-collar town.
The three o’clock traffic is heavy when I leave the mill, and it does not abate until I climb out of the Monongahela Valley and move east toward Greensburg.
Sept. 21. Today, traffic seems exceptionally heavy on U.S. Highway 30. It seems like I’m fighting for every foot of pavement, riding on, then off, then on again, a narrow shoulder that merges with driveways, which, in turn, merge with paved asphalt or concrete aprons of strip mall parking lots. At times I’m pushed over to gravel or whatever allows me to get through this urban sprawl.
Later in the day, as I move further east, traffic abates a little. West of Ligonier, U.S. 30 eastbound traffic splits away from the westbound lanes. I see a blue badge-like sign in the median. It describes the history of a two-story stone building to my right.
As I take a photo, a man introduces himself as Vic Smith. He engages me in conversation about the 1815 colonial building that once was the boyhood home of Pennsylvania Gov. William F. Johnston and is now a National Historic Landmark. I tell Vic about my plans to bike over a major summit of the Alleghenies east of Ligonier.
I continue down the highway and cross U.S. 30 to Ligonier. Something tells me that this town deserves a quick run-through. Besides, main streets in places like Ligonier usually connect back to the main highway on the other side of town, and a slight detour will be a pleasant break from whooshing cars and trucks.
Ligonier is everything one would expect of a genteel village in Pennsylvania’s rolling countryside. I follow Main Street to a roundabout at the heart of town. Here, drivers circle a park and gazebo to obtain a panoramic view of old buildings and quaint shops that form the perimeter.
Placed on the apron of the roundabout is a Lincoln Highway display. Next to a concrete Lincoln Highway post is an informative sign. By touching two contact points on the sign with a piece of metal from along road, I trigger a recorded message describing life along the old Lincoln Highway.
The display is part of the Lincoln Highway Heritage Corridor, a route marked by signs, barns painted with Lincoln Highway murals, fiberglass gas pumps painted with historic themes and displays such as this one that also contain informative brochures.
Across the street from the display is the Citizens Bank, formerly the Mellon bank. As you may recall from your history classes, Andrew Mellon was a financial wizard who was named secretary of the treasury by President Harding in 1921. Whether he was a lovable philanthropist or a robber baron probably depends upon your political point of view.
As I stand astride my bike, Vic Smith pulls up in his car. He tells me that he got to thinking about my plan to bike over Laurel Hill, a major summit east of Ligonier. He drove here to find me, because he could not imagine anyone trying to cross the 2,920-foot summit this late in the afternoon. Besides, he says, cell phones don’t work very well along these mountain ridges.
Vic says he has talked to bicyclists who are acquainted with the ride and who recommend my starting early tomorrow. I thank him, and tell him that I plan to bike to the summit this evening, but no further.
At the crest of Laurel Hill, after a sweat-popping climb on my Trek, I enter a truck turnout. The sky turns almond, then burnt orange. After a brief conversation with Ken Landis, a truck driver from Dallas, Ardath and I return to Ligonier for the night. Sept. 22. This morning I make a bracing, winding descent down Laurel Hill, enjoying my coast through the woods of Pennsylvania. Meanwhile, Ardath takes a walk through the beautiful countryside at Linn Run State Park east of Ligonier. There she is inspired to photograph a waterfall cascading over limestone near the tranquil path through the woods. Afterward, she drives east to visit the crash site of Flight 93, the hijacked airliner that became part of the horrific events of Sept. 11, 2001. She is emotionally affected by a temporary memorial, a 10-foot-high wire fence near the site that is jam-packed with flags, flowers, hats, stuffed animals, rosaries, photo and other objects. Stopping for lunch, I park outside of Adele’s Caf in Reels Corner. Adele Brown delivers the special -- a hot pork sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy, cole slaw and lemon meringue pie, all of which arrive quicker than a Big Mac at McDonald’s. In these places, one person’s conversation is the common property of all. From one of the booths behind me, I hear a customer who is listening to the conversation tell me that he has been to Wyoming. He says he used to hunt near a place called Monkey Mountain. “Monkey Mountain?” I respond, admitting that I never have heard of the place. So I listen to the story of how a trainload of monkeys escaped into some trees near that place, and the locals decided to call it Monkey Mountain. At least, that is the story an Indian told him. Fumbling with his memory, he also tries to describe a brewery and a large casino in Wyoming. Maybe I don’t know the state as well as I thought. But in the middle of his next story, about quaffing a $70 glass of beer, I excuse myself and leave the caf. Near evening I reach Mount Ararat -- another major summit in the Alleghenies. On the way down, I coast slowly past what appears to be a scenic turnout and wonder if would be worthwhile to take a few photographs. As I apply my brakes, a truck driver named Bob Chapman asks if I know that this is where Noah’s Ark used to be. I kid him about how it makes sense that Noah’s Ark should be found on Mount Ararat. But he is serious. Then I remember reading about this famous place. It was a tourist stop built in the form of a ship that boasted a view of three states and seven counties. The structure burned down in 2001. After taking a photo of Bob and his wife, Pam, I coast down quickly, even though it’s getting dark and I can’t clearly see potholes or cracks in the road. It is one of the longest and quickest glides I have experienced on the Lincoln Highway since descending Nevada’s Spooner Summit. Ardath and I meet at a barn decorated with Lincoln Highway murals. Nearby is a high corral enclosing hay and shabby buffalo. We drive east to the Lincoln Motor Court. Operated by Debbie and Bob Altizer, this nostalgic, rural set of cottages built during World War II is the only motor court cabin complex we have seen that still serves Lincoln Highway travelers. Sept. 23. Ardath and I eat breakfast at Shawnee Bar and Grill near Schellsburg, where we meet owners Glenn Martin and Linda Cook. As a young man, Glenn worked on a wheat combining crew that worked its way into Wyoming. Linda gives us a couple of tasty Bedford County apples, each of which takes two hands to enclose. After breakfast, we backtrack toward the mural barn but stop to pull into the Schellsburg Cemetery. Here, on an open hilltop, I manage to establish phone contact with Ken Hawk at WCCS in Indiana, Pa. Surrounded by tombstones, and near an 1806 church, I do an interview with Ken about our cross-country trip. Today Ardath will hike in Shawnee State Park. Meanwhile, I begin my ride east from the painted barn, pedaling past a huge statue of the Pied Piper, past a fiberglass “Vincent Van Gas” gas pump, past an art-deco ceramic tile gas station in Bedford and through the village of Everett. We end the day in Breezewood, which is not really a town, just a busy crossroads located in a small Allegheny valley. It’s full of trucks, cars, motels, gas stations, and I don’t need a telephoto lens to capture this congested scene.
Sept. 22. This morning I make a bracing, winding descent down Laurel Hill, enjoying my coast through the woods of Pennsylvania.
Meanwhile, Ardath takes a walk through the beautiful countryside at Linn Run State Park east of Ligonier. There she is inspired to photograph a waterfall cascading over limestone near the tranquil path through the woods.
Afterward, she drives east to visit the crash site of Flight 93, the hijacked airliner that became part of the horrific events of Sept. 11, 2001. She is emotionally affected by a temporary memorial, a 10-foot-high wire fence near the site that is jam-packed with flags, flowers, hats, stuffed animals, rosaries, photo and other objects.
Stopping for lunch, I park outside of Adele’s Caf in Reels Corner. Adele Brown delivers the special -- a hot pork sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy, cole slaw and lemon meringue pie, all of which arrive quicker than a Big Mac at McDonald’s.
In these places, one person’s conversation is the common property of all. From one of the booths behind me, I hear a customer who is listening to the conversation tell me that he has been to Wyoming. He says he used to hunt near a place called Monkey Mountain.
“Monkey Mountain?” I respond, admitting that I never have heard of the place.
So I listen to the story of how a trainload of monkeys escaped into some trees near that place, and the locals decided to call it Monkey Mountain. At least, that is the story an Indian told him.
Fumbling with his memory, he also tries to describe a brewery and a large casino in Wyoming. Maybe I don’t know the state as well as I thought. But in the middle of his next story, about quaffing a $70 glass of beer, I excuse myself and leave the caf.
Near evening I reach Mount Ararat -- another major summit in the Alleghenies. On the way down, I coast slowly past what appears to be a scenic turnout and wonder if would be worthwhile to take a few photographs.
As I apply my brakes, a truck driver named Bob Chapman asks if I know that this is where Noah’s Ark used to be. I kid him about how it makes sense that Noah’s Ark should be found on Mount Ararat. But he is serious.
Then I remember reading about this famous place. It was a tourist stop built in the form of a ship that boasted a view of three states and seven counties. The structure burned down in 2001.
After taking a photo of Bob and his wife, Pam, I coast down quickly, even though it’s getting dark and I can’t clearly see potholes or cracks in the road. It is one of the longest and quickest glides I have experienced on the Lincoln Highway since descending Nevada’s Spooner Summit.
Ardath and I meet at a barn decorated with Lincoln Highway murals. Nearby is a high corral enclosing hay and shabby buffalo.
We drive east to the Lincoln Motor Court. Operated by Debbie and Bob Altizer, this nostalgic, rural set of cottages built during World War II is the only motor court cabin complex we have seen that still serves Lincoln Highway travelers.
Sept. 23. Ardath and I eat breakfast at Shawnee Bar and Grill near Schellsburg, where we meet owners Glenn Martin and Linda Cook. As a young man, Glenn worked on a wheat combining crew that worked its way into Wyoming. Linda gives us a couple of tasty Bedford County apples, each of which takes two hands to enclose.
After breakfast, we backtrack toward the mural barn but stop to pull into the Schellsburg Cemetery. Here, on an open hilltop, I manage to establish phone contact with Ken Hawk at WCCS in Indiana, Pa. Surrounded by tombstones, and near an 1806 church, I do an interview with Ken about our cross-country trip.
Today Ardath will hike in Shawnee State Park. Meanwhile, I begin my ride east from the painted barn, pedaling past a huge statue of the Pied Piper, past a fiberglass “Vincent Van Gas” gas pump, past an art-deco ceramic tile gas station in Bedford and through the village of Everett.
We end the day in Breezewood, which is not really a town, just a busy crossroads located in a small Allegheny valley. It’s full of trucks, cars, motels, gas stations, and I don’t need a telephoto lens to capture this congested scene.
Sept. 17. Rain is pouring down as we leave our motel in East Liverpool, Ohio. Ardath and I have to be in Pittsburgh, Pa., today for a newspaper interview, and we figure it will be easier to get a motel in Pittsburgh, do the interview and then return to East Liverpool and bike to Pittsburgh. Everywhere along U.S. 30 are coffee-colored rivulets and streams in places where rivulets and streams are not supposed to be. They are the overflow, the runoff from clay hills on either side of the highway. Even at high speed our windshield wipers cannot handle spatters from rooster tails thrown up by approaching traffic. By the time we reach Pittsburgh we are in the middle of the downpour caused by Hurricane Ivan. We drive our van under the canopy of the first decent-looking motel we see, register and pile the luggage onto a cart. Soon we are safely ensconced in our room on the fourth floor of this six-story motel that sits atop a Pittsburgh hill. We get a call from the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review reporter. The interview has been cancelled due to the storm. Ardath and I watch from our fourth-floor window as the downpour pounds Pittsburgh. We cannot see its immediate effects on the people below, but it eventually begins to affect the motel. Power surges cause our room lights to flicker, and the television occasionally loses its signal. Ardath is in the elevator when it quits working but manages to pull herself from the clutches of the automatic fire-prevention door and escape into the hallway before the elevator shuts down. Meanwhile, down the hall from our room, oblivious to the commotion outside, Nebraska fans are eating pizza, drinking beer and laughing, anticipating tomorrow’s game against the University of Pittsburgh. In the evening I walk down to the lobby. Buckets in front of the reception desk have to been placed to catch water dripping from the leaking roof. In our room Ardath inspects the ceiling and finds that the drywall is getting wet at the corners. Late this evening a TV weatherman reports that the storm is the worst in western Pennsylvania history. Last week’s storm in Pittsburgh caused by Hurricane Frances has been overshadowed by Ivan. A total of 5.25 inches have fallen in 16 hours. We watch live reports showing people already sitting on top of their houses or rowing boats in the streets. I think about the people below us. Are they having as rough a time as Cheyenneites did during the 1985 flood? Sept. 18.We stay put today as area water channels reach their crest. The Pennsylvania Turnpike is shut down and other roads are blocked by the water. We talk to a motel worker who was detoured twice before she got to work. But we have no worries. In fact, the storm has given me a chance to write up the previous week’s events for the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle. Sept. 19. Ardath and I return to East Liverpool on a sleepy Ohio Sunday morning. On the corner of an empty street I ask a local storeowner for directions over the Ohio River. No problem. Just a couple of right turns and we’re on the bridge to Chester, W.Va. On the other side of the river I’ll bicycle along a three-mile snippet of the Mountain State before entering Pennsylvania. I take off, gliding down a steep yellow brick road to the river, ascend a ramp, cross the Ohio River on a steel truss bridge and head toward Pittsburgh. Meanwhile, Ardath visits the Museum of Ceramics in East Liverpool. By 1900 East Liverpool was known as “America’s crockery city,” a title it held for decades. Today Fiesta ware pottery is once again being made there from the clays of eastern Ohio. The Ohio River is bank-to-bank full. Tree trunks, limbs and assorted vegetation float on their way downriver to the Mississippi. My ride on the other side of the river is up and down, all the way to Pittsburgh. Not much flat land in these Ohio River breaks. A thick growth of trees crowds up to either side of the road, except where houses, restaurants or filling stations make incursions. I imagined the Keystone State would be like this and am not disappointed. But before long the woodland gives way to strip malls. The road west of Pittsburgh, called the Steubenville Pike, is hectic, with no widening of the lanes or shoulders to ameliorate the almost intolerable traffic. Somehow, I manage to survive the traffic and have enough energy to negotiate the steep, San Francisco-like hills. Actually, it is a treat to ride in a neighborhood containing wonderful old homes.
Everywhere along U.S. 30 are coffee-colored rivulets and streams in places where rivulets and streams are not supposed to be. They are the overflow, the runoff from clay hills on either side of the highway.
Even at high speed our windshield wipers cannot handle spatters from rooster tails thrown up by approaching traffic.
By the time we reach Pittsburgh we are in the middle of the downpour caused by Hurricane Ivan. We drive our van under the canopy of the first decent-looking motel we see, register and pile the luggage onto a cart.
Soon we are safely ensconced in our room on the fourth floor of this six-story motel that sits atop a Pittsburgh hill. We get a call from the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review reporter. The interview has been cancelled due to the storm.
Ardath and I watch from our fourth-floor window as the downpour pounds Pittsburgh. We cannot see its immediate effects on the people below, but it eventually begins to affect the motel.
Power surges cause our room lights to flicker, and the television occasionally loses its signal. Ardath is in the elevator when it quits working but manages to pull herself from the clutches of the automatic fire-prevention door and escape into the hallway before the elevator shuts down.
Meanwhile, down the hall from our room, oblivious to the commotion outside, Nebraska fans are eating pizza, drinking beer and laughing, anticipating tomorrow’s game against the University of Pittsburgh.
In the evening I walk down to the lobby. Buckets in front of the reception desk have to been placed to catch water dripping from the leaking roof. In our room Ardath inspects the ceiling and finds that the drywall is getting wet at the corners.
Late this evening a TV weatherman reports that the storm is the worst in western Pennsylvania history. Last week’s storm in Pittsburgh caused by Hurricane Frances has been overshadowed by Ivan. A total of 5.25 inches have fallen in 16 hours.
We watch live reports showing people already sitting on top of their houses or rowing boats in the streets. I think about the people below us. Are they having as rough a time as Cheyenneites did during the 1985 flood?
Sept. 18.We stay put today as area water channels reach their crest. The Pennsylvania Turnpike is shut down and other roads are blocked by the water. We talk to a motel worker who was detoured twice before she got to work.
But we have no worries. In fact, the storm has given me a chance to write up the previous week’s events for the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle.
Sept. 19. Ardath and I return to East Liverpool on a sleepy Ohio Sunday morning. On the corner of an empty street I ask a local storeowner for directions over the Ohio River.
No problem. Just a couple of right turns and we’re on the bridge to Chester, W.Va. On the other side of the river I’ll bicycle along a three-mile snippet of the Mountain State before entering Pennsylvania.
I take off, gliding down a steep yellow brick road to the river, ascend a ramp, cross the Ohio River on a steel truss bridge and head toward Pittsburgh.
Meanwhile, Ardath visits the Museum of Ceramics in East Liverpool. By 1900 East Liverpool was known as “America’s crockery city,” a title it held for decades. Today Fiesta ware pottery is once again being made there from the clays of eastern Ohio.
The Ohio River is bank-to-bank full. Tree trunks, limbs and assorted vegetation float on their way downriver to the Mississippi.
My ride on the other side of the river is up and down, all the way to Pittsburgh. Not much flat land in these Ohio River breaks.
A thick growth of trees crowds up to either side of the road, except where houses, restaurants or filling stations make incursions. I imagined the Keystone State would be like this and am not disappointed.
But before long the woodland gives way to strip malls. The road west of Pittsburgh, called the Steubenville Pike, is hectic, with no widening of the lanes or shoulders to ameliorate the almost intolerable traffic.
Somehow, I manage to survive the traffic and have enough energy to negotiate the steep, San Francisco-like hills. Actually, it is a treat to ride in a neighborhood containing wonderful old homes.
Not far here is the “Point,” where the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers form the Ohio River. It appears that the West End Bridge has a pedestrian walkway that will allow me to cross over to the “Golden Triangle” of downtown Pittsburgh so I take it, stopping every few steel bridge cables to photograph a golden city in the glow of sunset. It is almost evening when I reach the football and baseball stadium complex at the heart of Steel City, U.S.A. In a slowly occurring reverie I realize this is the place of a recurring dream -- a daunting urban environment along the hilly Ohio River with its unfamiliar skyscrapers, somewhat narrow streets and warehouses, offices, restaurants and strange faces. By evening Ardath is nearing total frustration. She doesn’t like driving in congested urban areas. She has not had a good night’s sleep recently, and now she is in downtown Pittsburgh. She parks along a curb and waits for me. A couple of street people knocking on the van window put Ardath over her emotional edge. As I take photos of the Honus Wagner statue in front of the new PNC baseball park, my phone rings. It’s Ardath. Through her tears, she urges her pokey husband to get to our meeting point quickly. She wants to leave downtown and get into a motel room. She needs sanctuary. After a brief meeting, Ardath heads east along Liberty Street. I try to find the quickest way out of downtown on a less busy street. Aha! I see an empty two-lane street called East Liberty Street. The sign says “Bus Traffic Only” but I ignore it, knowing bikes can go where cars can’t. I’ll take this route even if I have to lift my Trek up over a barricade as I did along I-80 east of Green River, Wyo. Now, this is much better, isn’t it? No traffic. I can even hear a little buzz from insects in the trees. It’s getting darker, and I’m moving quickly through the cool air of an early fall evening. I’m cruising along when a patrol car approaches from the opposite direction, its red, white and blue lights flashing. A police officer steps out, crosses and asks where I think I’m going. “Officer, I realize I am on a ’buses only’ road, but I thought it would be a good bike route and, besides, my wife is getting impatient for us to get to a motel.” He asks for some identification and, after checking me out as thoroughly as my calling card will allow him, he tells me that I’ll have to turn around and go back. “Well,” I reply, “you came from that direction (pointing east), so I assume I can go east to where you came onto this highway? I don’t want to have to pedal all the way back to the downtown.” “No, sir, you’ll have to go back. This is a bus expressway.” Another patrol car with flashing lights pulls up. Uh oh. There must be something very wrong if this is serious enough to warrant the attention of two law officers. “Busted!” says the second officer as he rolls down his window. Is he smiling? I hope so. Convinced by both officers that I am on a bus expressway and that I must turn back, I apologize. After taking a photo of the patrol officer, I make a right on the first turnoff, giving a friendly wave behind me. I don’t want to see if the officers are waving back as I head east down Penn Avenue, where Ardath is waiting in “Little Italy.” Tired and forlorn, Ardath and I want to grab a quick bite and find a motel. Pasta would be fine. Before I can change from my biking shoes to my street shoes, two middle-aged couples come up to the van. Peppering us with questions, they begin to take our minds off our own misery. Tom and Linda Hosey and Betty and Fuzz Frankovich are intrigued by our cross-country jaunt and invite us to eat at D’Amico’s, an Italian restaurant just a few yards away. We agree. The dinner is superb and the conversation is lively. Before we part for the evening, Ardath and I have made new friends. We make plans to visit with these couples on our return trip from New York. Less than a mile down the street, we find, across from Shadyside Hospital, a new hotel where we book a room. All’s well that ends well. I guess that guardian angel hasn’t left my shoulder yet.
It is almost evening when I reach the football and baseball stadium complex at the heart of Steel City, U.S.A. In a slowly occurring reverie I realize this is the place of a recurring dream -- a daunting urban environment along the hilly Ohio River with its unfamiliar skyscrapers, somewhat narrow streets and warehouses, offices, restaurants and strange faces.
By evening Ardath is nearing total frustration. She doesn’t like driving in congested urban areas. She has not had a good night’s sleep recently, and now she is in downtown Pittsburgh. She parks along a curb and waits for me.
A couple of street people knocking on the van window put Ardath over her emotional edge. As I take photos of the Honus Wagner statue in front of the new PNC baseball park, my phone rings. It’s Ardath. Through her tears, she urges her pokey husband to get to our meeting point quickly. She wants to leave downtown and get into a motel room. She needs sanctuary.
After a brief meeting, Ardath heads east along Liberty Street. I try to find the quickest way out of downtown on a less busy street.
Aha! I see an empty two-lane street called East Liberty Street. The sign says “Bus Traffic Only” but I ignore it, knowing bikes can go where cars can’t. I’ll take this route even if I have to lift my Trek up over a barricade as I did along I-80 east of Green River, Wyo.
Now, this is much better, isn’t it? No traffic. I can even hear a little buzz from insects in the trees. It’s getting darker, and I’m moving quickly through the cool air of an early fall evening.
I’m cruising along when a patrol car approaches from the opposite direction, its red, white and blue lights flashing. A police officer steps out, crosses and asks where I think I’m going.
“Officer, I realize I am on a ’buses only’ road, but I thought it would be a good bike route and, besides, my wife is getting impatient for us to get to a motel.”
He asks for some identification and, after checking me out as thoroughly as my calling card will allow him, he tells me that I’ll have to turn around and go back.
“Well,” I reply, “you came from that direction (pointing east), so I assume I can go east to where you came onto this highway? I don’t want to have to pedal all the way back to the downtown.”
“No, sir, you’ll have to go back. This is a bus expressway.”
Another patrol car with flashing lights pulls up. Uh oh. There must be something very wrong if this is serious enough to warrant the attention of two law officers.
“Busted!” says the second officer as he rolls down his window.
Is he smiling? I hope so.
Convinced by both officers that I am on a bus expressway and that I must turn back, I apologize. After taking a photo of the patrol officer, I make a right on the first turnoff, giving a friendly wave behind me. I don’t want to see if the officers are waving back as I head east down Penn Avenue, where Ardath is waiting in “Little Italy.”
Tired and forlorn, Ardath and I want to grab a quick bite and find a motel. Pasta would be fine.
Before I can change from my biking shoes to my street shoes, two middle-aged couples come up to the van. Peppering us with questions, they begin to take our minds off our own misery.
Tom and Linda Hosey and Betty and Fuzz Frankovich are intrigued by our cross-country jaunt and invite us to eat at D’Amico’s, an Italian restaurant just a few yards away. We agree.
The dinner is superb and the conversation is lively. Before we part for the evening, Ardath and I have made new friends. We make plans to visit with these couples on our return trip from New York.
Less than a mile down the street, we find, across from Shadyside Hospital, a new hotel where we book a room.
All’s well that ends well. I guess that guardian angel hasn’t left my shoulder yet.
Sept. 10. Trees are beginning to change into fall colors, but the sun is still shining like summer. The vegetation of the Ohio countryside seems to grow more lush as we move east, even as summer wanes. This morning at Mansfield in north-central Ohio, Ardath and I reverse our direction and head for Indianapolis. We’re scheduled to visit Tyco Healthcare’s Puritan-Bennett Company, the place where the HELiOS is manufactured. HELiOS is the portable liquid oxygen system that is enabling me to bicycle the Lincoln Highway across America. The last time we saw Puritan-Bennett employees was during the second week of June when we left the West Coast. Ardath and I met Puritan Bennett President Randy Whitfield and rode through the streets of San Francisco with staff members of his engineering, sales and marketing departments. They work at Pleasanton, located east of Oakland near the Lincoln Highway. Today in Indianapolis we’ll meet Puritan-Bennett employees who actually fabricate the HELiOS. As we pull into the Puritan-Bennett parking lot we enter a horseshoe of more than 200 standing employees. They are wearing “HELiOS Freedom Tour” T-shirts and, as we slowly pull into the horseshoe, they are clapping their hands and cheering. We are overwhelmed. Ardath cries as she brakes the van to a stop between the lines of well-wishers. My brain freezes and I can’t think of what to say or do. Action seems more appropriate than just a wide-mouthed stare, so I step out of the van, open the driver’s door and invite the weeping Ardath to leave the vehicle and step outside. We begin shaking hands with Puritan-Bennett employees, including Whitfield, Plant Manager John Binz and HELiOS regional sales representatives. Occasionally I have dreams in which I find myself on stage in front of an audience that expects me to perform. But I can’t play a musical instrument, I can’t sing, I can’t do back flips. I can’t dunk a basketball. And I murder the simplest jokes. I guess I can ride a bicycle, but so can a lot of other people, including children and senior citizens. I can’t help feeling a bit vulnerable, perhaps like George W. Bush or John Kerry should have felt as they visited Ohio to explain to Rust Belt workers how their economic plans will produce jobs during the next four years. My phobia is groundless. Ardath and I do not have to perform a song-and-dance routine. It seems like we have already performed what was expected of us. Warm-hearted Puritan-Bennett employees want us to feel at home and want to express their personal good wishes for success as we continue our journey across America. Our task is simple. Just keep moving toward New York City. Employees and management know we are helping to make the public aware of their product, but they also take great pride in the fact that their product enables other people to lead productive lives, and in some cases to fulfill personal dreams. Puritan-Bennett opens with its first act, a tour of the manufacturing plant. The tour includes media representatives as well as representatives from the offices of U.S. Sen. Evan Bayh (D-Ind.) and U.S. Rep. Steve Buyer (R-Ind.). Donning our protective goggles, we begin a tour of this spic-and-span manufacturing facility, watching as employees create a device that enables people with C.O.P.D. (chronic, obstructive pulmonary disease) or other lung impairments to reclaim their lives. Sept. 12. At Bucyrus, I bicycle up to a fire station and take photographs of fireman Casey Easterday. The Easterday family --including Casey, his father and two uncles -- have logged 75 years as town firemen. Casey wants to give me a complete tour of their firehouse that will be a century old next year. But I have spent too much time on these interesting sidelights, so I decline the offer. Between the two of us, Ardath and I manage to log a gigabyte of photographs on the cards of our electronic cameras today. Sept. 13. At the principal intersection in the little hamlet of Leesville, Ohio, we meet Nancy Everly at her trading post/antique store. It is located right next to the oldest house in the county, a structure of weathered gray boards that dates back to 1833. Near Leesville, I encounter small hills that will become higher and more numerous as I bike eastward toward the Ohio River. Just as South Pass was a deceptive incline to Oregon Trail emigrants in Wyoming, I am beginning to find out there is a similarly gradual rise heading east. The increase in altitude is deceptive because the downhill sides seem nearly equal in length to the uphill climb. At Mansfield, Ohio, the elevation is already more than 1,200 feet.
This morning at Mansfield in north-central Ohio, Ardath and I reverse our direction and head for Indianapolis. We’re scheduled to visit Tyco Healthcare’s Puritan-Bennett Company, the place where the HELiOS is manufactured. HELiOS is the portable liquid oxygen system that is enabling me to bicycle the Lincoln Highway across America.
The last time we saw Puritan-Bennett employees was during the second week of June when we left the West Coast. Ardath and I met Puritan Bennett President Randy Whitfield and rode through the streets of San Francisco with staff members of his engineering, sales and marketing departments. They work at Pleasanton, located east of Oakland near the Lincoln Highway. Today in Indianapolis we’ll meet Puritan-Bennett employees who actually fabricate the HELiOS.
As we pull into the Puritan-Bennett parking lot we enter a horseshoe of more than 200 standing employees. They are wearing “HELiOS Freedom Tour” T-shirts and, as we slowly pull into the horseshoe, they are clapping their hands and cheering. We are overwhelmed. Ardath cries as she brakes the van to a stop between the lines of well-wishers. My brain freezes and I can’t think of what to say or do. Action seems more appropriate than just a wide-mouthed stare, so I step out of the van, open the driver’s door and invite the weeping Ardath to leave the vehicle and step outside. We begin shaking hands with Puritan-Bennett employees, including Whitfield, Plant Manager John Binz and HELiOS regional sales representatives.
Occasionally I have dreams in which I find myself on stage in front of an audience that expects me to perform. But I can’t play a musical instrument, I can’t sing, I can’t do back flips. I can’t dunk a basketball. And I murder the simplest jokes. I guess I can ride a bicycle, but so can a lot of other people, including children and senior citizens. I can’t help feeling a bit vulnerable, perhaps like George W. Bush or John Kerry should have felt as they visited Ohio to explain to Rust Belt workers how their economic plans will produce jobs during the next four years.
My phobia is groundless. Ardath and I do not have to perform a song-and-dance routine. It seems like we have already performed what was expected of us. Warm-hearted Puritan-Bennett employees want us to feel at home and want to express their personal good wishes for success as we continue our journey across America. Our task is simple. Just keep moving toward New York City.
Employees and management know we are helping to make the public aware of their product, but they also take great pride in the fact that their product enables other people to lead productive lives, and in some cases to fulfill personal dreams.
Puritan-Bennett opens with its first act, a tour of the manufacturing plant. The tour includes media representatives as well as representatives from the offices of U.S. Sen. Evan Bayh (D-Ind.) and U.S. Rep. Steve Buyer (R-Ind.). Donning our protective goggles, we begin a tour of this spic-and-span manufacturing facility, watching as employees create a device that enables people with C.O.P.D. (chronic, obstructive pulmonary disease) or other lung impairments to reclaim their lives.
Sept. 12. At Bucyrus, I bicycle up to a fire station and take photographs of fireman Casey Easterday. The Easterday family --including Casey, his father and two uncles -- have logged 75 years as town firemen. Casey wants to give me a complete tour of their firehouse that will be a century old next year. But I have spent too much time on these interesting sidelights, so I decline the offer. Between the two of us, Ardath and I manage to log a gigabyte of photographs on the cards of our electronic cameras today.
Sept. 13. At the principal intersection in the little hamlet of Leesville, Ohio, we meet Nancy Everly at her trading post/antique store. It is located right next to the oldest house in the county, a structure of weathered gray boards that dates back to 1833.
Near Leesville, I encounter small hills that will become higher and more numerous as I bike eastward toward the Ohio River. Just as South Pass was a deceptive incline to Oregon Trail emigrants in Wyoming, I am beginning to find out there is a similarly gradual rise heading east. The increase in altitude is deceptive because the downhill sides seem nearly equal in length to the uphill climb. At Mansfield, Ohio, the elevation is already more than 1,200 feet.
Sept. 14. Wooster, Ohio, is crammed with people attending the Wayne County Fair. As I ride the footpath along the fairgrounds fence, I take a breather to watch sulky racers on the track adjacent to the grandstand. Meanwhile Ardath is visiting an old bank turned into an art gallery featuring artists from all over Ohio. She also takes time to shop at Wooster’s Everything Rubbermaid store. Rubbermaid products abound, but in Wooster a Rubbermaid factory employing more than 1,000 workers has recently closed. East of Wooster I find Ely Road, a quieter, alternate route that parallels the Lincoln Highway in this part of Ohio. I’m headed toward Massillon (pronounced “Mazlin”), where legendary Cleveland Browns coach Paul Brown once coached a high school team. Brown is in the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, located eight miles east of Massillon. Before long I’m in Amish country. Houses are not connected to poles by electrical or telephone lines. Gardens and farmyards seem even more neatly manicured than the rural properties I saw along the road in Iowa, Illinois and Indiana. Along the narrow, paved road I encounter Joe Swartztruber of Apple Creek. Dressed in simple, handmade clothing, Joe and his two small children are in a hay wagon pulled by two Belgian horses. Joe holds the reins as the children stand next to him. They are sporting straw skimmer hats, but the front brims on the children’s hats are gone, chewed up. The opportunity is too much to resist. “May I take a photograph?” I ask, knowing full well that the Amish don’t like their pictures taken. The children don’t speak English and stare at me as if I were an alien (which I am). Joe, in a Pennsylvania Dutch accent, kindly informs me that he would rather I did not. It is their belief that photographs are vain. With auto traffic coming from both directions, this is a bad place to take pictures anyway, so we leave each other, moving in opposite directions. At a “T” in the road, I turn north in front of a house where two women in bonnets and plain gray, ankle-length dresses are using handmade brooms. They are sweeping the ground around pillars of bunched corn stalks. An image of Jean Millet’s painting “The Gleaners” comes to mind. In the cool of the early evening, the air feels and smells like deep autumn. Sept. 15.I bike 10 miles to Canton where Ardath and I meet Bill Jackson, a Tyco Healthcare sales representative who has driven all the way from Cleveland in order to treat us to lunch. Bill, Ardath and I spend a couple of hours at Bender’s, a historic downtown Canton restaurant. After exchanging detailed information about our lives, we all return to our tasks. This evening Ardath and I travel the longest stretch of red brick-paved Lincoln Highway we have seen on the trip. This two- to three-mile segment, laid down in 1919, is all that remains of 72 miles of brick pavement on the Lincoln in Ohio. At this point Ardath announces I’ve reached the 3,000 mile mark. This evening we reach the little town of Minerva. Running in the long shadows of daylight, we inquire about a place to stay for the night. Aimee and Jerry Hetrick, a friendly couple who own a former gas station along the Lincoln that has been turned into a collectibles shop, direct us to a nearby bed-and-breakfast. The bed-and-breakfast turns out to be a spacious log cabin in the woods. It was built as a summer home by Marilyn and Chris King. Marilyn is a retired nurse and Chris is a retired ophthalmologist who are active in community affairs, including Habitat for Humanity. Their zeal in helping other people has taken them to Nepal where Chris used his surgical skills to improve and restore the vision of Nepalese people. Sept. 16. This morning, in our beautiful cabin in the woods, Chris takes notes, capturing our story for a local newspaper. Returning to the highway at Minerva, I climb back onto my bike and later stop at Hanoverton for lunch at the U.S. 30 Caf. I order today’s special and afterward lay down my money. Caf owner Anita refuses to accept it, telling me that she does not charge cross-country bikers for meals. I tell her that I am glad to hear that, but that it just so happens that I like to pay generous people for meals. “Here,” she says to her waitress, Tiffany, handing her the $10 bill. Tiffany asks what she wants her to do with it, and Anita responds that Tiffany should put it in her pocket. All three of us finally are satisfied. This evening Ardath and I coast down a long, steep hill, coming to a stop at a school parking lot in East Liverpool. We have reached the Ohio River and will drive to Pittsburgh for a newspaper interview tomorrow; that is, if Hurricane Ivan does not interfere.
East of Wooster I find Ely Road, a quieter, alternate route that parallels the Lincoln Highway in this part of Ohio. I’m headed toward Massillon (pronounced “Mazlin”), where legendary Cleveland Browns coach Paul Brown once coached a high school team. Brown is in the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, located eight miles east of Massillon.
Before long I’m in Amish country. Houses are not connected to poles by electrical or telephone lines. Gardens and farmyards seem even more neatly manicured than the rural properties I saw along the road in Iowa, Illinois and Indiana.
Along the narrow, paved road I encounter Joe Swartztruber of Apple Creek. Dressed in simple, handmade clothing, Joe and his two small children are in a hay wagon pulled by two Belgian horses. Joe holds the reins as the children stand next to him. They are sporting straw skimmer hats, but the front brims on the children’s hats are gone, chewed up. The opportunity is too much to resist.
“May I take a photograph?” I ask, knowing full well that the Amish don’t like their pictures taken. The children don’t speak English and stare at me as if I were an alien (which I am). Joe, in a Pennsylvania Dutch accent, kindly informs me that he would rather I did not. It is their belief that photographs are vain. With auto traffic coming from both directions, this is a bad place to take pictures anyway, so we leave each other, moving in opposite directions.
At a “T” in the road, I turn north in front of a house where two women in bonnets and plain gray, ankle-length dresses are using handmade brooms. They are sweeping the ground around pillars of bunched corn stalks. An image of Jean Millet’s painting “The Gleaners” comes to mind. In the cool of the early evening, the air feels and smells like deep autumn.
Sept. 15.I bike 10 miles to Canton where Ardath and I meet Bill Jackson, a Tyco Healthcare sales representative who has driven all the way from Cleveland in order to treat us to lunch. Bill, Ardath and I spend a couple of hours at Bender’s, a historic downtown Canton restaurant. After exchanging detailed information about our lives, we all return to our tasks.
This evening Ardath and I travel the longest stretch of red brick-paved Lincoln Highway we have seen on the trip. This two- to three-mile segment, laid down in 1919, is all that remains of 72 miles of brick pavement on the Lincoln in Ohio. At this point Ardath announces I’ve reached the 3,000 mile mark.
This evening we reach the little town of Minerva. Running in the long shadows of daylight, we inquire about a place to stay for the night. Aimee and Jerry Hetrick, a friendly couple who own a former gas station along the Lincoln that has been turned into a collectibles shop, direct us to a nearby bed-and-breakfast.
The bed-and-breakfast turns out to be a spacious log cabin in the woods. It was built as a summer home by Marilyn and Chris King. Marilyn is a retired nurse and Chris is a retired ophthalmologist who are active in community affairs, including Habitat for Humanity. Their zeal in helping other people has taken them to Nepal where Chris used his surgical skills to improve and restore the vision of Nepalese people.
Sept. 16. This morning, in our beautiful cabin in the woods, Chris takes notes, capturing our story for a local newspaper. Returning to the highway at Minerva, I climb back onto my bike and later stop at Hanoverton for lunch at the U.S. 30 Caf. I order today’s special and afterward lay down my money.
Caf owner Anita refuses to accept it, telling me that she does not charge cross-country bikers for meals. I tell her that I am glad to hear that, but that it just so happens that I like to pay generous people for meals. “Here,” she says to her waitress, Tiffany, handing her the $10 bill. Tiffany asks what she wants her to do with it, and Anita responds that Tiffany should put it in her pocket. All three of us finally are satisfied.
This evening Ardath and I coast down a long, steep hill, coming to a stop at a school parking lot in East Liverpool. We have reached the Ohio River and will drive to Pittsburgh for a newspaper interview tomorrow; that is, if Hurricane Ivan does not interfere.
A Puritan-Bennett welcome... Ho! Eastward for the mountains!... I meet some Amish... Marilyn and Chris... there’s no such thing as a free lunch. September 10. Trees are beginning to change into their fall colors, but the sun is still shining like summer. The vegetation of the Ohio rural countryside seems to grow more lush as we move east, even as the summer wanes. This morning at Mansfield in north-central Ohio, Ardath and I reverse our direction and head for Indianapolis, Indiana. We’re scheduled to visit Tyco Healthcare’s Puritan-Bennett Company, the place where the HELiOS is manufactured. HELiOS is the portable liquid oxygen system that is enabling me to bicycle the Lincoln Highway across America. The last time we saw Puritan-Bennett employees was during the second week of June when we left the West Coast. Ardath and I met Puritan Bennett’s president, Randy Whitfield, and rode through the streets of San Francisco with staff members of his engineering, sales and marketing departments. They work at Pleasanton, located east of Oakland near the Lincoln Highway. Today in Indianapolis we’ll meet Puritan-Bennett employees who actually fabricate the HELiOS. As we pull into the Puritan-Bennett parking lot we enter a horseshoe of more than 200 standing employees. They are wearing “HELiOS Freedom Tour” T-shirts and, as we slowly pull into the horseshoe, they are clapping their hands and cheering. We are overwhelmed. Ardath cries as she brakes the van to a stop between the lines of well-wishers. My brain freezes and I can’t think of what to say or do. Action seems more appropriate than just a wide-mouthed stare, so I step out of the van, open the driver’s door and invite the weeping Ardath to leave the vehicle and step outside. We begin shaking hands with Puritan-Bennett employees, including President Randy Whitfield, Plant Manager John Binz and HELiOS regional sales representatives. Occasionally I have dreams in which I find myself on stage in front of an audience that expects me to perform. But I can’t play a musical instrument, I can’t sing, I can’t do back flips. I can’t slam dunk a basketball. And I murder the simplest jokes. I guess I can ride a bicycle, but so can a lot of other people, including children and senior citizens. I can’t help feeling a bit vulnerable, perhaps like George W. Bush or John Kerry should have felt as they visited Ohio to explain to Rust Belt workers how their economic plans will produce jobs during the next four years. My phobia is groundless. Ardath and I do not have to perform a song-and-dance routine. It seems like we have already performed what was expected of us. Warm-hearted Puritan-Bennett employees want us to feel at home and want to express their personal good wishes for success as we continue our journey across America. Our task is simple. Just keep moving toward New York City. Employees and management know that we are helping to bring about public aware of their product, but they also take great pride in the fact that their product enables other people to lead productive lives, and in some cases to fulfill personal dreams. Puritan-Bennett opens with their first act, a tour of their manufacturing plant. The tour that includes media representatives as well as representatives from the offices of Indiana U.S. Senator Bayh and U.S. Congressman Buyer. Donning our protective goggles, we begin a tour of this spic-and-span manufacturing facility, watching as employees create a device that enables people with C.O.P.D. (chronic, obstructive pulmonary disease) or other lung impairments to reclaim their lives. September 12. At Bucyrus, I bicycle up to a fire station and take photographs of fireman, Casey Easterday. The Easterday family, including Casey, his father and two uncles, have logged 75 years as town firemen. Casey wants to give me a complete tour of their firehouse that will be a century old next year. But I have spent too much time on these interesting sidelights, so I decline the offer. Between the two of us, Ardath and I manage to log a gigabyte of photographs on the cards of our electronic cameras today. September 13. At the principal intersection in the little hamlet of Leesville, Ohio we meet Nancy Everly at her trading post/antique store. It is located right next to the oldest house in the county, a structure of weathered grey boards that dates back to 1833. Near Leesville, I encounter small hills that will become higher and more numerous as I bike eastward toward the Ohio River. Just as South Pass was a deceptive incline to Oregon Trail emigrants in Wyoming, I am beginning to find out there is a similarly gradual rise heading east. The increase in altitude is deceptive because the downhill sides of the hills seem nearly equal in length to the uphill climb. At Mansfield, Ohio, the elevation is already more than 1200 feet. September 14. Wooster, Ohio is crammed with people attending the Wayne County Fair. As I ride the footpath along the fairgrounds fence, I take a breather to watch sulky racers on the track adjacent to the grandstand. Meanwhile Ardath is visiting an old bank turned into an art gallery featuring artists from all over Ohio. She also takes time to shop at Wooster’s “Everything Rubbermaid” store. Rubbermaid products abound, but in Wooster a Rubbermaid factory employing more than 1,000 workers has recently closed.
September 10. Trees are beginning to change into their fall colors, but the sun is still shining like summer. The vegetation of the Ohio rural countryside seems to grow more lush as we move east, even as the summer wanes.
This morning at Mansfield in north-central Ohio, Ardath and I reverse our direction and head for Indianapolis, Indiana. We’re scheduled to visit Tyco Healthcare’s Puritan-Bennett Company, the place where the HELiOS is manufactured. HELiOS is the portable liquid oxygen system that is enabling me to bicycle the Lincoln Highway across America.
The last time we saw Puritan-Bennett employees was during the second week of June when we left the West Coast. Ardath and I met Puritan Bennett’s president, Randy Whitfield, and rode through the streets of San Francisco with staff members of his engineering, sales and marketing departments. They work at Pleasanton, located east of Oakland near the Lincoln Highway. Today in Indianapolis we’ll meet Puritan-Bennett employees who actually fabricate the HELiOS.
As we pull into the Puritan-Bennett parking lot we enter a horseshoe of more than 200 standing employees. They are wearing “HELiOS Freedom Tour” T-shirts and, as we slowly pull into the horseshoe, they are clapping their hands and cheering. We are overwhelmed. Ardath cries as she brakes the van to a stop between the lines of well-wishers. My brain freezes and I can’t think of what to say or do. Action seems more appropriate than just a wide-mouthed stare, so I step out of the van, open the driver’s door and invite the weeping Ardath to leave the vehicle and step outside. We begin shaking hands with Puritan-Bennett employees, including President Randy Whitfield, Plant Manager John Binz and HELiOS regional sales representatives.
Occasionally I have dreams in which I find myself on stage in front of an audience that expects me to perform. But I can’t play a musical instrument, I can’t sing, I can’t do back flips. I can’t slam dunk a basketball. And I murder the simplest jokes. I guess I can ride a bicycle, but so can a lot of other people, including children and senior citizens. I can’t help feeling a bit vulnerable, perhaps like George W. Bush or John Kerry should have felt as they visited Ohio to explain to Rust Belt workers how their economic plans will produce jobs during the next four years.
My phobia is groundless. Ardath and I do not have to perform a song-and-dance routine. It seems like we have already performed what was expected of us. Warm-hearted Puritan-Bennett employees want us to feel at home and want to express their personal good wishes for success as we continue our journey across America. Our task is simple. Just keep moving toward New York City. Employees and management know that we are helping to bring about public aware of their product, but they also take great pride in the fact that their product enables other people to lead productive lives, and in some cases to fulfill personal dreams.
Puritan-Bennett opens with their first act, a tour of their manufacturing plant. The tour that includes media representatives as well as representatives from the offices of Indiana U.S. Senator Bayh and U.S. Congressman Buyer. Donning our protective goggles, we begin a tour of this spic-and-span manufacturing facility, watching as employees create a device that enables people with C.O.P.D. (chronic, obstructive pulmonary disease) or other lung impairments to reclaim their lives.
September 12. At Bucyrus, I bicycle up to a fire station and take photographs of fireman, Casey Easterday. The Easterday family, including Casey, his father and two uncles, have logged 75 years as town firemen. Casey wants to give me a complete tour of their firehouse that will be a century old next year. But I have spent too much time on these interesting sidelights, so I decline the offer. Between the two of us, Ardath and I manage to log a gigabyte of photographs on the cards of our electronic cameras today.
September 13. At the principal intersection in the little hamlet of Leesville, Ohio we meet Nancy Everly at her trading post/antique store. It is located right next to the oldest house in the county, a structure of weathered grey boards that dates back to 1833.
Near Leesville, I encounter small hills that will become higher and more numerous as I bike eastward toward the Ohio River. Just as South Pass was a deceptive incline to Oregon Trail emigrants in Wyoming, I am beginning to find out there is a similarly gradual rise heading east. The increase in altitude is deceptive because the downhill sides of the hills seem nearly equal in length to the uphill climb. At Mansfield, Ohio, the elevation is already more than 1200 feet.
September 14. Wooster, Ohio is crammed with people attending the Wayne County Fair. As I ride the footpath along the fairgrounds fence, I take a breather to watch sulky racers on the track adjacent to the grandstand. Meanwhile Ardath is visiting an old bank turned into an art gallery featuring artists from all over Ohio. She also takes time to shop at Wooster’s “Everything Rubbermaid” store. Rubbermaid products abound, but in Wooster a Rubbermaid factory employing more than 1,000 workers has recently closed.
East of Wooster I find Ely Road, a quieter, alternate route that parallels the Lincoln Highway in this part of Ohio. I’m headed toward Massillon (pronounced “Mazlin”), where legendary Cleveland Browns coach Paul Brown once coached a high school team. Brown is in the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, located eight miles east of Massillon. Before long I’m in Amish country. Houses are not connected to poles by electrical or telephone lines. Gardens and farmyards seem even more neatly manicured than the rural properties I saw along the road in Iowa, Illinois and Indiana. Along the narrow, paved road I encounter Joe Swartztruber of Apple Creek. Dressed in simple, handmade clothing, Joe and his two small children are in a hay wagon pulled by two Belgian horses. Joe holds the reins as the children stand next to him. They are sporting straw skimmer hats, but the front brims on the children’s hats are gone, chewed up. The opportunity is too much to resist. “May I take a photograph?” I ask, knowing full well that the Amish don’t like their pictures taken. The children don’t speak English and stare at me as if I were an alien (which I am). Joe, in a Pennsylvania Dutch accent, kindly informs me that he would rather I did not. It is their belief that photographs are vain. With auto traffic coming from both directions, this is a bad place to take pictures, anyway, so we leave each other, moving in opposite directions. At a “T” in the road, I turn north in front of a house where two women in bonnets and plain gray, ankle-length dresses are using handmade brooms. They are sweeping the ground around pillars of bunched corn stalks. An image of Jean Millet’s painting “The Gleaners” comes to mind. In the cool of the early evening, the air feels and smells like deep autumn. September 15. I bike ten miles to Canton where Ardath and I meet Bill Jackson, a Tyco Healthcare sales representative who has driven all the way from Cleveland in order to treat us to lunch. Bill, Ardath and I spend a couple of hours at Bender’s, a historic downtown Canton restaurant. After exchanging detailed information about our lives, we all return to our tasks. This evening Ardath and I travel the longest stretch of red brick-paved Lincoln Highway we have seen on the trip. This two to three-mile segment, laid down in 1919, is all that remains of 72 miles of brick pavement on the Lincoln in Ohio. At this point Ardath announces I’ve reached the 3,000 mile mark. This evening we reach the little town of Minerva. Running in the long shadows of daylight, we inquire about a place to stay for the night. Aimee and Jerry Hetrick, a friendly couple who own the a former gas station along the Lincoln that has been turned into a collectibles shop named the “Coffee Station”, direct us to a nearby bed and breakfast. The bed and breakfast inn turns out to be a spacious log cabin in the woods. It was built as a summer home by Marilyn and Chris King. Marilyn is a retired nurse and Chris is a retired ophthalmologist who are active in community affairs including Habitat for Humanity. Their zeal in helping other people has taken them to Nepal where Chris used his surgical skills to improve and restore the vision of Nepalese people. September 16. This morning, in our beautiful cabin in the woods, Chris takes notes, capturing our story for a local newspaper. Returning to the highway at Minerva, I climb back onto my bike, and later stop at Hanoverton for lunch at the “U.S. 30 Café”. I order today’s special and afterward lay down my money. Caf owner, Anita, refuses to accept it, telling me that she does not charge cross-country bikers for meals. I tell her that I am glad to hear that, but that it just so happens that I like to pay generous people for meals. “Here”, she says to her waitress, Tiffany, handing her the $10 bill. Tiffany asks Anita what her boss wants she to do with it and Anita responds that Tiffany should put it in her waitress pocket. All three of us finally are satisfied. This evening Ardath and I coast down a long, steep hill, coming to a stop at a school parking lot in East Liverpool. We have reached the Ohio River and will drive to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for a newspaper interview tomorrow; that is, if Hurricane Ivan does not interfere. More anon, Mark
“May I take a photograph?” I ask, knowing full well that the Amish don’t like their pictures taken. The children don’t speak English and stare at me as if I were an alien (which I am). Joe, in a Pennsylvania Dutch accent, kindly informs me that he would rather I did not. It is their belief that photographs are vain. With auto traffic coming from both directions, this is a bad place to take pictures, anyway, so we leave each other, moving in opposite directions.
September 15. I bike ten miles to Canton where Ardath and I meet Bill Jackson, a Tyco Healthcare sales representative who has driven all the way from Cleveland in order to treat us to lunch. Bill, Ardath and I spend a couple of hours at Bender’s, a historic downtown Canton restaurant. After exchanging detailed information about our lives, we all return to our tasks.
This evening Ardath and I travel the longest stretch of red brick-paved Lincoln Highway we have seen on the trip. This two to three-mile segment, laid down in 1919, is all that remains of 72 miles of brick pavement on the Lincoln in Ohio. At this point Ardath announces I’ve reached the 3,000 mile mark.
This evening we reach the little town of Minerva. Running in the long shadows of daylight, we inquire about a place to stay for the night. Aimee and Jerry Hetrick, a friendly couple who own the a former gas station along the Lincoln that has been turned into a collectibles shop named the “Coffee Station”, direct us to a nearby bed and breakfast.
The bed and breakfast inn turns out to be a spacious log cabin in the woods. It was built as a summer home by Marilyn and Chris King. Marilyn is a retired nurse and Chris is a retired ophthalmologist who are active in community affairs including Habitat for Humanity. Their zeal in helping other people has taken them to Nepal where Chris used his surgical skills to improve and restore the vision of Nepalese people.
September 16. This morning, in our beautiful cabin in the woods, Chris takes notes, capturing our story for a local newspaper. Returning to the highway at Minerva, I climb back onto my bike, and later stop at Hanoverton for lunch at the “U.S. 30 Café”. I order today’s special and afterward lay down my money. Caf owner, Anita, refuses to accept it, telling me that she does not charge cross-country bikers for meals. I tell her that I am glad to hear that, but that it just so happens that I like to pay generous people for meals. “Here”, she says to her waitress, Tiffany, handing her the $10 bill. Tiffany asks Anita what her boss wants she to do with it and Anita responds that Tiffany should put it in her waitress pocket. All three of us finally are satisfied.
This evening Ardath and I coast down a long, steep hill, coming to a stop at a school parking lot in East Liverpool. We have reached the Ohio River and will drive to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for a newspaper interview tomorrow; that is, if Hurricane Ivan does not interfere.
Gentlemen, start your bicycles... blueberries, blueberries everywhere but not a blueberry to eat... Hoosier stories... state your name, date of birth and social security number September 2. Unlike the two-lane Lincoln Highway in Iowa, four-lane U.S. 30 in Indiana has wide shoulders. Trucks, cars and motorcycles zip by fifteen feet away, but I pay scant attention to the noise or even bother to check the rear view mirror on my bicycle handlebar. I’m in my own private Indiana, riding a lane of concrete through corn, soybeans and tree windbreaks. Northwestern Indiana is about as flat as flat can be. I guess the glaciers that created the Great Lakes had something to do with it. Whatever. At least here I’m not fighting traffic and hills at the same time. Besides, I don’t need as much oxygen on flat ground at an elevation that is not much higher than sea level. The problem with a wide highway divided by a wide median strip and bordered by wide shoulders is that it pushes away houses, barns, churches, tractors and people. Travel the wide, impersonal transportation artery and you lose that rustic ambience of rural and small town America, one of the most enjoyable features of a Lincoln Highway odyssey. On the other hand, following the Lincoln through the heart of a small town a bicyclist can pedal leisurely down a picturesque Main Street that almost inevitably becomes a tree-lined avenue. Off to the sides are nineteenth century homes of stone, brick or wood, some with wrought iron fences. Once in a while I cross a low curb on the corner or turn up a private driveway and ride the old, heaving sidewalks. This close to homes there is no excuse not to nod or wave to people mowing their lawns or sitting on their front porches. Stopping to take photos usually invites a “good morning” or a “hello, where are you headed?” Ardath and I manage to obtain the last room available in a motel in Plymouth, Indiana. Seems like lately we’ve been bumping smack dab into some type of festival in Illinois and Indiana the corn festival, the pumpkin festival, the popcorn, scarecrow and squawbucks festival (I have no idea what a squawbuck is), and this time it’s the Blueberry Festival. The town is jam-packed. September 4. Today somewhere in Plymouth people are enjoying the blueberry festival but Ardath and I don’t have time for the festivities. Our nod to the celebration will be to eat blueberries for breakfast at a restaurant across the street from our motel. Seated at the restaurant we see people in adjacent booths who look like they are stuffed with blueberries. When we ask for fresh blueberries the waitress peers at us like we’re pulling her leg. “Fresh blueberries? “Yes, I thought this was the blueberry festival”, I insist. Her response is yes, it is, but the restaurant doesn’t have any fresh blueberries. “Well, then, can I get some pancakes with fresh blueberries?” Her reply is no. “We can make you some blueberry pancakes but we use frozen blueberries.” I reflect to myself, “Why advertise the blueberry festival on your restaurant sign if you’re not going to serve blueberries?” We leave Plymouth without having seen a fresh blueberry. Ardath doesn’t even know what a blueberry bush looks like. Maybe, she speculates, we’ve passed up blueberries along the highway without recognizing them. We ask people about the blueberry festival and hear about events such as tractor pulls, a bicycle race, bands and a carnival, but my suspicion is that this blueberry business is all humbuggery. They probably don’t even have a blueberry pie-eating contest. September 5. Columbia City, Indiana is one of those pleasant little towns that someday I would like to describe in greater detail but I think Sinclair Lewis got the jump on me. Along a row of houses in a Lincoln Highway neighborhood I spot senior citizen, Ron Martz, sitting on his front porch eating a bag of potato chips. I ask if I can take his photo and he says he doesn’t mind one bit. He is an amiable old boy with that low-key, restrained sense of humor that you find among rural people who have worked physically hard all their lives but don’t let everybody know about it. I can’t remember our conversation word for word, but I’ll give you a paraphrased snippet: “Hi. Mind if I take your picture?” “I don’t mind. I don’t want to break your camera,” (a timeworn response). “No problem. How do you like living in Columbia City?” “Well, I was in the military and traveled halfway around the world and this is about as good a place as I’ve run into.” “Were you a farmer?” “I guess I farmed at it”, he replies with a grin. Ron asks me how old I think he is. Based on his appearance, I estimate that he is in his nineties. But I don’t say it, not wanting to insult him. I think it would be more polite to guess downward from 90. “Oh, I’d say you were somewhere in your eighties,” I reply, supposing that he’ll be flattered. “I’ll be 80 next month, he says. Neither of us says anything for a second as he smiles and I try to figure out how to extricate myself from this social blunder. Good thing I don’t have a job as a weight-guesser at some Midwest carnival. It’s getting late and I need to reach our motel near Ft. Wayne. On the eastern fringe of the downtown, I find myself in a predominantly black neighborhood. Suddenly I realize that, except for my travels through Stockton, Oakland, Omaha and the south Chicago area, I haven’t seen very many black people along the Lincoln Highway.
September 2. Unlike the two-lane Lincoln Highway in Iowa, four-lane U.S. 30 in Indiana has wide shoulders. Trucks, cars and motorcycles zip by fifteen feet away, but I pay scant attention to the noise or even bother to check the rear view mirror on my bicycle handlebar. I’m in my own private Indiana, riding a lane of concrete through corn, soybeans and tree windbreaks.
Northwestern Indiana is about as flat as flat can be. I guess the glaciers that created the Great Lakes had something to do with it. Whatever. At least here I’m not fighting traffic and hills at the same time. Besides, I don’t need as much oxygen on flat ground at an elevation that is not much higher than sea level.
The problem with a wide highway divided by a wide median strip and bordered by wide shoulders is that it pushes away houses, barns, churches, tractors and people. Travel the wide, impersonal transportation artery and you lose that rustic ambience of rural and small town America, one of the most enjoyable features of a Lincoln Highway odyssey.
On the other hand, following the Lincoln through the heart of a small town a bicyclist can pedal leisurely down a picturesque Main Street that almost inevitably becomes a tree-lined avenue. Off to the sides are nineteenth century homes of stone, brick or wood, some with wrought iron fences. Once in a while I cross a low curb on the corner or turn up a private driveway and ride the old, heaving sidewalks. This close to homes there is no excuse not to nod or wave to people mowing their lawns or sitting on their front porches. Stopping to take photos usually invites a “good morning” or a “hello, where are you headed?”
Ardath and I manage to obtain the last room available in a motel in Plymouth, Indiana. Seems like lately we’ve been bumping smack dab into some type of festival in Illinois and Indiana the corn festival, the pumpkin festival, the popcorn, scarecrow and squawbucks festival (I have no idea what a squawbuck is), and this time it’s the Blueberry Festival. The town is jam-packed.
September 4. Today somewhere in Plymouth people are enjoying the blueberry festival but Ardath and I don’t have time for the festivities. Our nod to the celebration will be to eat blueberries for breakfast at a restaurant across the street from our motel. Seated at the restaurant we see people in adjacent booths who look like they are stuffed with blueberries. When we ask for fresh blueberries the waitress peers at us like we’re pulling her leg. “Fresh blueberries? “Yes, I thought this was the blueberry festival”, I insist. Her response is yes, it is, but the restaurant doesn’t have any fresh blueberries. “Well, then, can I get some pancakes with fresh blueberries?” Her reply is no. “We can make you some blueberry pancakes but we use frozen blueberries.” I reflect to myself, “Why advertise the blueberry festival on your restaurant sign if you’re not going to serve blueberries?”
We leave Plymouth without having seen a fresh blueberry. Ardath doesn’t even know what a blueberry bush looks like. Maybe, she speculates, we’ve passed up blueberries along the highway without recognizing them. We ask people about the blueberry festival and hear about events such as tractor pulls, a bicycle race, bands and a carnival, but my suspicion is that this blueberry business is all humbuggery. They probably don’t even have a blueberry pie-eating contest.
September 5. Columbia City, Indiana is one of those pleasant little towns that someday I would like to describe in greater detail but I think Sinclair Lewis got the jump on me. Along a row of houses in a Lincoln Highway neighborhood I spot senior citizen, Ron Martz, sitting on his front porch eating a bag of potato chips. I ask if I can take his photo and he says he doesn’t mind one bit. He is an amiable old boy with that low-key, restrained sense of humor that you find among rural people who have worked physically hard all their lives but don’t let everybody know about it. I can’t remember our conversation word for word, but I’ll give you a paraphrased snippet: “Hi. Mind if I take your picture?” “I don’t mind. I don’t want to break your camera,” (a timeworn response). “No problem. How do you like living in Columbia City?” “Well, I was in the military and traveled halfway around the world and this is about as good a place as I’ve run into.” “Were you a farmer?” “I guess I farmed at it”, he replies with a grin. Ron asks me how old I think he is. Based on his appearance, I estimate that he is in his nineties. But I don’t say it, not wanting to insult him. I think it would be more polite to guess downward from 90. “Oh, I’d say you were somewhere in your eighties,” I reply, supposing that he’ll be flattered. “I’ll be 80 next month, he says. Neither of us says anything for a second as he smiles and I try to figure out how to extricate myself from this social blunder. Good thing I don’t have a job as a weight-guesser at some Midwest carnival.
It’s getting late and I need to reach our motel near Ft. Wayne. On the eastern fringe of the downtown, I find myself in a predominantly black neighborhood. Suddenly I realize that, except for my travels through Stockton, Oakland, Omaha and the south Chicago area, I haven’t seen very many black people along the Lincoln Highway.
I stop briefly at a brick building painted with a wall mural where I engage in conversation with a black man dressed in grey-green coveralls and carrying a bag of golf clubs. Despite his baggy clothes and white beard, 63-year-old Robert appears fit. I tell him he looks like he’s in good shape and he tells me that he hits golf balls and walks five to ten miles a day. Sometimes people tell you incredible stories, even if you don’t ask for them. Robert explains that he has lived in Fort Wayne for 35 years but his original home is Georgia. He is lucky to be alive, he says. One morning, when he was six years old, his father blocked the doorway to the kitchen and wiped out 16 members of the family with his shotgun. Robert, who was playing on the back porch with a friend at the time, escaped into the nearby woods. After spending some time at an orphanage, eventually Robert found his way north with a truck driver. Today he lives in a Fort Wayne Enterprise Zone where an old neighborhood is being rehabilitated. Before I leave he wishes me luck, shakes my hand and says he’ll pray for me. September 6. East of Fort Wayne I reach a large, “Welcome to Ohio” metal highway sign bridging U.S. 30. The northwest edge of the Buckeye state does not appear to be much different from Eastern Indiana and I guess I didn’t expect it to be. It’s still flat. Corn, soybeans and clumps of trees still grow up to the road right-of-way. But the winds have picked up a little. I hear that they are the fringe of Hurricane Frances working her way inland, but another person tells me that they’re just part of a cold front dropping down from the north. It doesn’t matter. I’m now pedaling through blustery crosswinds. September 7. At the Lima Cyclery and Fitness shop, Calvin Hansen spruces up my Trek bike for the price of the materials. He is one of the many people we have found at bike shops along the route who are anxious to contribute to the HELiOS, oxygen-powered, cross-country bicycle adventure. These people refuse to accept payment for their labor. September 8. Well, I guess today belongs in the “It was bound to happen” category. After taking photographs of some architectural details along a Cairo, Ohio street I notice some neighbors watching me. I give them a friendly nod and keep on shooting. Just before crossing a nearby intersection to photograph the an abandoned caf named “Lincoln Log Cabin”, a young man leans out of his car window and asks me what I’m doing taking photos of houses. I’m trying to capture some of the architecture along the Lincoln Highway, I tell him. Thinking, he looks away for a moment and then yells back, “OK” in a tone of permission. “Suspicious, I guess,” I think to myself after he drives away. But I can’t help getting the feeling that I’m being perceived as too nosey. About two miles out of town I look in my rear view mirror and see a car with flashing lights. I pull off the pavement. A highway patrolman whose badge says J. Deaton, asks me what I’m doing taking photographs in Cairo. I remember Rod Steiger in the movie “In the Heat of the Night” and think, “Uh-oh. Here we go.” The patrolman asks me for my card and I quickly retrieve one from my handlebar bag. Officer Deaton also asks me for my social security number. I give it to him and he walks back to his patrol vehicle. He makes a phone call (as I take his picture) and then comes back and says he needs more information. Can I give him my address? Yes, I can. He returns to his car with my Cheyenne address. After another delay he returns to report that there are no current warrants for my arrest, emphasizing the word, “current.” After I explain what I am trying to accomplish in this Tyco Healthcare-sponsored trip he finally seems satisfied. I tell him that I think I know who reported me. Deaton explains that sometimes a citizen gets overzealous, especially after the events of 9/11. I tell him that I understand but that I hardly look like Osama Bin Laden. Deaton goes on to explain that there is a tank plant in nearby Lima, Ohio and he occasionally gets calls from citizens about realtors who take photographs in the vicinity of the plant. No problem, I tell Jason. It’s probably a good thing that citizens are so watchful, protecting their town from terrorists. You never know what may be up the sleeve of a sleeveless biker rider with an oxygen tube in his nose. Before I leave Jason another patrolman pulls up in his car and joins us. Roy Brock poses with Jason along the side of the road as I take their picture. Roy wants to know if I want him to put his flashing light on. That won’t be necessary, I tell him. I thank both officers for putting a little excitement in what is otherwise a gloomy, overcast and drizzling day, I get back on my bike and head for Upper Sandusky. More anon, Mark
Sometimes people tell you incredible stories, even if you don’t ask for them. Robert explains that he has lived in Fort Wayne for 35 years but his original home is Georgia. He is lucky to be alive, he says. One morning, when he was six years old, his father blocked the doorway to the kitchen and wiped out 16 members of the family with his shotgun. Robert, who was playing on the back porch with a friend at the time, escaped into the nearby woods. After spending some time at an orphanage, eventually Robert found his way north with a truck driver. Today he lives in a Fort Wayne Enterprise Zone where an old neighborhood is being rehabilitated. Before I leave he wishes me luck, shakes my hand and says he’ll pray for me.
September 6. East of Fort Wayne I reach a large, “Welcome to Ohio” metal highway sign bridging U.S. 30. The northwest edge of the Buckeye state does not appear to be much different from Eastern Indiana and I guess I didn’t expect it to be. It’s still flat. Corn, soybeans and clumps of trees still grow up to the road right-of-way. But the winds have picked up a little. I hear that they are the fringe of Hurricane Frances working her way inland, but another person tells me that they’re just part of a cold front dropping down from the north. It doesn’t matter. I’m now pedaling through blustery crosswinds.
September 7. At the Lima Cyclery and Fitness shop, Calvin Hansen spruces up my Trek bike for the price of the materials. He is one of the many people we have found at bike shops along the route who are anxious to contribute to the HELiOS, oxygen-powered, cross-country bicycle adventure. These people refuse to accept payment for their labor.
September 8. Well, I guess today belongs in the “It was bound to happen” category. After taking photographs of some architectural details along a Cairo, Ohio street I notice some neighbors watching me. I give them a friendly nod and keep on shooting. Just before crossing a nearby intersection to photograph the an abandoned caf named “Lincoln Log Cabin”, a young man leans out of his car window and asks me what I’m doing taking photos of houses.
I’m trying to capture some of the architecture along the Lincoln Highway, I tell him. Thinking, he looks away for a moment and then yells back, “OK” in a tone of permission. “Suspicious, I guess,” I think to myself after he drives away. But I can’t help getting the feeling that I’m being perceived as too nosey. About two miles out of town I look in my rear view mirror and see a car with flashing lights. I pull off the pavement. A highway patrolman whose badge says J. Deaton, asks me what I’m doing taking photographs in Cairo.
I remember Rod Steiger in the movie “In the Heat of the Night” and think, “Uh-oh. Here we go.” The patrolman asks me for my card and I quickly retrieve one from my handlebar bag. Officer Deaton also asks me for my social security number. I give it to him and he walks back to his patrol vehicle. He makes a phone call (as I take his picture) and then comes back and says he needs more information. Can I give him my address? Yes, I can. He returns to his car with my Cheyenne address. After another delay he returns to report that there are no current warrants for my arrest, emphasizing the word, “current.”
After I explain what I am trying to accomplish in this Tyco Healthcare-sponsored trip he finally seems satisfied. I tell him that I think I know who reported me. Deaton explains that sometimes a citizen gets overzealous, especially after the events of 9/11. I tell him that I understand but that I hardly look like Osama Bin Laden. Deaton goes on to explain that there is a tank plant in nearby Lima, Ohio and he occasionally gets calls from citizens about realtors who take photographs in the vicinity of the plant. No problem, I tell Jason. It’s probably a good thing that citizens are so watchful, protecting their town from terrorists. You never know what may be up the sleeve of a sleeveless biker rider with an oxygen tube in his nose.
Before I leave Jason another patrolman pulls up in his car and joins us. Roy Brock poses with Jason along the side of the road as I take their picture. Roy wants to know if I want him to put his flashing light on. That won’t be necessary, I tell him. I thank both officers for putting a little excitement in what is otherwise a gloomy, overcast and drizzling day, I get back on my bike and head for Upper Sandusky.
The Mighty Mississippi or: “tote dat bar, liff dat bale, get a little money and you lands in jail; I gets weary ”... Dixon, Illinois or: “Reaganville”... “Sir, I have come to Lincoln Highway Headquarters to report a tired biker, or: “ rain, rain, go away, come again some other day”... Aldo Barone or: America’s hardworking immigrants... what about a transcontinental biking trail? or: “in your dreams.” August 27. Today we reach the nation’s alimentary canal, or maybe close to its navel, crossing the mighty Mississippi at Clinton, Iowa. I pedal across the river on a beautiful old truss bridge, along a pedestrian walkway separating vehicular traffic from the river below. As I approach the Illinois side I look upriver toward the vanishing-point horizon. I see a riverboat and decide to go back to the center of the bridge in order to take photographs. But the walkway is too narrow to allow me to turn around, so I lift my bike above the handrails and rotate it 180 degrees, hoping I don’t slip and the bike doesn’t fall into the murky depths of the current below. I ride back to the center of the bridge. The craft is the Mississippi Belle II Casino boat and as it passes the passengers on deck wave for the camera. Ardath later crosses the bridge and stops to visit “De Immigrant,” an authentic Dutch windmill. Built specifically for the town of Fulton in 2000, the 12-story, octagonal windmill is situated on the berm of a Mississippi River flood control dike. It is handcrafted and constructed with African bilinga wood and bricks from the Netherlands that are more than a century old. The windmill is fully operational. Here millers grind wheat, rye, buckwheat and corn. About ten miles east of Morrison, Illinois, something catches my eye and I pull up next to the curb. What the heck? I cross the street to a sidewalk in front of a modest house. The front yard sports an extravagant collage of lawn ornaments representing no particular theme. There are birds including geese, an eagle, a pelican and a Hekyll and Jekyll crow wearing a vest and derby. I see flags, the statue of liberty and dual Uncle Sams. The lawn is replete with geese, bunnies, horses and dogs; benches, flower pots with flowers both real and fake, a small Dutch windmill and a prairie windmill; and kids gobs and gobs of kids. These children sprout from a wood-chip pathway bordered by cinder block and landscaping stone is a passel of kids with their own names. There are, among others, Angie, Tiff, Kayla, Tracie, Joe, Hunter and Torie. A little boy in a military uniform wears a too-large World War II helmet. There is also room for wooden silhouettes of lounging cowboys, deer, a dog and a gorilla. The other bric-a-brac is too miscellaneous or obscure to merit description. I didn’t see any pink flamingoes but no worries; we have seen them in front yards all along this American Main Street called the Lincoln Highway. As one American humorist put it, things just get curiouser and curiouser. I just wish I knew the meaning of it all. But there’s no time now to inquire into the whys and wherefores. Autumn is fast approaching. Gotta get a move on. By evening I reach Dixon, Illinois. Ardath picks me up and we reverse our direction, heading back toward our motel. No! I’m in a state of shock. I can’t believe it. We’re staying in the Reagan Motel on the outskirts of Dixon! Ye gods! If my Democrat friends were to see me now! How can I ever admit that we booked a room in the same motel that Ronald Reagan visited? Oh, well, I can always say that Ardath was the one who actually made the reservations. Besides, at least we aren’t staying in the Presidential Suite. August 28. This morning, before we continue east, we decide to visit Ronald Reagan’s boyhood home in Dixon. We are part of a steady trickle of visitors that flows down Hennepin Street, also named “Reagan Way”, through this bucolic neighborhood to the Reagan shrine. Surely Jack and Nelle Reagan. Would be surprised to see the visitor’s center on one side of their home and a lawn-carpeted park with their son’s statue on the other. Not a twig or a leaf is out of place in this Norman Rockwell painting. Dutch Reagan’s statue seems a bit contorted in the face, but at least he has a smile, and his extended arms seem to welcome groups that gather around him for a photo opportunity. Ten short miles east of Dixon we are stopped short of our day’s destination by the only rain that has actually prevented me from biking during this entire trip. I quit riding at Franklin Grove. At a downtown corner of this pastoral village is a restored two-story limestone and sandstone building, the national headquarters of the Lincoln Highway Association. The weathered stone lintel above the main entrance bears the name what else? H.I. Lincoln. I’m uncertain if the Association’s Headquarters is open today, but I see an opening down in the south wall and dart in from the rain. There’s a meeting going on, a conclave of the Illinois Chapter of the Lincoln Highway Association. The looks I receive as I walk in from the downpour make me flash on the grizzled specter of Clint Eastwood in the movie, “Unforgiven”. Suddenly I am in a drenched overcoat, hat dripping water. My tall visage blocks the light from the doorway as I drawl out: “This the headquarters of the Lincoln Highway Association? Are you all professed members of the Association?” The members do not seem afraid, simply curious. First of all, Clint Eastwood would not appear in Franklin Grove, second, he would not be dressed in Lycra with a biking helmet and third, I am fantasizing. The romance of the moment vanishes as committee members push their chairs aside to welcome the latest version of Bill and Nancy Roe, the husband and wife team who visited their town during Bill’s 1999 Lincoln Highway bike ride. They pepper Ardath and me with questions: who are we and where are we headed? Someone interjects, “Get the Polaroid. Let’s get a picture.” Introductions are made all around and President Wayne Silvius tells us the story of how he came into his position. Trains frequently rumbling through the community not far from the building. One day, when nominations for president were opened, a train roared through and after it passed Wayne found that he had been elected president of the LHA. True story, he says. While I take a tour of the H.I. Lincoln building with proprietor, Lyn Asp, Ardath explains to the others that I am biking cross-country on the Lincoln Highway using the HELiOS portable liquid oxygen system. Jack Kelley drops in for a chat and explains how the building came to be restored. In 1995 a group of ten Franklin Grove area men calling themselves Farming Heritage, Inc. obtained the building with the intent of restoring it to its former appearance. Volunteer Kelley and restorationist Ron Nelson were key to the rehabilitation of a structure that had existed for years as a falling down ruins. For that work Jack was nominated for a Studs Terkel award for community excellence. According to Lyn, the building once belonged to a mercantilist cousin of Abraham Lincoln. How appropriate that the Lincoln Building, located along the Lincoln Highway that passes through the Land of Lincoln, should be the headquarters of the Lincoln Highway Association, an organization dedicated to preserving the history and remnant features of the nation’s first transcontinental auto highway. The scenario would be complete if this was the place from which store clerk Abe Lincoln walked four-miles in order to return six and a half cents to a customer who had overpaid his bill. Alas. It is not so. The legendary event supposedly took place in New Salem, and Lyn explains that there is no proof Honest Abe was ever in this building. Reflecting for a moment, I surmise that Lincoln’s purported walk is not as important to American history as the persistence of such legends. For all I know, we still repeat to children the Parson Weems story of how George Washington could not lie. He admitted that he chopped down the family’s cherry tree with his hatchet.
August 27. Today we reach the nation’s alimentary canal, or maybe close to its navel, crossing the mighty Mississippi at Clinton, Iowa. I pedal across the river on a beautiful old truss bridge, along a pedestrian walkway separating vehicular traffic from the river below. As I approach the Illinois side I look upriver toward the vanishing-point horizon. I see a riverboat and decide to go back to the center of the bridge in order to take photographs. But the walkway is too narrow to allow me to turn around, so I lift my bike above the handrails and rotate it 180 degrees, hoping I don’t slip and the bike doesn’t fall into the murky depths of the current below. I ride back to the center of the bridge. The craft is the Mississippi Belle II Casino boat and as it passes the passengers on deck wave for the camera.
Ardath later crosses the bridge and stops to visit “De Immigrant,” an authentic Dutch windmill. Built specifically for the town of Fulton in 2000, the 12-story, octagonal windmill is situated on the berm of a Mississippi River flood control dike. It is handcrafted and constructed with African bilinga wood and bricks from the Netherlands that are more than a century old. The windmill is fully operational. Here millers grind wheat, rye, buckwheat and corn.
About ten miles east of Morrison, Illinois, something catches my eye and I pull up next to the curb. What the heck? I cross the street to a sidewalk in front of a modest house. The front yard sports an extravagant collage of lawn ornaments representing no particular theme. There are birds including geese, an eagle, a pelican and a Hekyll and Jekyll crow wearing a vest and derby. I see flags, the statue of liberty and dual Uncle Sams. The lawn is replete with geese, bunnies, horses and dogs; benches, flower pots with flowers both real and fake, a small Dutch windmill and a prairie windmill; and kids gobs and gobs of kids. These children sprout from a wood-chip pathway bordered by cinder block and landscaping stone is a passel of kids with their own names. There are, among others, Angie, Tiff, Kayla, Tracie, Joe, Hunter and Torie. A little boy in a military uniform wears a too-large World War II helmet. There is also room for wooden silhouettes of lounging cowboys, deer, a dog and a gorilla. The other bric-a-brac is too miscellaneous or obscure to merit description.
I didn’t see any pink flamingoes but no worries; we have seen them in front yards all along this American Main Street called the Lincoln Highway. As one American humorist put it, things just get curiouser and curiouser. I just wish I knew the meaning of it all. But there’s no time now to inquire into the whys and wherefores. Autumn is fast approaching. Gotta get a move on.
By evening I reach Dixon, Illinois. Ardath picks me up and we reverse our direction, heading back toward our motel. No! I’m in a state of shock. I can’t believe it. We’re staying in the Reagan Motel on the outskirts of Dixon! Ye gods! If my Democrat friends were to see me now! How can I ever admit that we booked a room in the same motel that Ronald Reagan visited? Oh, well, I can always say that Ardath was the one who actually made the reservations. Besides, at least we aren’t staying in the Presidential Suite.
August 28. This morning, before we continue east, we decide to visit Ronald Reagan’s boyhood home in Dixon. We are part of a steady trickle of visitors that flows down Hennepin Street, also named “Reagan Way”, through this bucolic neighborhood to the Reagan shrine. Surely Jack and Nelle Reagan. Would be surprised to see the visitor’s center on one side of their home and a lawn-carpeted park with their son’s statue on the other. Not a twig or a leaf is out of place in this Norman Rockwell painting. Dutch Reagan’s statue seems a bit contorted in the face, but at least he has a smile, and his extended arms seem to welcome groups that gather around him for a photo opportunity.
Ten short miles east of Dixon we are stopped short of our day’s destination by the only rain that has actually prevented me from biking during this entire trip. I quit riding at Franklin Grove. At a downtown corner of this pastoral village is a restored two-story limestone and sandstone building, the national headquarters of the Lincoln Highway Association. The weathered stone lintel above the main entrance bears the name what else? H.I. Lincoln.
I’m uncertain if the Association’s Headquarters is open today, but I see an opening down in the south wall and dart in from the rain. There’s a meeting going on, a conclave of the Illinois Chapter of the Lincoln Highway Association. The looks I receive as I walk in from the downpour make me flash on the grizzled specter of Clint Eastwood in the movie, “Unforgiven”. Suddenly I am in a drenched overcoat, hat dripping water. My tall visage blocks the light from the doorway as I drawl out: “This the headquarters of the Lincoln Highway Association? Are you all professed members of the Association?”
The members do not seem afraid, simply curious. First of all, Clint Eastwood would not appear in Franklin Grove, second, he would not be dressed in Lycra with a biking helmet and third, I am fantasizing. The romance of the moment vanishes as committee members push their chairs aside to welcome the latest version of Bill and Nancy Roe, the husband and wife team who visited their town during Bill’s 1999 Lincoln Highway bike ride. They pepper Ardath and me with questions: who are we and where are we headed? Someone interjects, “Get the Polaroid. Let’s get a picture.”
Introductions are made all around and President Wayne Silvius tells us the story of how he came into his position. Trains frequently rumbling through the community not far from the building. One day, when nominations for president were opened, a train roared through and after it passed Wayne found that he had been elected president of the LHA. True story, he says.
While I take a tour of the H.I. Lincoln building with proprietor, Lyn Asp, Ardath explains to the others that I am biking cross-country on the Lincoln Highway using the HELiOS portable liquid oxygen system.
Jack Kelley drops in for a chat and explains how the building came to be restored. In 1995 a group of ten Franklin Grove area men calling themselves Farming Heritage, Inc. obtained the building with the intent of restoring it to its former appearance. Volunteer Kelley and restorationist Ron Nelson were key to the rehabilitation of a structure that had existed for years as a falling down ruins. For that work Jack was nominated for a Studs Terkel award for community excellence.
According to Lyn, the building once belonged to a mercantilist cousin of Abraham Lincoln. How appropriate that the Lincoln Building, located along the Lincoln Highway that passes through the Land of Lincoln, should be the headquarters of the Lincoln Highway Association, an organization dedicated to preserving the history and remnant features of the nation’s first transcontinental auto highway.
The scenario would be complete if this was the place from which store clerk Abe Lincoln walked four-miles in order to return six and a half cents to a customer who had overpaid his bill. Alas. It is not so. The legendary event supposedly took place in New Salem, and Lyn explains that there is no proof Honest Abe was ever in this building. Reflecting for a moment, I surmise that Lincoln’s purported walk is not as important to American history as the persistence of such legends. For all I know, we still repeat to children the Parson Weems story of how George Washington could not lie. He admitted that he chopped down the family’s cherry tree with his hatchet.
Satisfied that the LHA is in good hands, Ardath and I leave after a five hour respite from the rain, but not before buying two bags of Lincoln Highway souvenirs. Wayne Silvius gets in his car and leads us five miles down the road to visit to his home in Ashton. On the way we pass four original Lincoln Highway concrete posts still in place along the route. Throughout the state, Illinois has marked the route well. Friendly red, white and blue striping on telephone posts and frequent signs with a big “L” tracing the route of the historic highway make it easy to follow through Illinois’ rural countryside and urban maze. At Rochelle, Illinois Ardath and I eat supper at Aldo’s and Son restaurant and bar. Proprietor Aldo Barone is more than a restaurant owner. He is an impresario, the kind of person who is determined to make each guest feel welcome to his establishment without pestering him with the incessant, “How’s everything?” Obviously Aldo is proud of his Sicilian immigrant family background and the hard work it took to get ahead in life. His friends used to ask him why, after working at a job that paid him between $16 and $17 an hour, did he spend his evenings at a restaurant making pizzas for $4 per hour. He told them that he enjoyed making pasta. Plus, he was making extra cash, money he would need to someday buy his own restaurant. I ask him if he does the cooking at his restaurant. He says no, his wife is in charge. On weekends he does the cooking at home so his wife can rest. August 29. Today is nice and sunny and Ardath and I need to backtrack in order to pick up our trail where the rain stopped us. After reaching our starting point we head east once again and reach Rochelle where the city’s sidewalks and grass parkways are filling with people, lawn chairs and blankets. The scene is reminiscent of downtown Cheyenne during Frontier Days. Ardath and I laugh. A parade is in the offing. It is not for “Helios Man” although we draw stares from spectators as we drive our decorated van down the route. In fact, we don’t know what the parade is supposed to celebrate. What’s worse, we don’t even ask. We just want to watch. It seems to be part of some type of end-of-summer celebration. And it’s long. For at least an hour we watch people troop by an endless stream of Shriners in three-wheeled planes, antique cars, and motorcycles go by, along with the obligatory band and children scoot out from the curb to retrieve candy, gum, toys and pencils thrown from passing floats. Leaving Rochelle I stop in Creston, the little village outside Rochelle where my father lived for awhile, and stop to talk with a forensic accountant. Never have I heard of such a thing, I say, so he explains how he dissects and researches financial debacles such as Enron. I need to say goodbye, but am glad to meet another denizen in the strange and wonderful belly of America. Near Malta, somewhere below asphalt and concrete, is the Lincoln Highway’s first seedling mile, a privately-funded stretch of road designed to demonstrate to the car-owning public the efficiency and comfort of an all-weather, surfaced highway. In the evening I arrive in DeKalb where yet another end-of-summer celebration, “Cornfest” has just taken place. Slowly biking my way through the debris of pickup trucks, barricades and crowds packing up their gear and supplies, I purchase one of the remaining, green Cornfest T-shirts. I’m not sure which of our two sons would appreciate it more. I can imagine them saying: can you believe it? My father and mother cross the country and all I got was this lousy Cornfest T-shirt. August 30. The ride from DeKalb to Geneva in north-central Illinois is neither fish nor fowl. It is both urban and rural. The musty, earthy smells of fresh and decayed vegetation, grain elevators and manure alternate with cooking, washing and the slightly acidic chemical exhaust of urban America. From Geneva to Aurora the Lincoln is trafficky with no good shoulders to ride on, so I decide to take the parallel Fox River Trail. Luckily, it is a good choice. Except for a few slight detours I am able to travel all the way from Geneva to Aurora along the wide, brown Fox River, through parks, townscapes, cityscapes and past strip malls all the way from Geneva through Batavia to Aurora. August 31. After riding through Joliet it sure would feel good to get off the busy streets. I-25 from Fort Collins to Denver is good training for anyone contemplating driving out here. It’s like a scene out of “The Road Warriors” except everyone has gasoline. Oh, by the way, add this to my list of superlatives: the award for the most boom boxes and testosterone, per capita, goes to Joliet, Illinois with Chicago Heights running a close second. I’m not sure which should take the prize. It’s kind of like the Korean vying with Paul Hamm for Olympic gold. We was robbed! Give us the award! The Fox River Trail was so good that I decide to take another, parallel trail along the Lincoln Highway. This one is called the Old Plank Trail. A former railroad right of way, it is smoothly and beautifully paved and provides a straight-shot, twenty-mile ride east from Joliet to just a point just beyond the village of Matteson. Dedicated as a sanctuary for native plants and animals, the Old Plank Road Prairie Nature Preserve and Trail provide the finest straight route through an urban environment I have seen yet. Protected by an dense bower of trees and foliage and grass, I bike without worry, wondering for the umpteenth time if America will ever see fit to build a transcontinental bike path so that entire families, not just crazed solitary bikers, can someday enjoy their country up close. September 1. It’s the first day of September. Ardath and I wait and wait for word on whether or not there are will be interviews in Chicago. Frustrated and becoming weary, I just want to get on my bike and put in some mileage toward New York City. This afternoon, while Ardath walks the Old Plank Trail, I ride an urban highway a dozen miles through Park Forest, Chicago Heights, South Chicago Heights and Sauk Village, heading for the Indiana state line along a route once used by Chief Blackhawk and his Sak Indian tribe. At one point, tired and harassed by a few delinquent drivers, I lose it. I simply lose it. A car of three teenagers pass by and one of them is yelling something. I catch up with them at the next stoplight, pull up alongside their car and glare at the perceived offender, saying, “Why don’t you try this?” He replies: “I do. I ride a bike.” Realizing that they may have been congratulating, rather than harassing, me, I make sort of an apology and tell them that I am just tired of the harassment and would like to tell some of my antagonists to get off their lard and get on a bike. They don’t respond. I give them the “thumbs up” sign and they squeal away on loose gravel, the driver looking in his rear view mirror, maybe wondering why they allow crazy people to ride bikes on automobile highways. On the way back to our motel, we pass a BBQ restaurant, a scabby-looking shack not far from the Indiana line. Named “Hog Heaven”, its bold neon signage grabs me by the gut: HUGE BBQ PORK CHOPS. “Now” I think, “these guys know something about advertising.” I feel my mind and stomach being sucked across the highway into this cholesterol tar pit. Fortunately, Ardath reminds me that it is about time for a salad or bowl of soup. Dang! More anon, Mark
At Rochelle, Illinois Ardath and I eat supper at Aldo’s and Son restaurant and bar. Proprietor Aldo Barone is more than a restaurant owner. He is an impresario, the kind of person who is determined to make each guest feel welcome to his establishment without pestering him with the incessant, “How’s everything?”
Obviously Aldo is proud of his Sicilian immigrant family background and the hard work it took to get ahead in life. His friends used to ask him why, after working at a job that paid him between $16 and $17 an hour, did he spend his evenings at a restaurant making pizzas for $4 per hour. He told them that he enjoyed making pasta. Plus, he was making extra cash, money he would need to someday buy his own restaurant. I ask him if he does the cooking at his restaurant. He says no, his wife is in charge. On weekends he does the cooking at home so his wife can rest.
August 29. Today is nice and sunny and Ardath and I need to backtrack in order to pick up our trail where the rain stopped us. After reaching our starting point we head east once again and reach Rochelle where the city’s sidewalks and grass parkways are filling with people, lawn chairs and blankets. The scene is reminiscent of downtown Cheyenne during Frontier Days. Ardath and I laugh. A parade is in the offing. It is not for “Helios Man” although we draw stares from spectators as we drive our decorated van down the route. In fact, we don’t know what the parade is supposed to celebrate. What’s worse, we don’t even ask. We just want to watch. It seems to be part of some type of end-of-summer celebration. And it’s long. For at least an hour we watch people troop by an endless stream of Shriners in three-wheeled planes, antique cars, and motorcycles go by, along with the obligatory band and children scoot out from the curb to retrieve candy, gum, toys and pencils thrown from passing floats.
Leaving Rochelle I stop in Creston, the little village outside Rochelle where my father lived for awhile, and stop to talk with a forensic accountant. Never have I heard of such a thing, I say, so he explains how he dissects and researches financial debacles such as Enron. I need to say goodbye, but am glad to meet another denizen in the strange and wonderful belly of America.
Near Malta, somewhere below asphalt and concrete, is the Lincoln Highway’s first seedling mile, a privately-funded stretch of road designed to demonstrate to the car-owning public the efficiency and comfort of an all-weather, surfaced highway. In the evening I arrive in DeKalb where yet another end-of-summer celebration, “Cornfest” has just taken place. Slowly biking my way through the debris of pickup trucks, barricades and crowds packing up their gear and supplies, I purchase one of the remaining, green Cornfest T-shirts. I’m not sure which of our two sons would appreciate it more. I can imagine them saying: can you believe it? My father and mother cross the country and all I got was this lousy Cornfest T-shirt.
August 30. The ride from DeKalb to Geneva in north-central Illinois is neither fish nor fowl. It is both urban and rural. The musty, earthy smells of fresh and decayed vegetation, grain elevators and manure alternate with cooking, washing and the slightly acidic chemical exhaust of urban America. From Geneva to Aurora the Lincoln is trafficky with no good shoulders to ride on, so I decide to take the parallel Fox River Trail. Luckily, it is a good choice. Except for a few slight detours I am able to travel all the way from Geneva to Aurora along the wide, brown Fox River, through parks, townscapes, cityscapes and past strip malls all the way from Geneva through Batavia to Aurora.
August 31. After riding through Joliet it sure would feel good to get off the busy streets. I-25 from Fort Collins to Denver is good training for anyone contemplating driving out here. It’s like a scene out of “The Road Warriors” except everyone has gasoline. Oh, by the way, add this to my list of superlatives: the award for the most boom boxes and testosterone, per capita, goes to Joliet, Illinois with Chicago Heights running a close second. I’m not sure which should take the prize. It’s kind of like the Korean vying with Paul Hamm for Olympic gold. We was robbed! Give us the award!
The Fox River Trail was so good that I decide to take another, parallel trail along the Lincoln Highway. This one is called the Old Plank Trail. A former railroad right of way, it is smoothly and beautifully paved and provides a straight-shot, twenty-mile ride east from Joliet to just a point just beyond the village of Matteson. Dedicated as a sanctuary for native plants and animals, the Old Plank Road Prairie Nature Preserve and Trail provide the finest straight route through an urban environment I have seen yet. Protected by an dense bower of trees and foliage and grass, I bike without worry, wondering for the umpteenth time if America will ever see fit to build a transcontinental bike path so that entire families, not just crazed solitary bikers, can someday enjoy their country up close.
September 1. It’s the first day of September. Ardath and I wait and wait for word on whether or not there are will be interviews in Chicago. Frustrated and becoming weary, I just want to get on my bike and put in some mileage toward New York City.
This afternoon, while Ardath walks the Old Plank Trail, I ride an urban highway a dozen miles through Park Forest, Chicago Heights, South Chicago Heights and Sauk Village, heading for the Indiana state line along a route once used by Chief Blackhawk and his Sak Indian tribe. At one point, tired and harassed by a few delinquent drivers, I lose it. I simply lose it. A car of three teenagers pass by and one of them is yelling something. I catch up with them at the next stoplight, pull up alongside their car and glare at the perceived offender, saying, “Why don’t you try this?” He replies: “I do. I ride a bike.” Realizing that they may have been congratulating, rather than harassing, me, I make sort of an apology and tell them that I am just tired of the harassment and would like to tell some of my antagonists to get off their lard and get on a bike. They don’t respond. I give them the “thumbs up” sign and they squeal away on loose gravel, the driver looking in his rear view mirror, maybe wondering why they allow crazy people to ride bikes on automobile highways.
On the way back to our motel, we pass a BBQ restaurant, a scabby-looking shack not far from the Indiana line. Named “Hog Heaven”, its bold neon signage grabs me by the gut: HUGE BBQ PORK CHOPS. “Now” I think, “these guys know something about advertising.” I feel my mind and stomach being sucked across the highway into this cholesterol tar pit. Fortunately, Ardath reminds me that it is about time for a salad or bowl of soup. Dang!
Leaving Northwood... geocaching... prejudice alive and well in America... Preston’s gas station... trade me for my Huffy?... a foreigner grows in Brooklyn... the Green Wall August 17-19. It was not exactly what I’d call a restful break in Northwood. This little village in northern Iowa, 100 miles north of our cross-country Lincoln Highway bicycle route, is my wife’s hometown, a place resembling Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon. It is the home of the family matriarch, Arlene Kuennen who, at nearly 90 years of age, is the magnet that attracts her sons, daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, in-laws and friends. Since our marriage 38 years ago, whenever Ardath and I visit Arlene, other members of the family seem to drift up to her front doorstep. Oops, make that the garage door no one, not even the mailman, actually comes through the front door. They go through the garage door and the kitchen in order to catch up on the news. The news includes the whereabouts, accomplishments or deaths of family members, relatives, friends and acquaintances. Opinions are expressed on topics ranging from food, housing, and school to an occasional scandalous event or political issue, but mainly they relate to the comings and goings of the Kuennen family. A recent event worthy of discussion is the arrival of Arlene’s daughter, Ardath, and her son-in-law, Mark, or “HELiOS Man” as he is now called. It seems that Ardath’s cross-country bicyclist husband is determined to pedal across the heartland. Fancy that. Or, as Arlene would put it: “Oh, my Gosh!” or something like that. August 21. Today two family members will join the historic cross-country ride. One is my niece, Laura, who just turned 17 and is wearing a t-shirt with “I love HELiOS Man” printed on the front and “HFT (HELiOS Freedom Tour) 2004 - Comrade” on the back. I remember the first time that Laura rode a bike with me in Northwood. She was young, new to bicycles and therefore not too steady. When our group went too fast uphill on one of the streets in her bucolic hometown, she wept silently to herself. Today, however, she is a teenager with a strong mind and body and is having no trouble negotiating the Lincoln Highway. If she’s a little tired or achy after riding up and down the hills of central Iowa, she doesn’t show it. As the warm, late summer evening progresses, she states confidently that she and her older sister, Anna, can handle Iowa’s biggest bicycle extravaganza the Des Moines Register RAGBRAI. The other participant in today’s ride is Shane Buenzow, the husband of my niece, Angie Kuennen. Actually, Shane joined me yesterday to bike east from Ames. At the town of Colo we discover Niland’s, a restored Lincoln Highway-era filling station and caf. With its ancient gas pumps, auto tires, oilcans and tire-changing equipment, Niland’s is a nostalgic piece of Americana. Shane is into geocaching. He enthusiastically demonstrates the techniques of this high-tech scavenger hunt, using his GPS device to lead us to caches. An actual cache as opposed to a virtual cache usually consists of a box or jug containing, toys, pins or other paraphernalia as well as a logbook for Kilroys ambitious enough to seek out the clandestine sites. Aren’t we Americans funny? Not only are we itchy to travel, we’re proud of our mobility and will figure out new ways to celebrate it. Shane and I discuss the possibility of a Lincoln Highway caching adventure or, failing that, a cross-country tour of Lincoln Highway golf courses. Near Quarry, Iowa the three of us deviate from our paved route, turning onto a gravel road and bouncing over jagged white rocks for several miles to a county park by the Iowa River. There we enter the forest along the river in order to find another geocache. The bowered path reminds me of W.H. Hudson’s Green Mansions. My mind flashes on Rimi, the evanescent bird girl, who at any moment may drift down through the sun-blotched tree leaves to enchant us and cool our sweaty bodies. Despite the romantic atmosphere of this sylvan paradise, a forest floor thick with mosquitoes and foliage, its path strewn with broken limbs and greasy in the low spots, compromises my thoughts of Rimi. It is a poor excuse for a touring bike route. As I wait in the forest below, Shane and Laura follow a deer trail between two crumbling rock cliffs to search for the geocache. Above, they finally find an ammo box containing, among other doodads, a logbook for geocachers who are determined enough to locate the hidden cache. Despite trees overhead that confuse his GPS device, Shane aptly demonstrates his ability to find the site. His determination is at least as strong as my resolve to get back to the Lincoln Highway and continue worming my way through Iowa’s fields of corn and soybeans. The state of Iowa really has much more to commend itself to the traveler than field crops, but Iowans poke fun at themselves by claiming that there are at least four types of scenery along the highways of their state: corn on the left and right, soybeans on the left and right, corn on the left and soybeans on the right, and soybeans on the left and corn on the right. Arriving in Marshalltown, Shane, Laura and I get off our bikes and join Ardath in front of the Times Republican for an interview with the town’s newspaper reporter. As the interview concludes, a senior citizen rides by on his bike and shouts, “Welcome to our Mexican town,” referring to the growth of the Hispanic population in his part of Iowa. Although I’m usually late on the uptake, for some reason I don’t let the moment slide by. “They’re Americans!” I shout. The biker harrumphs as he continues down the town’s main street, not willing, apparently, to discuss his prejudice in greater detail. All along our route Hispanics have been waiting on Ardath and me: greeting us from behind desks, stocking continental breakfast food bars, pushing vacuum cleaners, cleaning bathrooms and making the beds in our rooms. Alicia Perez, who stocks the food bar at one of our motel stops, tells us that Hispanics also work at the local packinghouse. She explains that although she is Iowa born, some people wonder if she has her green card. Alicia is not resentful for the misconception but wonders why people should be antagonistic toward others who work for a living. Along the bike route Shane, Laura and I find interesting characters: here an 81-year-old born-again Christian woman with seven living sisters; or there a woman sitting with a friend under a waving Old Glory who says that her father, like me, uses a HELiOS oxygen device. She says that portable oxygen changed her dad’s life. I tell her that people need to know that and ask if she would be willing to write a statement to that effect for the HELiOSFreedomTour website. I explain that I’m not trying to preach, but it really will help other people if other people hear about her father. She says that she understands and yes, she will do that.
Since our marriage 38 years ago, whenever Ardath and I visit Arlene, other members of the family seem to drift up to her front doorstep. Oops, make that the garage door no one, not even the mailman, actually comes through the front door. They go through the garage door and the kitchen in order to catch up on the news. The news includes the whereabouts, accomplishments or deaths of family members, relatives, friends and acquaintances. Opinions are expressed on topics ranging from food, housing, and school to an occasional scandalous event or political issue, but mainly they relate to the comings and goings of the Kuennen family.
A recent event worthy of discussion is the arrival of Arlene’s daughter, Ardath, and her son-in-law, Mark, or “HELiOS Man” as he is now called. It seems that Ardath’s cross-country bicyclist husband is determined to pedal across the heartland. Fancy that. Or, as Arlene would put it: “Oh, my Gosh!” or something like that.
August 21. Today two family members will join the historic cross-country ride. One is my niece, Laura, who just turned 17 and is wearing a t-shirt with “I love HELiOS Man” printed on the front and “HFT (HELiOS Freedom Tour) 2004 - Comrade” on the back.
I remember the first time that Laura rode a bike with me in Northwood. She was young, new to bicycles and therefore not too steady. When our group went too fast uphill on one of the streets in her bucolic hometown, she wept silently to herself. Today, however, she is a teenager with a strong mind and body and is having no trouble negotiating the Lincoln Highway. If she’s a little tired or achy after riding up and down the hills of central Iowa, she doesn’t show it. As the warm, late summer evening progresses, she states confidently that she and her older sister, Anna, can handle Iowa’s biggest bicycle extravaganza the Des Moines Register RAGBRAI.
The other participant in today’s ride is Shane Buenzow, the husband of my niece, Angie Kuennen. Actually, Shane joined me yesterday to bike east from Ames. At the town of Colo we discover Niland’s, a restored Lincoln Highway-era filling station and caf. With its ancient gas pumps, auto tires, oilcans and tire-changing equipment, Niland’s is a nostalgic piece of Americana.
Shane is into geocaching. He enthusiastically demonstrates the techniques of this high-tech scavenger hunt, using his GPS device to lead us to caches. An actual cache as opposed to a virtual cache usually consists of a box or jug containing, toys, pins or other paraphernalia as well as a logbook for Kilroys ambitious enough to seek out the clandestine sites. Aren’t we Americans funny? Not only are we itchy to travel, we’re proud of our mobility and will figure out new ways to celebrate it. Shane and I discuss the possibility of a Lincoln Highway caching adventure or, failing that, a cross-country tour of Lincoln Highway golf courses.
Near Quarry, Iowa the three of us deviate from our paved route, turning onto a gravel road and bouncing over jagged white rocks for several miles to a county park by the Iowa River. There we enter the forest along the river in order to find another geocache. The bowered path reminds me of W.H. Hudson’s Green Mansions. My mind flashes on Rimi, the evanescent bird girl, who at any moment may drift down through the sun-blotched tree leaves to enchant us and cool our sweaty bodies. Despite the romantic atmosphere of this sylvan paradise, a forest floor thick with mosquitoes and foliage, its path strewn with broken limbs and greasy in the low spots, compromises my thoughts of Rimi. It is a poor excuse for a touring bike route.
As I wait in the forest below, Shane and Laura follow a deer trail between two crumbling rock cliffs to search for the geocache. Above, they finally find an ammo box containing, among other doodads, a logbook for geocachers who are determined enough to locate the hidden cache. Despite trees overhead that confuse his GPS device, Shane aptly demonstrates his ability to find the site. His determination is at least as strong as my resolve to get back to the Lincoln Highway and continue worming my way through Iowa’s fields of corn and soybeans.
The state of Iowa really has much more to commend itself to the traveler than field crops, but Iowans poke fun at themselves by claiming that there are at least four types of scenery along the highways of their state: corn on the left and right, soybeans on the left and right, corn on the left and soybeans on the right, and soybeans on the left and corn on the right. Arriving in Marshalltown, Shane, Laura and I get off our bikes and join Ardath in front of the Times Republican for an interview with the town’s newspaper reporter. As the interview concludes, a senior citizen rides by on his bike and shouts, “Welcome to our Mexican town,” referring to the growth of the Hispanic population in his part of Iowa. Although I’m usually late on the uptake, for some reason I don’t let the moment slide by. “They’re Americans!” I shout. The biker harrumphs as he continues down the town’s main street, not willing, apparently, to discuss his prejudice in greater detail.
All along our route Hispanics have been waiting on Ardath and me: greeting us from behind desks, stocking continental breakfast food bars, pushing vacuum cleaners, cleaning bathrooms and making the beds in our rooms. Alicia Perez, who stocks the food bar at one of our motel stops, tells us that Hispanics also work at the local packinghouse. She explains that although she is Iowa born, some people wonder if she has her green card. Alicia is not resentful for the misconception but wonders why people should be antagonistic toward others who work for a living.
Along the bike route Shane, Laura and I find interesting characters: here an 81-year-old born-again Christian woman with seven living sisters; or there a woman sitting with a friend under a waving Old Glory who says that her father, like me, uses a HELiOS oxygen device. She says that portable oxygen changed her dad’s life. I tell her that people need to know that and ask if she would be willing to write a statement to that effect for the HELiOSFreedomTour website. I explain that I’m not trying to preach, but it really will help other people if other people hear about her father. She says that she understands and yes, she will do that.
August 22. Ron Preston, mechanic and the owner and operator of a historic filling station in Belle Plaine, Iowa gives me food for thought. His father, George, a salvage operator, took advantage of Lady Bird Johnson’ pet project, the Highway Beautification Act of 1965, clean up the highway and collecting what are today historic signs. It is obvious that Ron has reaped what his dad has sown and is following in his footsteps, collecting highway memorabilia. I ask him if the town’s citizens competed with his father in selling scrap metal during World War II,. He answers no, the government actually paid his dad something like $15 per ton to haul the scrap metal that was collected, Ron also shows us a photograph of his dad on the Johnny Carson show, one that indicates that the Norfolk, Nebraska native is enjoying being regaled by Belle Plaine Iowan, George Preston. At Preston’s Station Jim Olson, an employee at the University of Iowa medical school in Iowa City, greets us. We haven’t seen Jim since he introduced himself and his fellow motorcyclists to us at the “shoe tree” in Nevada. He was surprised that our paths should cross again. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?” he says with a smile. A young boy on a bike cruising around Preston’s Station wants to trade me his faded orange Huffy street bike for my Trek touring bike. I decline. Never mind the size or the difference in price. I like my sometimes obstreperous bike well enough not to trade right now. The boy is persistent. He says he wants a piece from my bike or something from our van. I don’t have anything handy to give him and offer one of my calling cards but he doesn’t want one, so we give him a new plastic water bottle. Belle Plaine is also the home of the Herring Laundromat, a good name for an enterprise in Bikini Bottoms where Spongebob Squarepants visits the Crusty Crab Caf. Tonight the King movie theater in Belle Plaine (King) is the only attraction in town. In minutes what appears to be a vacant main street becomes filled up with diagonally-parked cars and people begin lining up for a love story, “The Notebook.” A woman tells me that only about one out of 15 patrons are men, but I see more than a few stoic-looking males with their spouses or girlfriends. August 23. Today Ardath and I backtrack from Cedar Rapids in order to continue our trip east from Belle Plaine. At Blairstown, we ask a pedestrian if he knows how to go west to Belle Plaine via the adjacent town of Luzerne. He says he isn’t exactly sure since he is a “furriner” from Brooklyn... Brooklyn, Iowa, that is a town located ten miles southwest. At Belle Plaine I begin biking east toward Luzerne but am not sure if the highway through the cornfields ahead of me is the correct route. I interrupt a lady tending her garden, asking her how to get to Norway. She tells me to go down the road, jog to the right, head east again, and I’ll find it. Simpler directions to Norway I’ve never had. It puzzles me why people give Lincoln Highway towns and streets names like Norway, Toledo, Chelsea, Mount Vernon and Lisbon. At Stanwood I veer off U.S. 30 at Stanwood and encounter two young girls walking through its tree-lined streets. “Could you please tell me where the downtown is?” I ask. “This is the downtown, one of the two girls replies.” “I mean, where is the downtown where I can find, you know, the bank and the post office?” “This is the downtown”, she insists. Those are uptown.” “Oh,” I reply, dumbfounded. August 24. Add the following to our “best of everything” list, all of which can be found along the Lincoln Highway in Iowa. 1) tidiest small town campus: Cornell in Mt. Vernon; 2) best hotel restoration: the Lincoln Hotel in Lowden; 3) best bleu cheese dressing (and best center cut pork chop, for that matter): Mac’s Triangle Supper Club in Lowden; 4) darkest, tornado-like clouds: Grand Mound, Iowa; 5) kitschiest Lincoln Highway site: Preston’s filling station in Belle Plaine; 6) most American flags a toss-up among half a dozen Iowa towns. Way back when Ardath and I were in Truckee, California, we talked to Dave, a young chiropractor/bicyclist, who told us when we got to Iowa we’d hit what he described as a “Green Wall” of vegetation, mosquitoes and humidity. He was right. But I love this Green Wall, and the mosquitoes find it hard to bite a moving target. It helps to stay in heavily air-conditioned motels and ride in a motorized vehicle, I admit, and I can’t imagine how it would have been like to bike at night from Belle Plaine to Cedar Rapids, when a soft summer rainstorm of bugs hit the windshield. August 25. Today, Ardath and I wake up to, it seems, the greatest possible humidity without experiencing actual rain. The only thing more palpable in the air is the presence of American flags. They are everywhere... on main street sidewalks, front porches and lawns, stuck in flowerpots, attached to cash registers and pasted on the rear windows of pickup trucks. This evening we arrive in Clinton, situated along the western bluffs of the mighty Mississippi River. Rather than pedaling straight to the banks of the river, I retreat to our motel. We will be crossing the river soon enough, although tomorrow is a writing day. The last three days have been hard on me. I have been afflicted with some sort of bug causing me to feel somewhat lethargic, and I’m not yet recovered from the fall in Glidden. My chest still hurts. But the good thing is that we’ve reached the Mississippi and, at this low, oxygen-saturated altitude, we are two-thirds of the way through America. Ardath tells me that the Iowa maps are getting tattered so it is time to move to Illinois. Autumn is approaching and the trees are beginning to turn gold. We have spent more time than we expected in Iowa, where we have found more Lincoln Highway pride than any other state so far. More anon. Mark
At Preston’s Station Jim Olson, an employee at the University of Iowa medical school in Iowa City, greets us. We haven’t seen Jim since he introduced himself and his fellow motorcyclists to us at the “shoe tree” in Nevada. He was surprised that our paths should cross again. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?” he says with a smile.
A young boy on a bike cruising around Preston’s Station wants to trade me his faded orange Huffy street bike for my Trek touring bike. I decline. Never mind the size or the difference in price. I like my sometimes obstreperous bike well enough not to trade right now. The boy is persistent. He says he wants a piece from my bike or something from our van. I don’t have anything handy to give him and offer one of my calling cards but he doesn’t want one, so we give him a new plastic water bottle.
Belle Plaine is also the home of the Herring Laundromat, a good name for an enterprise in Bikini Bottoms where Spongebob Squarepants visits the Crusty Crab Caf. Tonight the King movie theater in Belle Plaine (King) is the only attraction in town. In minutes what appears to be a vacant main street becomes filled up with diagonally-parked cars and people begin lining up for a love story, “The Notebook.” A woman tells me that only about one out of 15 patrons are men, but I see more than a few stoic-looking males with their spouses or girlfriends.
August 23. Today Ardath and I backtrack from Cedar Rapids in order to continue our trip east from Belle Plaine. At Blairstown, we ask a pedestrian if he knows how to go west to Belle Plaine via the adjacent town of Luzerne. He says he isn’t exactly sure since he is a “furriner” from Brooklyn... Brooklyn, Iowa, that is a town located ten miles southwest.
At Belle Plaine I begin biking east toward Luzerne but am not sure if the highway through the cornfields ahead of me is the correct route. I interrupt a lady tending her garden, asking her how to get to Norway. She tells me to go down the road, jog to the right, head east again, and I’ll find it. Simpler directions to Norway I’ve never had. It puzzles me why people give Lincoln Highway towns and streets names like Norway, Toledo, Chelsea, Mount Vernon and Lisbon.
At Stanwood I veer off U.S. 30 at Stanwood and encounter two young girls walking through its tree-lined streets.
“Could you please tell me where the downtown is?” I ask.
“This is the downtown, one of the two girls replies.”
“I mean, where is the downtown where I can find, you know, the bank and the post office?”
“This is the downtown”, she insists. Those are uptown.”
“Oh,” I reply, dumbfounded.
August 24. Add the following to our “best of everything” list, all of which can be found along the Lincoln Highway in Iowa. 1) tidiest small town campus: Cornell in Mt. Vernon; 2) best hotel restoration: the Lincoln Hotel in Lowden; 3) best bleu cheese dressing (and best center cut pork chop, for that matter): Mac’s Triangle Supper Club in Lowden; 4) darkest, tornado-like clouds: Grand Mound, Iowa; 5) kitschiest Lincoln Highway site: Preston’s filling station in Belle Plaine; 6) most American flags a toss-up among half a dozen Iowa towns.
Way back when Ardath and I were in Truckee, California, we talked to Dave, a young chiropractor/bicyclist, who told us when we got to Iowa we’d hit what he described as a “Green Wall” of vegetation, mosquitoes and humidity. He was right. But I love this Green Wall, and the mosquitoes find it hard to bite a moving target. It helps to stay in heavily air-conditioned motels and ride in a motorized vehicle, I admit, and I can’t imagine how it would have been like to bike at night from Belle Plaine to Cedar Rapids, when a soft summer rainstorm of bugs hit the windshield.
August 25. Today, Ardath and I wake up to, it seems, the greatest possible humidity without experiencing actual rain. The only thing more palpable in the air is the presence of American flags. They are everywhere... on main street sidewalks, front porches and lawns, stuck in flowerpots, attached to cash registers and pasted on the rear windows of pickup trucks.
This evening we arrive in Clinton, situated along the western bluffs of the mighty Mississippi River. Rather than pedaling straight to the banks of the river, I retreat to our motel. We will be crossing the river soon enough, although tomorrow is a writing day. The last three days have been hard on me. I have been afflicted with some sort of bug causing me to feel somewhat lethargic, and I’m not yet recovered from the fall in Glidden. My chest still hurts. But the good thing is that we’ve reached the Mississippi and, at this low, oxygen-saturated altitude, we are two-thirds of the way through America. Ardath tells me that the Iowa maps are getting tattered so it is time to move to Illinois. Autumn is approaching and the trees are beginning to turn gold. We have spent more time than we expected in Iowa, where we have found more Lincoln Highway pride than any other state so far.
More anon.
Mark
Notes From the Lincoln Highway: Across the wide Missouri... Give a biker a break... the red, white and blue... Woodbine Twiner... news travels fast... dumped in Glidden... choose your in-laws wisely. Aug. 13: It is hard to believe that two months have passed since Ardath and I left San Francisco. We’ve crossed five states -- California, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming and Nebraska. At this rate, the rest of the trip should take about six more weeks. At the end of this last third of the journey we’ll transect six more states and cross the Hudson River to Manhattan. Today is what Ardath and I have come to call a “writing day” during which I’ll compile the weekly diary for the newspaper, so if there’s wood to chop today, I’d better get to cuttin’. Despite a full schedule of writing, travel and yakking with people, Ardath and I dilly-dally in lower downtown Omaha at a plaza along the Missouri River. There, we take photos of bigger-than-life-size bronze statues of smelter laborers in hard hats. There has been a metamorphosis along Omaha’s riverfront. It has transformed into an attractive plaza, including a conference center, hotel, restaurant and an office building housing the National Park Service Midwest Regional Office. NPS employee Ruth Heikkinen, who coordinates a congressionally mandated study of the Lincoln Highway, loans us USGS maps detailing the various routes of the historic transcontinental road. In 2002, state-by-state booklets of these maps were compiled by Kevin Patrick and Robert Wilson at Indiana University of Pennsylvania and their students. These maps, along with our DeLorme atlas and gazetteer for Iowa, our free Iowa state map, and a publication by Iowa Lincoln Highway devotees are now our reference guides. The maps are marked to differentiate the routes that developed since the highway was declared in 1913. The land through which it passes isn’t exactly a wilderness, but maps can be as confusing. We already have found out that trying to follow precisely the original road requires a mountain bike or, better yet, an all-terrain vehicle. Except for a short stretch along State Highway 183, it appears that, the Lincoln Highway in Iowa mostly follows U.S. 30. This afternoon I cross the Missouri River Bridge from Nebraska to Iowa. On the Council Bluffs side, a grizzled pedestrian asks me if I’m the guy he saw on TV, the one with a bad lung who is riding across the country. I reply that I am that person. With a sober face he wishes me luck and warns me to be careful: Today is Friday the 13th. I’m more concerned about Omaha commuters dashing east to their homes for the weekend. The Missouri River foothills north from Council Bluffs to Missouri Valley are lush with vegetation. Carefully manicured lawns and groves of broadleaf trees border luxuriant green fields of corn and soybeans. I ride through this bucolic landscape on a late summer evening, breathing rich, moist air suffused with the earthy vegetative scents of a twilight evening in the heartland. No problems with the bike. It’s running well, having been serviced in Omaha. The only irritation is that I must constantly check my handlebar mirror for cars and trucks that appear quickly from behind. If the Iowa Department of Transportation would simply give its bikers three feet of pavement on the white gravel shoulder of this road. Aug. 14: Today, I’m back on U.S. Highway 30 for a ride between Missouri Valley and Denison, Iowa. I thought since today was Saturday that traffic would abate, but it does not. Only faith and trust in people prevents me from being sideswiped by the vehicles that whoosh by. Isn’t that the way it works? You trust me, I trust you. One flick of the wrist and a driver can knock me out of the corporal world. But I trust he will do his job. Nay, I trust that he might even be courteous to an old man on oxygen. My faith in him is justified. On the other hand, drivers also have a right to believe that I will not wobble or do anything foolish or stop in the middle of the road to take pictures. Most of the time they are justified in that belief. Occasionally, drivers of vehicles will lay on the horn or yell something or deliberately drive close to the white line on their right. These few miscreants are hardly worth describing. At best they may be having some fun at my expense. At worst they may be trying to let me know that I have no right to use their highway. The deeper we penetrate Iowa, the more Ardath notices how important the Lincoln Highway is to those whose towns are intersected by it. Red, white and blue banners and banded hone poles are imprinted with the familiar “L,” and concrete posts that once marked every mile of the road have been preserved in place or moved to museums. Last summer, Woodbine, Iowa, rebuilt its main, brick-paved streets that had been wrinkled by years of heaving and thawing. Brick pavers were pried up, cleaned, numbered and set aside. A concrete roadbed was poured, sand was laid, and the road resurfaced with the old pavers. It’s not exactly the Apian Way, but it is as flat and quaintly attractive as a Norman Rockwell painting.
At this rate, the rest of the trip should take about six more weeks. At the end of this last third of the journey we’ll transect six more states and cross the Hudson River to Manhattan.
Today is what Ardath and I have come to call a “writing day” during which I’ll compile the weekly diary for the newspaper, so if there’s wood to chop today, I’d better get to cuttin’.
Despite a full schedule of writing, travel and yakking with people, Ardath and I dilly-dally in lower downtown Omaha at a plaza along the Missouri River. There, we take photos of bigger-than-life-size bronze statues of smelter laborers in hard hats.
There has been a metamorphosis along Omaha’s riverfront. It has transformed into an attractive plaza, including a conference center, hotel, restaurant and an office building housing the National Park Service Midwest Regional Office.
NPS employee Ruth Heikkinen, who coordinates a congressionally mandated study of the Lincoln Highway, loans us USGS maps detailing the various routes of the historic transcontinental road. In 2002, state-by-state booklets of these maps were compiled by Kevin Patrick and Robert Wilson at Indiana University of Pennsylvania and their students.
These maps, along with our DeLorme atlas and gazetteer for Iowa, our free Iowa state map, and a publication by Iowa Lincoln Highway devotees are now our reference guides.
The maps are marked to differentiate the routes that developed since the highway was declared in 1913. The land through which it passes isn’t exactly a wilderness, but maps can be as confusing. We already have found out that trying to follow precisely the original road requires a mountain bike or, better yet, an all-terrain vehicle.
Except for a short stretch along State Highway 183, it appears that, the Lincoln Highway in Iowa mostly follows U.S. 30.
This afternoon I cross the Missouri River Bridge from Nebraska to Iowa. On the Council Bluffs side, a grizzled pedestrian asks me if I’m the guy he saw on TV, the one with a bad lung who is riding across the country.
I reply that I am that person. With a sober face he wishes me luck and warns me to be careful: Today is Friday the 13th. I’m more concerned about Omaha commuters dashing east to their homes for the weekend.
The Missouri River foothills north from Council Bluffs to Missouri Valley are lush with vegetation. Carefully manicured lawns and groves of broadleaf trees border luxuriant green fields of corn and soybeans. I ride through this bucolic landscape on a late summer evening, breathing rich, moist air suffused with the earthy vegetative scents of a twilight evening in the heartland.
No problems with the bike. It’s running well, having been serviced in Omaha. The only irritation is that I must constantly check my handlebar mirror for cars and trucks that appear quickly from behind. If the Iowa Department of Transportation would simply give its bikers three feet of pavement on the white gravel shoulder of this road.
Aug. 14: Today, I’m back on U.S. Highway 30 for a ride between Missouri Valley and Denison, Iowa. I thought since today was Saturday that traffic would abate, but it does not.
Only faith and trust in people prevents me from being sideswiped by the vehicles that whoosh by. Isn’t that the way it works? You trust me, I trust you.
One flick of the wrist and a driver can knock me out of the corporal world. But I trust he will do his job. Nay, I trust that he might even be courteous to an old man on oxygen. My faith in him is justified.
On the other hand, drivers also have a right to believe that I will not wobble or do anything foolish or stop in the middle of the road to take pictures. Most of the time they are justified in that belief.
Occasionally, drivers of vehicles will lay on the horn or yell something or deliberately drive close to the white line on their right. These few miscreants are hardly worth describing. At best they may be having some fun at my expense. At worst they may be trying to let me know that I have no right to use their highway.
The deeper we penetrate Iowa, the more Ardath notices how important the Lincoln Highway is to those whose towns are intersected by it. Red, white and blue banners and banded hone poles are imprinted with the familiar “L,” and concrete posts that once marked every mile of the road have been preserved in place or moved to museums.
Last summer, Woodbine, Iowa, rebuilt its main, brick-paved streets that had been wrinkled by years of heaving and thawing. Brick pavers were pried up, cleaned, numbered and set aside. A concrete roadbed was poured, sand was laid, and the road resurfaced with the old pavers. It’s not exactly the Apian Way, but it is as flat and quaintly attractive as a Norman Rockwell painting.
A woman who is a docent at the Woodbine Standard School museum walks over to greet us. A tall woman talking with her also makes our acquaintance. She is Kim, the genial general editor/writer/photographer/ad salesperson of the weekly Woodbine Twiner newspaper. Sitting on a bench, Kim and I talk about the bike trip. After the interview, she snaps a couple of photos and leaves with neither one of us knowing how the Twiner got its name. Near the center of town an elderly gentleman pulls up next to the van. He wants to talk, and Ardath obliges him. Another driver drives up to the curb and offers to take my photo. Eventually, we leave town, but not before taking photos of an old gas station on U.S. 30. A woman pulls alongside in her car, gets out, opens the back door and hands us two Colorado peaches. They are going-away presents. Her act is emblematic of the town’s friendliness. My cynical side tells me that people just can’t be this friendly, but my Iowa-born wife assures me that Iowans are just plain nice people. I guess I can buy that for the moment. How do people, including that Woodbine editor, know that we were in town? Tyco Healthcare PR people had not contacted her. Ardath informs me that the local grapevine works faster than the Internet. In this case, Editor Kim happened to be in the vicinity. In other cases, people spot our van. And in still other cases someone may tell someone else that she saw a biker down the street taking photographs. It seems to me that if the residents of small towns don’t immediately see what other people are doing in their village, they are apt to find out shortly. Aug. 15: Sooner or later it was bound to happen. Falling from a bicycle is something I expected to happen during this trip. As I slowly turn my bike around on the shoulder of the road to photograph the twilight spotlighting a turn-of-the-century house in Glidden, Iowa, my bike begins to slip in fine, loose gravel. My right shoe cleat is locked into the bike pedal, and I can’t break it loose. In an instant the ground hits my ribs with a thud. I swear at the bike and the ground, but mostly at myself. “That’s it, you idiot! Way to go, Junge, you clodhopper! Ouch, I can’t breathe. I wonder if I cracked some ribs.” As I finally get my leg out from under me and crawl away from the bike to look for bloody scrapes or unfamiliar lumps, a couple stops along the side of the road. The man asks if I’m all right while the woman just looks over his shoulder. Not aware yet if anything is wrong with my body and embarrassed that I fell while doubling back for another photo, I tell them I’m just out of breath. “Do you want us to wait a few minutes?” he asks. “No, thanks,” I whisper. “I can call my wife on my cell phone if I need to.” The couple keeps watch on me as they drive away. After putting the chain back on, I get back on the bike to ride and test my injured rib cage, all the while hoping I can work the pain out of my body before it stiffens up. With the light fading fast, I limp into our motel room in Jefferson, fairly certain that my ribs are only bruised. Aug. 16: Today Ardath’s sister, Amy LeCocq, and her daughter, Bethany, drive 140 miles south from Waseca, Minn., to see how their crazy relative performs on his cross-country bike ride. After hugs along the shoulder, we find a gazebo near Ogden. Amy and Bethany haul out their cooler full of goodies, including sandwiches, fresh vegetables, rhubarb cake and juice. Not more than a dozen feet from another concrete post marking an old segment of the Lincoln Highway, Ardath and I join them for a picnic. I suspect that when people choose a mate they do not closely examine their future in-laws. I got lucky. Ardath’s family is full of gems -- farm-raised people with good hearts and strong opinions, owning values that make them valuable members of their communities. Aug. 17: I bike into Ames, where Ardath and I eat lunch with our niece, Anna Kuennen, who only the day before arrived on the campus of Iowa State University to begin her freshman year. Beginning this afternoon, we’ll take three days off and drive 100 miles north to visit Arlene Kuennen, Ardath’s mother, in Northwood, and a dozen or so members of the family. Friday, I plan to bike from Ames to Marshalltown with Kuennen relative Shane Buenzow. Saturday, our niece, Laura Kuennen will join us from Marshalltown toward Cedar Rapids. In a few days I hope to cross the Mississippi River at Clinton and head for Chicago.
Sitting on a bench, Kim and I talk about the bike trip. After the interview, she snaps a couple of photos and leaves with neither one of us knowing how the Twiner got its name.
Near the center of town an elderly gentleman pulls up next to the van. He wants to talk, and Ardath obliges him. Another driver drives up to the curb and offers to take my photo.
Eventually, we leave town, but not before taking photos of an old gas station on U.S. 30. A woman pulls alongside in her car, gets out, opens the back door and hands us two Colorado peaches. They are going-away presents.
Her act is emblematic of the town’s friendliness. My cynical side tells me that people just can’t be this friendly, but my Iowa-born wife assures me that Iowans are just plain nice people. I guess I can buy that for the moment.
How do people, including that Woodbine editor, know that we were in town? Tyco Healthcare PR people had not contacted her.
Ardath informs me that the local grapevine works faster than the Internet. In this case, Editor Kim happened to be in the vicinity. In other cases, people spot our van. And in still other cases someone may tell someone else that she saw a biker down the street taking photographs.
It seems to me that if the residents of small towns don’t immediately see what other people are doing in their village, they are apt to find out shortly.
Aug. 15: Sooner or later it was bound to happen. Falling from a bicycle is something I expected to happen during this trip.
As I slowly turn my bike around on the shoulder of the road to photograph the twilight spotlighting a turn-of-the-century house in Glidden, Iowa, my bike begins to slip in fine, loose gravel.
My right shoe cleat is locked into the bike pedal, and I can’t break it loose. In an instant the ground hits my ribs with a thud. I swear at the bike and the ground, but mostly at myself.
“That’s it, you idiot! Way to go, Junge, you clodhopper! Ouch, I can’t breathe. I wonder if I cracked some ribs.”
As I finally get my leg out from under me and crawl away from the bike to look for bloody scrapes or unfamiliar lumps, a couple stops along the side of the road. The man asks if I’m all right while the woman just looks over his shoulder. Not aware yet if anything is wrong with my body and embarrassed that I fell while doubling back for another photo, I tell them I’m just out of breath.
“Do you want us to wait a few minutes?” he asks.
“No, thanks,” I whisper. “I can call my wife on my cell phone if I need to.”
The couple keeps watch on me as they drive away. After putting the chain back on, I get back on the bike to ride and test my injured rib cage, all the while hoping I can work the pain out of my body before it stiffens up.
With the light fading fast, I limp into our motel room in Jefferson, fairly certain that my ribs are only bruised.
Aug. 16: Today Ardath’s sister, Amy LeCocq, and her daughter, Bethany, drive 140 miles south from Waseca, Minn., to see how their crazy relative performs on his cross-country bike ride.
After hugs along the shoulder, we find a gazebo near Ogden. Amy and Bethany haul out their cooler full of goodies, including sandwiches, fresh vegetables, rhubarb cake and juice.
Not more than a dozen feet from another concrete post marking an old segment of the Lincoln Highway, Ardath and I join them for a picnic.
I suspect that when people choose a mate they do not closely examine their future in-laws. I got lucky. Ardath’s family is full of gems -- farm-raised people with good hearts and strong opinions, owning values that make them valuable members of their communities.
Aug. 17: I bike into Ames, where Ardath and I eat lunch with our niece, Anna Kuennen, who only the day before arrived on the campus of Iowa State University to begin her freshman year.
Beginning this afternoon, we’ll take three days off and drive 100 miles north to visit Arlene Kuennen, Ardath’s mother, in Northwood, and a dozen or so members of the family.
Friday, I plan to bike from Ames to Marshalltown with Kuennen relative Shane Buenzow. Saturday, our niece, Laura Kuennen will join us from Marshalltown toward Cedar Rapids. In a few days I hope to cross the Mississippi River at Clinton and head for Chicago.
The best of everything... hung up on food... Lincoln Highway museums... Platte means flat... a little cold spell... Hizzoner, the Mayor of Omaha. August 6. I think when I’m finished with this trip I’m going to compile a “the best of everything” list. You know, the top restaurant, the top motel, the greatest thing to happen along the trail, etc., etc. Unless this cross-country bicycle saga changes, the best restaurant is, hands down, the Sportsman Bar and Grill at Gibbon, Nebraska. Ardath and I find it by default because our day’s journey ends in Gibbon. We need to backtrack to the motel in Kearney and it will be too late in the evening to find a restaurant there. We don’t want to eat late again tonight. When we eat at sunset, which now, as the summer wanes, comes about 8:30 pm, we plop into bed but don’t rest well. Besides, food on my stomach produces the most outrageous nightmares from heaven knows where. A mixture of recent real life experiences of the recent and distant past, peppered by prophecy, fertilizes the seeds of these wild dreams that are sown in the subconscious. For example, I keep dreaming that I’m levitating low to the ground, able to twist and turn, go uphill or down, speed or slow up, at will. Other people don’t seem to take much notice of this gift, but the point is that I’ve been blessed with a strange power, which I’m not quite sure how to use. There is no rational plan to life or some all-encompassing worldview that the Germans called a Weltanschauung. No, after all, it’s just a dream. And no matter how fast I levitate, I’m always late for everything. But I digress. Arleen, whose white, boxlike, Odd-Fellows Hall-turned-restaurant in Gibbon has two signs one spelled “Arlene’s” and the other “Arleen’s”, tells Ardath and me that she is closed for the evening. She advises us that there is one other restaurant in town. It’s the Sportsman Bar and Grill down the next block and around the corner to the right. A loud alarm sounds and her volunteer fireman husband runs to his truck, turns on his portable flashing light atop the cab, and races down the empty street. Cars seem to funnel into this sleepy thoroughfare from corners down the street, all of them headed east toward the emergency. The whole scene impresses Ardath so much that she tells me chills are going up and down her back. We drive over to the Sportsman Bar and Grill where there are a bar and a few booths. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Beyond, the bar and booths is a backroom with people eating at simple tables. I suggest to Ardath that it looks like a private banquet. A few steps further, a few words with a waitress and we are ushered into the regular Friday night buffet established by restaurant owner Jim Powers. The stainless steel tubs on the buffet table are full of what appears to be typical small-town fare: cold tubs of macaroni salad, Cool Whip and red Jell-O salad and hot tubs of steaming mashed potatoes and meat. Within seconds we’re seated at a table decorated by a basket with crackers and salt and pepper shakers. Our Swedish hostess invites us to help ourselves to the buffet. Oh boy, here we go. I take a little of everything, hoping something might taste good and also because I need to assure that my furnace is stoked well for tomorrow’s planned ride of nearly sixty miles. The body needs to be well prepared for the big mileage and, besides, I’ve eaten somewhat indiscriminately so far on this trip and haven’t gained any weight. In fact, Ardath tells me I look like I’ve lost weight. In the back of my mind I can hear my deceased mother say, “My God, you must have a tapeworm.” Everything on this buffet tasted like it used to when I was a kid. I mean, it actually had taste. Ordinary as it looked, it was all home cooked or, as they say, prepared from scratch. Never on this trip, not even at the most expensive and attractively accoutered restaurants, had we eaten food like this. It brings into sharp contrast the feeble nutrition we have received at some fast-food restaurants. Here is sweet corn fresh from the fields of the heartland, Swedish meatballs, great gobs of tasty, sticky barbecued beef, cucumbers in sweet brine like mother used to make, gobs of mashed potatoes and gravy, cinnamon-sweetened rice, the best bread pudding outside Cheyenne’s Hitching Post, three or four different macaroni salads that actually were worth the effort to put a fork into, and spice cake and chocolate chip brownie bars that melted under the palate. Ardath jokes that it’s a sign of getting old when you talk about your food. But I can’t help it. It is one of those meals that brings with it memories of youth when the taste of food was sharp and we had strong likes and dislikes. It brings back visions of childhood discussions or arguments at our family’s North Denver supper table. At that time we listened to an ivory-colored radio on the kitchen windowsill. Dad has a vote, but it’s a powerful one. So we listen to Amos and Andy, or the domestic quibbling of Fibber McGee and Molly, or “The Shadow”. Hmm, better quit. This epistle has wandered back to my primordial swamp days. These are the memories of a person who grew up before President Eisenhower signed the Interstate Highway bill in 1956, when the country’s interstate roads, like the Lincoln Highway, were generally two lane routes. August 7. Childhood memories, including those of travel across the Midwest on these two-lane highways, are bolstered today by a visit to the Great Platte River Road Archway Monument near Kearney, Nebraska. Deep within the bowels of this tunnel museum over Interstate 80 are exhibits defining the salient aspects of the Lincoln Highway road signs, an auto campground and motor court, a drive-in movie theater, a 1950s caf with a wax museum waitress wearing a short-sleeved, cuffed and starched pink cotton dress and batwing or goo-goo glasses, holding a brown cup in one hand and a Bunn coffee pot in the other. By the looks of her makeup, I’d say she was good-natured but that she was seasoned, having put up with the shenanigans of diner customers fiddling with the portable jukeboxes on the tables of the plastic upholstered booths and playing that demonic rock and roll.
August 6. I think when I’m finished with this trip I’m going to compile a “the best of everything” list. You know, the top restaurant, the top motel, the greatest thing to happen along the trail, etc., etc. Unless this cross-country bicycle saga changes, the best restaurant is, hands down, the Sportsman Bar and Grill at Gibbon, Nebraska.
Ardath and I find it by default because our day’s journey ends in Gibbon. We need to backtrack to the motel in Kearney and it will be too late in the evening to find a restaurant there. We don’t want to eat late again tonight. When we eat at sunset, which now, as the summer wanes, comes about 8:30 pm, we plop into bed but don’t rest well. Besides, food on my stomach produces the most outrageous nightmares from heaven knows where. A mixture of recent real life experiences of the recent and distant past, peppered by prophecy, fertilizes the seeds of these wild dreams that are sown in the subconscious. For example, I keep dreaming that I’m levitating low to the ground, able to twist and turn, go uphill or down, speed or slow up, at will. Other people don’t seem to take much notice of this gift, but the point is that I’ve been blessed with a strange power, which I’m not quite sure how to use. There is no rational plan to life or some all-encompassing worldview that the Germans called a Weltanschauung. No, after all, it’s just a dream. And no matter how fast I levitate, I’m always late for everything.
But I digress. Arleen, whose white, boxlike, Odd-Fellows Hall-turned-restaurant in Gibbon has two signs one spelled “Arlene’s” and the other “Arleen’s”, tells Ardath and me that she is closed for the evening. She advises us that there is one other restaurant in town. It’s the Sportsman Bar and Grill down the next block and around the corner to the right. A loud alarm sounds and her volunteer fireman husband runs to his truck, turns on his portable flashing light atop the cab, and races down the empty street. Cars seem to funnel into this sleepy thoroughfare from corners down the street, all of them headed east toward the emergency. The whole scene impresses Ardath so much that she tells me chills are going up and down her back.
We drive over to the Sportsman Bar and Grill where there are a bar and a few booths. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Beyond, the bar and booths is a backroom with people eating at simple tables. I suggest to Ardath that it looks like a private banquet. A few steps further, a few words with a waitress and we are ushered into the regular Friday night buffet established by restaurant owner Jim Powers.
The stainless steel tubs on the buffet table are full of what appears to be typical small-town fare: cold tubs of macaroni salad, Cool Whip and red Jell-O salad and hot tubs of steaming mashed potatoes and meat. Within seconds we’re seated at a table decorated by a basket with crackers and salt and pepper shakers. Our Swedish hostess invites us to help ourselves to the buffet. Oh boy, here we go.
I take a little of everything, hoping something might taste good and also because I need to assure that my furnace is stoked well for tomorrow’s planned ride of nearly sixty miles. The body needs to be well prepared for the big mileage and, besides, I’ve eaten somewhat indiscriminately so far on this trip and haven’t gained any weight. In fact, Ardath tells me I look like I’ve lost weight. In the back of my mind I can hear my deceased mother say, “My God, you must have a tapeworm.”
Everything on this buffet tasted like it used to when I was a kid. I mean, it actually had taste. Ordinary as it looked, it was all home cooked or, as they say, prepared from scratch. Never on this trip, not even at the most expensive and attractively accoutered restaurants, had we eaten food like this. It brings into sharp contrast the feeble nutrition we have received at some fast-food restaurants. Here is sweet corn fresh from the fields of the heartland, Swedish meatballs, great gobs of tasty, sticky barbecued beef, cucumbers in sweet brine like mother used to make, gobs of mashed potatoes and gravy, cinnamon-sweetened rice, the best bread pudding outside Cheyenne’s Hitching Post, three or four different macaroni salads that actually were worth the effort to put a fork into, and spice cake and chocolate chip brownie bars that melted under the palate.
Ardath jokes that it’s a sign of getting old when you talk about your food. But I can’t help it. It is one of those meals that brings with it memories of youth when the taste of food was sharp and we had strong likes and dislikes. It brings back visions of childhood discussions or arguments at our family’s North Denver supper table. At that time we listened to an ivory-colored radio on the kitchen windowsill. Dad has a vote, but it’s a powerful one. So we listen to Amos and Andy, or the domestic quibbling of Fibber McGee and Molly, or “The Shadow”. Hmm, better quit. This epistle has wandered back to my primordial swamp days.
These are the memories of a person who grew up before President Eisenhower signed the Interstate Highway bill in 1956, when the country’s interstate roads, like the Lincoln Highway, were generally two lane routes.
August 7. Childhood memories, including those of travel across the Midwest on these two-lane highways, are bolstered today by a visit to the Great Platte River Road Archway Monument near Kearney, Nebraska. Deep within the bowels of this tunnel museum over Interstate 80 are exhibits defining the salient aspects of the Lincoln Highway road signs, an auto campground and motor court, a drive-in movie theater, a 1950s caf with a wax museum waitress wearing a short-sleeved, cuffed and starched pink cotton dress and batwing or goo-goo glasses, holding a brown cup in one hand and a Bunn coffee pot in the other. By the looks of her makeup, I’d say she was good-natured but that she was seasoned, having put up with the shenanigans of diner customers fiddling with the portable jukeboxes on the tables of the plastic upholstered booths and playing that demonic rock and roll.
Down the highway on U.S. 30 on the main drag in Shelton, Nebraska is a less sophisticated Lincoln Highway museum. Served by volunteer hosts Lenore and Bob Stubblefield, it’s located in a bank building whose interior is decorated in, tortoise shell, and ceramic-glazed brick. According to Lenore, who gives us a personal tour of the building, the owner of the bank was a perfectionist and did not like some of the brickwork that was being done. So he grabbed a trowel and a hod of bricks and mortar and began to show the workers how to do it right. During his object lesson he suffered a heart attack and died. I can’t remember if Lenore implied that this might be cosmic justice, or if there was some moral to the story. Maybe it says something about people with too much money who don’t get enough exercise. August 8. On the outskirts of town just east of Grand Island I detour slightly and turn my touring bicycle onto the town’s remnant “seedling mile”, a half-block-long, 17-foot wide, layer of broken concrete littered with a stubble of grass and weeds pushing apart the age lines in its face. Today I will continue to bike the flat country of central and eastern Nebraska along the Platte River and should obtain a distance of nearly 60 miles east from Grand Island to Silver Creek. After spending the night in Columbus, I’ll have to backtrack to Silver Creek so I can pick up from where I stop this evening. August 9. This fine morning, east of Silver Creek, a lone woman ahead of me bikes along U.S. 30. It’s not often I get to see another biker on the shoulder of these automobile highways. She’s working hard on her thick-tired mountain bike. I’m on a speedier touring bike. Given just a bit of a tailwind and inhaling oxygen from my HELiOS canister, I quickly pass her. At Columbus I cross the Loup River on a narrow sidewalk. Separating me from the river thirty feet below is a chain link fence. This August the Loup is a set of two water channels that flank a wide sandy plain between them. My path runs adjacent to the northbound highway that, in turn, is adjacent to a long, southbound highway truss bridge. Flat, concrete deck bridges that have as much personality as a fast food restaurant have replaced most of these artful steel truss bridges. The Loup is a main tributary of the Platte, a river I have not seen although I have traveled its length for nearly 300 miles. Unless I go out of my way I won’t see it, either, because it dumps its load into the Missouri below the point where the Lincoln Highway crosses the river near Omaha. From Columbus east, Lincoln Highway signs become more frequent. Occasionally, a telephone post is banded with the familiar red, white and blue Lincoln Highway emblem bearing the letter, “L.” August 10. There has been a second major change in bicycle trip weather. The first change was rain in Laramie, Wyoming and foggy clouds on the Summit west of Cheyenne, a leg of the trip that was also experienced by a bevy of bikers who rode with me into the capital city. This time, it is at Fremont, Nebraska. Last night a front brought lightning, rain and a drastic drop in the temperature from the 90s to the low 60s. We started late today, partly because I want to see Schuyler, Nebraska, a town I bypassed last night on a section of four-lane, divided U.S. 30, and partly because I took time for an interview at the Columbus Telegram. Even the waterproof windbreaker I am wearing over one of my short-sleeved Tyco Healthcare shirt can’t keep my rib cage from rattling with this humid air. Luckily for me, Ardath pulls up to greet me on the side of the road and helps me put on a sweatshirt. I make it as far as Elkhorn, a bedroom community just west of Omaha. Tomorrow I’ll finish the ride into Omaha and meet Mike Fahey, Omaha’s mayor. The public recognition for this bicycle ride is nice, and it provides some gratifying experiences, but there are also advantages to not being recognized, or “flying under the radar” as my friend, Bill Roe, puts it. August 11. Yes! The Missouri River. Next major goal: the Mississippi River. Omaha has had lots of moisture lately and everything is green, turning it into a type of emerald city. Downtown, on a concrete landing at the Omaha City Hall, Mayor Fahey proclaims today “Freedom Tour Day” and reads a brief proclamation recognizing the problems suffered by oxygen-dependent people and also stating how this bicycle trip demonstrates that people can still live an active lifestyle while being dependent upon portable oxygen. The mayor is no relation to Father Thomas Fahey who once conducted mass at Cheyenne’s Holy Trinity Catholic Church. When I expressed the opinion that Father Fahey is one of the most profoundly spiritual people I ever met, the quick-witted Omaha leader grinned and retorted that my impression was a pretty good indication that the good Father could certainly be no relation to Hizzoner. If I expected the Mayor of this emerald city to award me a set of new lungs after following the yellow-striped Lincoln Highway, I was wrong. The occasion was, however, a photo opportunity for the twenty four million people in this country whose lungs are impaired in one way or another.
August 8. On the outskirts of town just east of Grand Island I detour slightly and turn my touring bicycle onto the town’s remnant “seedling mile”, a half-block-long, 17-foot wide, layer of broken concrete littered with a stubble of grass and weeds pushing apart the age lines in its face. Today I will continue to bike the flat country of central and eastern Nebraska along the Platte River and should obtain a distance of nearly 60 miles east from Grand Island to Silver Creek. After spending the night in Columbus, I’ll have to backtrack to Silver Creek so I can pick up from where I stop this evening.
August 9. This fine morning, east of Silver Creek, a lone woman ahead of me bikes along U.S. 30. It’s not often I get to see another biker on the shoulder of these automobile highways. She’s working hard on her thick-tired mountain bike. I’m on a speedier touring bike. Given just a bit of a tailwind and inhaling oxygen from my HELiOS canister, I quickly pass her.
At Columbus I cross the Loup River on a narrow sidewalk. Separating me from the river thirty feet below is a chain link fence. This August the Loup is a set of two water channels that flank a wide sandy plain between them. My path runs adjacent to the northbound highway that, in turn, is adjacent to a long, southbound highway truss bridge. Flat, concrete deck bridges that have as much personality as a fast food restaurant have replaced most of these artful steel truss bridges.
The Loup is a main tributary of the Platte, a river I have not seen although I have traveled its length for nearly 300 miles. Unless I go out of my way I won’t see it, either, because it dumps its load into the Missouri below the point where the Lincoln Highway crosses the river near Omaha.
From Columbus east, Lincoln Highway signs become more frequent. Occasionally, a telephone post is banded with the familiar red, white and blue Lincoln Highway emblem bearing the letter, “L.”
August 10. There has been a second major change in bicycle trip weather. The first change was rain in Laramie, Wyoming and foggy clouds on the Summit west of Cheyenne, a leg of the trip that was also experienced by a bevy of bikers who rode with me into the capital city. This time, it is at Fremont, Nebraska. Last night a front brought lightning, rain and a drastic drop in the temperature from the 90s to the low 60s. We started late today, partly because I want to see Schuyler, Nebraska, a town I bypassed last night on a section of four-lane, divided U.S. 30, and partly because I took time for an interview at the Columbus Telegram.
Even the waterproof windbreaker I am wearing over one of my short-sleeved Tyco Healthcare shirt can’t keep my rib cage from rattling with this humid air. Luckily for me, Ardath pulls up to greet me on the side of the road and helps me put on a sweatshirt. I make it as far as Elkhorn, a bedroom community just west of Omaha. Tomorrow I’ll finish the ride into Omaha and meet Mike Fahey, Omaha’s mayor. The public recognition for this bicycle ride is nice, and it provides some gratifying experiences, but there are also advantages to not being recognized, or “flying under the radar” as my friend, Bill Roe, puts it.
August 11. Yes! The Missouri River. Next major goal: the Mississippi River.
Omaha has had lots of moisture lately and everything is green, turning it into a type of emerald city. Downtown, on a concrete landing at the Omaha City Hall, Mayor Fahey proclaims today “Freedom Tour Day” and reads a brief proclamation recognizing the problems suffered by oxygen-dependent people and also stating how this bicycle trip demonstrates that people can still live an active lifestyle while being dependent upon portable oxygen.
The mayor is no relation to Father Thomas Fahey who once conducted mass at Cheyenne’s Holy Trinity Catholic Church. When I expressed the opinion that Father Fahey is one of the most profoundly spiritual people I ever met, the quick-witted Omaha leader grinned and retorted that my impression was a pretty good indication that the good Father could certainly be no relation to Hizzoner.
If I expected the Mayor of this emerald city to award me a set of new lungs after following the yellow-striped Lincoln Highway, I was wrong. The occasion was, however, a photo opportunity for the twenty four million people in this country whose lungs are impaired in one way or another.
8/8/04: This morning Ardath and I finally leave our motel room in Grand Island at 10:00 am, a relatively early time for us to be getting on the road these past few days. This morning looks better than the two or three previous mornings when we felt bogged down mentally and physically. Night before last in Kearney, as we lay down to sleep our fatigue was compounded by the presence of a couple of Harley riders on their way to Sturgis. They came into the courtyard about 11pm and one of them parked his bike on the sidewalk right on the other side of the thin glass window separating our beds from the great outdoors. Nice fellas, maybe, but those gurgling motorcycles sounded like they were coming right up over the top of the comforters that we were pulled up to our chins. Did you know that the Lincoln Highway Association was formed in 1913 to promote the construction of a national interstate highway? Promoters soon came up with the idea of constructing “seedling miles”, or small sections of paved roads, in order to demonstrate to the car-owning public the advantage of an all-weather surface, coast to coast highway. Two years later, Nebraska had a seedling mile. Today all that remains in Grand Island is a half-block-long section of concrete with weeds growing between the cracks behind Kensinger’s full service gas station. That’s right. A full service gas station. Wearing a baseball hat to protect himself from the sun, Dick emerges from his steeply-gabled stucco shed and applies his rubber squeegee to a customer’s bug-bedecked windshield. As I stand there taking photos I can only guess what he might be saying to one of the two ladies in the car. “Yes, you betcha, I can wash those windows for you ma’am but the bugs are kind of sticky. Kind of like the weather, huh?”
Did you know that the Lincoln Highway Association was formed in 1913 to promote the construction of a national interstate highway? Promoters soon came up with the idea of constructing “seedling miles”, or small sections of paved roads, in order to demonstrate to the car-owning public the advantage of an all-weather surface, coast to coast highway.
Two years later, Nebraska had a seedling mile. Today all that remains in Grand Island is a half-block-long section of concrete with weeds growing between the cracks behind Kensinger’s full service gas station. That’s right. A full service gas station. Wearing a baseball hat to protect himself from the sun, Dick emerges from his steeply-gabled stucco shed and applies his rubber squeegee to a customer’s bug-bedecked windshield. As I stand there taking photos I can only guess what he might be saying to one of the two ladies in the car. “Yes, you betcha, I can wash those windows for you ma’am but the bugs are kind of sticky. Kind of like the weather, huh?”
8/9/04: Nebraska is a shoebox-shaped state that is 450 miles in breadth. Having reached its core, Ardath is beginning to complain that all of these small Cornhusker towns are becoming blended in her memory. Like strip malls on the fringes of larger towns, these quaint, silo-bedecked population centers spaced every seven to twelve miles along cornfield and soybean-flanked U.S. 30 are beginning to merge into one small, mid-continent village. Ardath has been taking photos of motor courts, gas stations and other vintage Lincoln Highway structures and now they seem undifferentiated. In the motel room this morning she asks me when I thought we’d be in Columbus. I tell her we are in Columbus. She shakes her head, trying to clear her brain. Last night three salty, tough and independent people from the heartland intercepted us on our route across eastern Nebraska. Don, Geneva and Debbie Krotz, the father, mother and sister of Randy Krotz, Tyco Healthcare’s Director of Corporate Communications who is organizing this cross-country odyssey, drove up to Columbus from Belleville, Kansas in order to have dinner with “HELiOS Man” and his wife. As local columnists used to remark, “a good time was had by all.”
Last night three salty, tough and independent people from the heartland intercepted us on our route across eastern Nebraska. Don, Geneva and Debbie Krotz, the father, mother and sister of Randy Krotz, Tyco Healthcare’s Director of Corporate Communications who is organizing this cross-country odyssey, drove up to Columbus from Belleville, Kansas in order to have dinner with “HELiOS Man” and his wife. As local columnists used to remark, “a good time was had by all.”
It’s 5:30 p.m. (CT) in North Platte and the thermometer hanging in the shade of the motel office reads 102 degrees. The humidity is about 69%. Ardath and I just finished talking to the reporter and photographer at the North Platte Telegraph. The reporter said that when he shot pictures of the fairgrounds earlier, it was 107 degrees. Both of us are probably wrong, however the local television weather forecaster announced that today’s high was only 97. I don’t know where he records his high and low temperatures but my guess is that he probably isn’t at the Lincoln Country Fairgrounds or riding a bike on black asphalt between rows of corn, west of town. Nevertheless, the air cools off this evening to the point where temperature is much less of an issue. Sunol, Lodge Pole, Chappell, Brule, Ogallala, Roscoe Paxton, Sutherland, Hershey these are the “small towns” I passed through going “downhill” from Sidney to North Platte on my way through Nebraskaland.
Ardath and I just finished talking to the reporter and photographer at the North Platte Telegraph. The reporter said that when he shot pictures of the fairgrounds earlier, it was 107 degrees. Both of us are probably wrong, however the local television weather forecaster announced that today’s high was only 97. I don’t know where he records his high and low temperatures but my guess is that he probably isn’t at the Lincoln Country Fairgrounds or riding a bike on black asphalt between rows of corn, west of town. Nevertheless, the air cools off this evening to the point where temperature is much less of an issue. Sunol, Lodge Pole, Chappell, Brule, Ogallala, Roscoe Paxton, Sutherland, Hershey these are the “small towns” I passed through going “downhill” from Sidney to North Platte on my way through Nebraskaland.
“Downhill” and “small towns” are relative terms here. Even though the elevation drops from 4,085 in Sidney to 3,223 in Ogallala to 2,800 in North Platte, riding a bike makes it seem consistently flat. There is no apparent “downhill” slope in the 123 miles on this stretch of the Lincoln Highway. I can tell the difference in altitude by the way I feel. When I exercise, my lungs depend on the extra reservoir that this HELiOS liquid oxygen canister on my bike rack provides. I always depend on it when walking around in my hometown of Cheyenne, but here in North Platte I don’t require it constantly. “Small towns” is a relative term since there isn’t much to Sunol or Roscoe or at least they don’t appear to be towns from my vantage point on the highway. Maybe we need another definition of “town.” But their small size doesn’t mean that these places are not interesting. They are some of the very best places to see vintage Lincoln Highway structures in decay. Their various states of dilapidation make them seem like fabricated movie sets for tales about ghost towns. But in fact, they are rather benign to me as I straddle my bike on the highway shoulder to record the current state of their existence.
“Small towns” is a relative term since there isn’t much to Sunol or Roscoe or at least they don’t appear to be towns from my vantage point on the highway. Maybe we need another definition of “town.” But their small size doesn’t mean that these places are not interesting. They are some of the very best places to see vintage Lincoln Highway structures in decay. Their various states of dilapidation make them seem like fabricated movie sets for tales about ghost towns. But in fact, they are rather benign to me as I straddle my bike on the highway shoulder to record the current state of their existence.
High 90-degree temperatures were predicted for Sydney, Nebraska, and by the looks of the sky I think the forecasters are right this time. But now it’s 6:45am and it’s pleasant as it can be. As I straddle my bike temperatures are in the 60’s. It’s Sunday morning so there isn’t much traffic on highway US 30. The drivers, who have someplace to go, seem to be wide-awake and give me a comfortable berth along the two lane Lincoln Highway here in Cheyenne County. Morning shadows are long, giving form to the landscape, manmade or natural, the colors are rich and not yet washed out by the sun. And there might be a slight tailwind to push me down the road, although I largely ignore this benefit, stopping every mile to record the beauty around me. If it’s supposed to be downhill from western Nebraska to eastern Nebraska, I haven’t had the pleasure of coasting very far. The west end of Nebraska is a gun-barrel called the Panhandle and with few exceptions it is flat and smooth. No coasting here except on short, wavy ribbon-like sections of the highway. Here I crouch and put my nose to the handlebar that holds my camera bag, trying to reduce the air resistance and gain every foot of distance I can going up the next hillock. And they are little hills nothing like the long ascents to the summits I rode in California, Nevada, Utah and Wyoming. The most drastic change is not the sun however, Ardath and I have experienced hot sun nearly the entire first half of the trip. It is the humidity that is the difference. You can feel it and smell it. It’s good to watch the sweat break out on the skin, a natural release that liberates the body of its liquid while it liberates the mind of its worries. The humidity brings earthy Nebraska farmland smells to the nostrils sweet grass on the shoulder of the road, musty corn in the fields, to my left and right animal manure from somewhere, and road-kill in front of me of which there are many varieties. Not all of them are smashed flat. A few mortalities that I pass on this white line that I am riding appear to have taken a glancing blow. They look as fresh as they might on a taxidermist’s table.
Morning shadows are long, giving form to the landscape, manmade or natural, the colors are rich and not yet washed out by the sun. And there might be a slight tailwind to push me down the road, although I largely ignore this benefit, stopping every mile to record the beauty around me.
If it’s supposed to be downhill from western Nebraska to eastern Nebraska, I haven’t had the pleasure of coasting very far. The west end of Nebraska is a gun-barrel called the Panhandle and with few exceptions it is flat and smooth. No coasting here except on short, wavy ribbon-like sections of the highway. Here I crouch and put my nose to the handlebar that holds my camera bag, trying to reduce the air resistance and gain every foot of distance I can going up the next hillock. And they are little hills nothing like the long ascents to the summits I rode in California, Nevada, Utah and Wyoming.
The most drastic change is not the sun however, Ardath and I have experienced hot sun nearly the entire first half of the trip. It is the humidity that is the difference. You can feel it and smell it. It’s good to watch the sweat break out on the skin, a natural release that liberates the body of its liquid while it liberates the mind of its worries. The humidity brings earthy Nebraska farmland smells to the nostrils sweet grass on the shoulder of the road, musty corn in the fields, to my left and right animal manure from somewhere, and road-kill in front of me of which there are many varieties. Not all of them are smashed flat. A few mortalities that I pass on this white line that I am riding appear to have taken a glancing blow. They look as fresh as they might on a taxidermist’s table.
There isn’t much opportunity to talk to people this morning, not many are out walking around in the sun or even driving for that matter. It is Sunday morning in America’s heartland, and I am near the hearts aortic valve. Stopping in a caf in Chappell, Nebraska, I find the door open but the tables and chairs in the two rooms are empty. Apparently I am the first customer of the day, and the owner isn’t even standing behind the cash register to welcome me with a good morning. “Is anybody here?” I ask, as I wander around the two rooms of this corner cafè. From somewhere in the back of the kitchen I hear, “Yea just a minute.” A white-aproned cook comes out. “Not much biz today,” I comment. “It’s early,” he replies. “Church will be out in about half an hour. Then you’ll see them come in.” Sure enough having finished my meal I approach the front door. Senior citizens dressed in their Sunday best come trooping into the only place open in Chappell on this fine summer morning. “Good Morning.”
“Is anybody here?” I ask, as I wander around the two rooms of this corner cafè.
From somewhere in the back of the kitchen I hear, “Yea just a minute.”
A white-aproned cook comes out. “Not much biz today,” I comment.
“It’s early,” he replies. “Church will be out in about half an hour. Then you’ll see them come in.”
Sure enough having finished my meal I approach the front door. Senior citizens dressed in their Sunday best come trooping into the only place open in Chappell on this fine summer morning.
“Good Morning.”
I’ve always loved bicycles. The smell of a new bicycle and its fresh rubber tires to me is like the smell of a new car. I’m not a bike techie, nor am I a competitive racer, endurance biker, mountain biker, or collector of antique bicycles. I just enjoy traveling close to the ground on concrete or asphalt and, like a dog, inhaling rural and urban smells, seeing what is over the next hill, anticipating what is beyond the horizon. The idea of making a transcontinental bike ride across America had been fermenting in my brain for at least the past decade. Because my wife, Ardath, and I are retired baby boomers, we realized that with a little sacrifice we could afford to take some time for a trip like this, one that would take several months. But it wasn’t going to be that easy. Nearly two years ago I was weakened by blood clots that gathered in my lungs. What caused them? Possibly they were the result of previous hip replacement surgery, or maybe it was two previous heart surgeries. I don’t know for sure. Regardless, the result was that I was disabled, and at first it was discouraging. It was hard to breathe during any form of exertion except sitting, and I had to use oxygen to sleep at night. Nevertheless, these problems barely made a dent in my desire to make the cross-country trip. The main reason why it did not dampen my enthusiasm was because my pulmonologist prescribed coumadin and portable liquid oxygen as therapy. Within a very short time it dawned on me that I did not have to give up my dreams, and that a bike trip really was not out of the question. Not only that, my enthusiasm doubled and then tripled because my personal goal began morphing into something much more altruistic. Tyco International, a large and multi-faceted company that manufactures, among other items, portable liquid oxygen canisters, became interested in the venture. When I spoke with Tyco’s marketing representative, Randy Krotz, he saw a much broader scenario than I had ever imagined, something that was going to be much more satisfying. Plans were laid. Randy and his associates quickly adopted me as a spokesperson for a cause that I barely understood. The fact of the matter, I began to realize, is that there are many others like me who do not want to give up their lifestyles. Aware of the pressures that accompany intense media coverage, Randy asked: would I be comfortable being a poster boy for those people and for Tyco?
I’ve always loved bicycles. The smell of a new bicycle and its fresh rubber tires to me is like the smell of a new car. I’m not a bike techie, nor am I a competitive racer, endurance biker, mountain biker, or collector of antique bicycles. I just enjoy traveling close to the ground on concrete or asphalt and, like a dog, inhaling rural and urban smells, seeing what is over the next hill, anticipating what is beyond the horizon.
The idea of making a transcontinental bike ride across America had been fermenting in my brain for at least the past decade. Because my wife, Ardath, and I are retired baby boomers, we realized that with a little sacrifice we could afford to take some time for a trip like this, one that would take several months.
But it wasn’t going to be that easy. Nearly two years ago I was weakened by blood clots that gathered in my lungs. What caused them? Possibly they were the result of previous hip replacement surgery, or maybe it was two previous heart surgeries. I don’t know for sure. Regardless, the result was that I was disabled, and at first it was discouraging. It was hard to breathe during any form of exertion except sitting, and I had to use oxygen to sleep at night.
Nevertheless, these problems barely made a dent in my desire to make the cross-country trip. The main reason why it did not dampen my enthusiasm was because my pulmonologist prescribed coumadin and portable liquid oxygen as therapy. Within a very short time it dawned on me that I did not have to give up my dreams, and that a bike trip really was not out of the question. Not only that, my enthusiasm doubled and then tripled because my personal goal began morphing into something much more altruistic.
Tyco International, a large and multi-faceted company that manufactures, among other items, portable liquid oxygen canisters, became interested in the venture. When I spoke with Tyco’s marketing representative, Randy Krotz, he saw a much broader scenario than I had ever imagined, something that was going to be much more satisfying. Plans were laid. Randy and his associates quickly adopted me as a spokesperson for a cause that I barely understood. The fact of the matter, I began to realize, is that there are many others like me who do not want to give up their lifestyles. Aware of the pressures that accompany intense media coverage, Randy asked: would I be comfortable being a poster boy for those people and for Tyco?
At my age, and given my previous health problems, it was not difficult to formulate an answer. It took less than a split-second to make the decision. Of course I would Using Tyco’s HELiOS - a lightweight, portable liquid oxygen container - I plan to make contact with others who are suffering lung impairments, both by personal contact and through various media outlets. This “Coast to Coast on HELiOS” tour is a wonderful opportunity to speak up for those who would benefit from the freedom of a lifestyle unburdened by breathing restrictions. Who knows? Maybe those people, too, will become apostles, moved to spread the gospel to others who, like themselves, are suffering. And so forth, ad infinitum. If by throwing a stone in a pond we make a ripple that eventually reaches from shore to shore in a positive way, it would be satisfying far beyond my original reason for making this trip. If society as a whole benefits from increased human productivity, my own life truly will be justified. Each morning when I walk outdoors to the mailbox I look to the east toward the rising sun and thank the powers that be for granting me one more day. Now if they will but see me through this trip, we can strike a blow for freedom.
At my age, and given my previous health problems, it was not difficult to formulate an answer. It took less than a split-second to make the decision. Of course I would
Using Tyco’s HELiOS - a lightweight, portable liquid oxygen container - I plan to make contact with others who are suffering lung impairments, both by personal contact and through various media outlets. This “Coast to Coast on HELiOS” tour is a wonderful opportunity to speak up for those who would benefit from the freedom of a lifestyle unburdened by breathing restrictions. Who knows? Maybe those people, too, will become apostles, moved to spread the gospel to others who, like themselves, are suffering. And so forth, ad infinitum. If by throwing a stone in a pond we make a ripple that eventually reaches from shore to shore in a positive way, it would be satisfying far beyond my original reason for making this trip. If society as a whole benefits from increased human productivity, my own life truly will be justified.
Each morning when I walk outdoors to the mailbox I look to the east toward the rising sun and thank the powers that be for granting me one more day. Now if they will but see me through this trip, we can strike a blow for freedom.
button below to expand
button to collapse the entry.
