Brockport, NY – before I say anything, I’d like to give a big ‘thank you’ to all of my relatives in Cleveland. You really rolled out the welcome mat for me, and I had a wonderful time.
I also, as it turns out, have wonderful timing. The last night I spent at my uncle’s house west of Cleveland proper, the eastern Cleveland suburbs got socked with torrential rains – up to 12 inches in some places. If it weren’t for my staying a third day, I would’ve had to bike through that stuff. As it was, the following afternoon many of the roads were still closed in that area and I ended up having to abandon the mapped route for a while. The first night out of Cleveland, I stayed in a campsite on Lake Erie that was about 200 feet away from a spectacular pile of wrecked sailboats; their moorings had ripped right off during the rainfall. (Making the spot even more scenic, the campsite was about ¼ mile from a nuclear power plant.)
The day after that, I was out of Ohio. Not to offend any relatives, but Ohio was mostly extremely dull biking. The route actually goes right through downtown Cleveland, passing by some bazillion-dollar mansions, great views from the waterfront, and landmarks like the new Browns stadium and the rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame (which I skipped, as I’ve been there before and it’s $20 to get in.) It also cruises past Case Western Reserve University and some wonderful museums and gardens.
But that was Cleveland proper. The problem was what lay for 50 miles on either side: suburbs. Endless, repetitive, boring, heavily trafficked suburbs that stretched all the way into the Pennsylvania panhandle. It was not, shall we say, a highlight.
That all started to change in Pennsylvania, though; the houses thinned out and were replaced by vineyards and orchards; the road rose up and afforded grand views of the lake on my left and distant hills on my right. This scenery kept up into New York, when the route takes an interesting little turn into Canada.
Apparently seeking to avoid the madness of Niagara Falls, NY, the route jumps across the river past Buffalo to Canada, where it follows a bike trail to the falls on the Canadian side. Except you’re not avoiding anything, because Niagara Falls, Ontario was also a madhouse. The falls themselves are an amazing, awesome sight, but it’s hard to get too moved by the spectacle when you’re surrounded by literally thousands of people. I haven’t seen a crowd that big since Boston for the New Year’s fireworks. It was unreal.
I’m not a big fan of crowds (perhaps you’d noticed) so my visit to the Falls was pretty perfunctory. No Maid of the Mist, not even a stop in the doubtless unbearably tacky streets lying behind the waterfront. My only pit stop before leaving the area was to a brand-new, rather enormous Buddhist stupa they put up less than a mile from the falls, including a maybe 25-foot tall statue of the Buddha himself. What the heck it was doing there, I couldn’t say, but it’s hard to beat that for a random cultural experience.
Back in the USA again, I arrived yesterday afternoon at one has proven to be one of the highlights of the trip – the Erie Canal. As the subject line suggests, the route follows a bike path along the canal for close to 90 miles; I’m probably about halfway along that.
The canal route is incredible. All it is is a gravel path next to a wide, shallow, turbid waterway – which means that, except for the regular road bridges passing overhead, it looks pretty much like it did in 1825. The countryside along the canal is just that – countryside, farms and fields stretching off along country lanes. Sometimes its hard to believe I’m in the same state as Manhattan.
And the towns along the canal are wonderful. The canal hasn’t been used for anything but pleasure craft for years, but somehow all of these towns that grew up along the canal are still surviving and thriving. Most of them are still centered along the canal, and each one has a gaily painted drawbridge stretching across the waterway on its respective Main Street. (Low bridge, everybody down!) I really feel like I’m biking through another era, or at least a 90-mile-long history lesson. After a long stretch of blah, New York is lifting my spirits immeasurably. And after the canal, it’s back to the mountains! I can’t wait.
I also, as it turns out, have wonderful timing. The last night I spent at my uncle’s house west of Cleveland proper, the eastern Cleveland suburbs got socked with torrential rains – up to 12 inches in some places. If it weren’t for my staying a third day, I would’ve had to bike through that stuff. As it was, the following afternoon many of the roads were still closed in that area and I ended up having to abandon the mapped route for a while. The first night out of Cleveland, I stayed in a campsite on Lake Erie that was about 200 feet away from a spectacular pile of wrecked sailboats; their moorings had ripped right off during the rainfall. (Making the spot even more scenic, the campsite was about ¼ mile from a nuclear power plant.)
The day after that, I was out of Ohio. Not to offend any relatives, but Ohio was mostly extremely dull biking. The route actually goes right through downtown Cleveland, passing by some bazillion-dollar mansions, great views from the waterfront, and landmarks like the new Browns stadium and the rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame (which I skipped, as I’ve been there before and it’s $20 to get in.) It also cruises past Case Western Reserve University and some wonderful museums and gardens.
But that was Cleveland proper. The problem was what lay for 50 miles on either side: suburbs. Endless, repetitive, boring, heavily trafficked suburbs that stretched all the way into the Pennsylvania panhandle. It was not, shall we say, a highlight.
That all started to change in Pennsylvania, though; the houses thinned out and were replaced by vineyards and orchards; the road rose up and afforded grand views of the lake on my left and distant hills on my right. This scenery kept up into New York, when the route takes an interesting little turn into Canada.
Apparently seeking to avoid the madness of Niagara Falls, NY, the route jumps across the river past Buffalo to Canada, where it follows a bike trail to the falls on the Canadian side. Except you’re not avoiding anything, because Niagara Falls, Ontario was also a madhouse. The falls themselves are an amazing, awesome sight, but it’s hard to get too moved by the spectacle when you’re surrounded by literally thousands of people. I haven’t seen a crowd that big since Boston for the New Year’s fireworks. It was unreal.
I’m not a big fan of crowds (perhaps you’d noticed) so my visit to the Falls was pretty perfunctory. No Maid of the Mist, not even a stop in the doubtless unbearably tacky streets lying behind the waterfront. My only pit stop before leaving the area was to a brand-new, rather enormous Buddhist stupa they put up less than a mile from the falls, including a maybe 25-foot tall statue of the Buddha himself. What the heck it was doing there, I couldn’t say, but it’s hard to beat that for a random cultural experience.
Back in the USA again, I arrived yesterday afternoon at one has proven to be one of the highlights of the trip – the Erie Canal. As the subject line suggests, the route follows a bike path along the canal for close to 90 miles; I’m probably about halfway along that.
The canal route is incredible. All it is is a gravel path next to a wide, shallow, turbid waterway – which means that, except for the regular road bridges passing overhead, it looks pretty much like it did in 1825. The countryside along the canal is just that – countryside, farms and fields stretching off along country lanes. Sometimes its hard to believe I’m in the same state as Manhattan.
And the towns along the canal are wonderful. The canal hasn’t been used for anything but pleasure craft for years, but somehow all of these towns that grew up along the canal are still surviving and thriving. Most of them are still centered along the canal, and each one has a gaily painted drawbridge stretching across the waterway on its respective Main Street. (Low bridge, everybody down!) I really feel like I’m biking through another era, or at least a 90-mile-long history lesson. After a long stretch of blah, New York is lifting my spirits immeasurably. And after the canal, it’s back to the mountains! I can’t wait.
Cleveland, Ohio - I'm spending three days in the area to visit some relatives and enjoy some R and R before making the final push to Maine. It's been very strange being here - I started this trip far, far outside the orbit of my life up to this point, and it's weird to reach my own personal event horizon. From here on out, I'll be passing through landscapes and areas that will no doubt feel familiar to me, even if I only saw most of them out of the car window from one of innumerable trips down I-90.
Handily enough, the impressive Cleveland Public Library has USB ports on its computers, so here's a whole backlog of photos to marvel at.
Minneapolis - My first real urban biking of the trip. Fortunately, it's a great city to bike in. This was taken from a pedestrian bridge over the Mississippi, one of many concessions the city has made for crazy folks like me.
Minneapolis - "Spoonbridge," in the city's sculplure garden. Kinda self-explanatory.
Minneapolis - The new avant-garde addition to the Walker Art Center. As my friend Ruth correctly pointed out, it very much resembles a rock-'em sock-'em robot head. I was hoping there would be a giant coiled spring in the middle of the lobby, but no luck.
Tom: Hey, Ganesh, is this heaven?
Ganesh: Well, actually, heaven is more of a Judeo-Christian concept. We tend to believe in...
Tom: Ganesh! Is this heaven?
Ganesh (sighs): No, it's Iowa.
Dyersville, Iowa - Speaking of Field of Dreams jokes, here it is: the original movie set. The funny thing is that one guy owns the land under most of the field, while his neighbor owns left and center field. So they've set up competing gift shops at either end of the field. There's definitely no love lost between the sides, but fortunately no one's gone and built a wall through the field or anything.
Dwight, Illinois - Every town likes to honor its state champion high school teams, but Illinois does 'em one better. Or posibly three or four better. There were signs like this at every town. I tried to track down Brian Krug for an autograph but couldn't get through his entourage. Man, FFA used to be about the milk.
Cleveland, Ohio - My second city on this trip. I can't comment on what it's like to bike through it, though, as I won't do that until Friday. Nice place to stroll around for a few hours, though, and they've got a great baseball stadium.
Cleveland - So who wins the battle of the goofy public art: giant-cherry-on-spoon or giant "Free" stamp? That, I suspect, is in the eye of the beholder.
Handily enough, the impressive Cleveland Public Library has USB ports on its computers, so here's a whole backlog of photos to marvel at.
Minneapolis - My first real urban biking of the trip. Fortunately, it's a great city to bike in. This was taken from a pedestrian bridge over the Mississippi, one of many concessions the city has made for crazy folks like me.
Minneapolis - "Spoonbridge," in the city's sculplure garden. Kinda self-explanatory.
Minneapolis - The new avant-garde addition to the Walker Art Center. As my friend Ruth correctly pointed out, it very much resembles a rock-'em sock-'em robot head. I was hoping there would be a giant coiled spring in the middle of the lobby, but no luck.
Tom: Hey, Ganesh, is this heaven?
Ganesh: Well, actually, heaven is more of a Judeo-Christian concept. We tend to believe in...
Tom: Ganesh! Is this heaven?
Ganesh (sighs): No, it's Iowa.
Dyersville, Iowa - Speaking of Field of Dreams jokes, here it is: the original movie set. The funny thing is that one guy owns the land under most of the field, while his neighbor owns left and center field. So they've set up competing gift shops at either end of the field. There's definitely no love lost between the sides, but fortunately no one's gone and built a wall through the field or anything.
Dwight, Illinois - Every town likes to honor its state champion high school teams, but Illinois does 'em one better. Or posibly three or four better. There were signs like this at every town. I tried to track down Brian Krug for an autograph but couldn't get through his entourage. Man, FFA used to be about the milk.
Cleveland, Ohio - My second city on this trip. I can't comment on what it's like to bike through it, though, as I won't do that until Friday. Nice place to stroll around for a few hours, though, and they've got a great baseball stadium.
Cleveland - So who wins the battle of the goofy public art: giant-cherry-on-spoon or giant "Free" stamp? That, I suspect, is in the eye of the beholder.
Fremont, Ohio - There's a sort of vaguely defined line where the Midwest begins its inevitable transformation into the East. I'm pretty sure I passed it sometime yesterday.
You barely notice it, but the fields of corn and soybeans seem to become smaller. The scrawny rows of trees separating them grow larger and appear closer together. The farmhouses give way to tract houses, the roads get better, and there are more and more lawns. Towns come at you every hour, instead of twice a day.
That's where I am now, climbing up (or, depending on your point of view, sliding down) that long and steady slope into civilization. I blew through Indiana in about a day and a half - it's not very wide, after all - and pulled into Ohio midday yesterday. The wind has suddenly turned in my favor, and I'm about 50 miles away from my uncle's house outside of Cleveland, where I'll spend 2 or 3 days visiting - or, I hope, being visited by - my various relatives in the area. (Chmuras, Boumans, et al take note.)
It's been a strange sensation being back in Ohio; we used to go here every year or so growing up. Even though I've never been to this particular area, for the first time in this trip the terrain feels familiar to me. The towns, the roads, even the little ranch homes all bring back memories of the 13-hour drives to Cleveland we'd ritually take every summer. It's a lot more fun on a bike, though.
Aside from the memory-stirring, however, Ohio has proven pretty unspectacular. In fact, so did Indiana. But both places benefitted substantially from not being Illinois, which has probably set the standard for drabness on this trip. There have been moments of beauty in both the latter states, times when I pulled to a stop on an isolated road and watched the corn sway in the breeze and a hawk sail through a shining blue sky. I can't really say that about Illinois.
I should note that, unfortunately, I did not make it to the Circus Hall of Fame in Indiana, due to bad timing. I even more unfortunately missed the Dan Quayle Museum, only because I just learned of its existence 10 minutes ago. This is all my fault for not doing more research.
I had planned to spend this afternoon in Fremont at the Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Library and Museum, commemorating the president who ... um, you know, courageously led the nation through tumultuous times. And stuff. Then I got to the door and saw the prices: $6 to see the Museum. Another $6 to see the Hayes home. Or the bargain price of $10.50 for both. Ten-fifty! This wasn't Lincoln, people! It wasn't Roosevelt! It wasn't even Wilson, or Monroe! Ten-fifty for Rutherford B. Hayes!
So I skipped it, instead walking the grounds and visiting the Hayes' tomb, which fortunately was free. I'm all about seeing semi-obscure slices of Americana, but I do have an objection to paying through the nose for them.
On to Cleveland!
You barely notice it, but the fields of corn and soybeans seem to become smaller. The scrawny rows of trees separating them grow larger and appear closer together. The farmhouses give way to tract houses, the roads get better, and there are more and more lawns. Towns come at you every hour, instead of twice a day.
That's where I am now, climbing up (or, depending on your point of view, sliding down) that long and steady slope into civilization. I blew through Indiana in about a day and a half - it's not very wide, after all - and pulled into Ohio midday yesterday. The wind has suddenly turned in my favor, and I'm about 50 miles away from my uncle's house outside of Cleveland, where I'll spend 2 or 3 days visiting - or, I hope, being visited by - my various relatives in the area. (Chmuras, Boumans, et al take note.)
It's been a strange sensation being back in Ohio; we used to go here every year or so growing up. Even though I've never been to this particular area, for the first time in this trip the terrain feels familiar to me. The towns, the roads, even the little ranch homes all bring back memories of the 13-hour drives to Cleveland we'd ritually take every summer. It's a lot more fun on a bike, though.
Aside from the memory-stirring, however, Ohio has proven pretty unspectacular. In fact, so did Indiana. But both places benefitted substantially from not being Illinois, which has probably set the standard for drabness on this trip. There have been moments of beauty in both the latter states, times when I pulled to a stop on an isolated road and watched the corn sway in the breeze and a hawk sail through a shining blue sky. I can't really say that about Illinois.
I should note that, unfortunately, I did not make it to the Circus Hall of Fame in Indiana, due to bad timing. I even more unfortunately missed the Dan Quayle Museum, only because I just learned of its existence 10 minutes ago. This is all my fault for not doing more research.
I had planned to spend this afternoon in Fremont at the Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Library and Museum, commemorating the president who ... um, you know, courageously led the nation through tumultuous times. And stuff. Then I got to the door and saw the prices: $6 to see the Museum. Another $6 to see the Hayes home. Or the bargain price of $10.50 for both. Ten-fifty! This wasn't Lincoln, people! It wasn't Roosevelt! It wasn't even Wilson, or Monroe! Ten-fifty for Rutherford B. Hayes!
So I skipped it, instead walking the grounds and visiting the Hayes' tomb, which fortunately was free. I'm all about seeing semi-obscure slices of Americana, but I do have an objection to paying through the nose for them.
On to Cleveland!
Monon, Indiana - Figuratively speaking, that is. After all, for a bicyclist the phrase "it's all downhill from here" is great news.
After the massive amount of consternation I detailed in my second-to-last entry, my trip to Kankakee (home of the Fightin' Irish high school football team, and didn't Notre Dame sue them a few years ago?) went off without a hitch. It was a long, straight, heavily trafficked, no-fun-at-all detour past such eternal sights as the Dwight Correctional Center. But at the end of the haul, glory be, was a fully licensed Trek bicycle dealer and a brand-new wheel and tire waiting for me. An hour later, I was back on the road, and this morning I crossed over into Indiana (and my final time zone of the trip.)
So all is, finally, well. The wind isn't even blowing in my face today - it's blowing due south, which is okay with me as I'm going due east. The temperature is in the high 60s, the sun is out, and all is right with the trip, for the first time in what feels like quite a while.
The only downside: I just discovered that the extra day it took to straighten out the bike means I am, as we speak, missing America's only circus parade, which is taking place about 60 miles east of me in Peru, Indiana. Alas. However, if I feel like it, I can still spend tomorrow afternoon perusing the storied halls of the Circus Hall of Fame and Museum. Sounds like a keeper.
After the massive amount of consternation I detailed in my second-to-last entry, my trip to Kankakee (home of the Fightin' Irish high school football team, and didn't Notre Dame sue them a few years ago?) went off without a hitch. It was a long, straight, heavily trafficked, no-fun-at-all detour past such eternal sights as the Dwight Correctional Center. But at the end of the haul, glory be, was a fully licensed Trek bicycle dealer and a brand-new wheel and tire waiting for me. An hour later, I was back on the road, and this morning I crossed over into Indiana (and my final time zone of the trip.)
So all is, finally, well. The wind isn't even blowing in my face today - it's blowing due south, which is okay with me as I'm going due east. The temperature is in the high 60s, the sun is out, and all is right with the trip, for the first time in what feels like quite a while.
The only downside: I just discovered that the extra day it took to straighten out the bike means I am, as we speak, missing America's only circus parade, which is taking place about 60 miles east of me in Peru, Indiana. Alas. However, if I feel like it, I can still spend tomorrow afternoon perusing the storied halls of the Circus Hall of Fame and Museum. Sounds like a keeper.
Streator, Illinois - I have a few minutes left in this Internet session (which the darn library is charging me for), so I figured I'd just make a few comments and responses to the comments on the blog. This is quicker than doing them individually.
Jacob and Gretta: Congratulations on the California job. And you're right about the rebuilt wheel - as you can see from the blog I just posted, I'm getting one done from scratch. If it all works out, I'll only have been held back one day, which is pretty amazing.
Ruth: Glad you liked the wine. Getting out of Minneapolis was fine except for the one incident where I got dumped onto the Most Horrific Freeway Interchange in the Universe Excepting L.A., but that one miraculously ended in my favor. Oh, and most of the roads in Iowa were as bad as those in Minnesota.
Mary Beth: If this were a just and fair universe, there would be a gigantic statue of Mike Nelson in Eden Prairie, perhaps that shoots lasers out of its eyes. But alas, I don't even think there's a plaque in a mini-mall parking lot, so it didn't justify a sidetrip.
Mary Beth and Mike: I'm a guy, so most of my bathroom breaks just involve a tree. As for the other ones, all of the campsites I've stayed at have had facilities of one sort or another, so I just do my business first thing in the morning before I skedaddle. I carry some t.p. with me just in case, but have scarcely had to use it.
Chris: There's another full-size replica stave church in Moorhead, MN, though I managed to miss that one. They are amazing pieces of architecture.
Also Chris...Tangled Up in Blue.
Anyone who cares: I passed the 3,000 mile mark the other day. Disregarding any detours I take to Nova Scotia and/or Massachusetts after I get to Maine, I'm more than 2/3 done.
Jacob and Gretta: Congratulations on the California job. And you're right about the rebuilt wheel - as you can see from the blog I just posted, I'm getting one done from scratch. If it all works out, I'll only have been held back one day, which is pretty amazing.
Ruth: Glad you liked the wine. Getting out of Minneapolis was fine except for the one incident where I got dumped onto the Most Horrific Freeway Interchange in the Universe Excepting L.A., but that one miraculously ended in my favor. Oh, and most of the roads in Iowa were as bad as those in Minnesota.
Mary Beth: If this were a just and fair universe, there would be a gigantic statue of Mike Nelson in Eden Prairie, perhaps that shoots lasers out of its eyes. But alas, I don't even think there's a plaque in a mini-mall parking lot, so it didn't justify a sidetrip.
Mary Beth and Mike: I'm a guy, so most of my bathroom breaks just involve a tree. As for the other ones, all of the campsites I've stayed at have had facilities of one sort or another, so I just do my business first thing in the morning before I skedaddle. I carry some t.p. with me just in case, but have scarcely had to use it.
Chris: There's another full-size replica stave church in Moorhead, MN, though I managed to miss that one. They are amazing pieces of architecture.
Also Chris...Tangled Up in Blue.
Anyone who cares: I passed the 3,000 mile mark the other day. Disregarding any detours I take to Nova Scotia and/or Massachusetts after I get to Maine, I'm more than 2/3 done.
Streator, Illinois - Or perhaps not.
I was warned about northern Illinois. And, more to the point, I spent four years of college in northern Indiana. So I had a pretty good idea of what to expect.
It's dull. Flat. It's like Montana without vistas, like Iowa without contour lines. It's not excessively flat, but just flat enough that you can't really see anything to either side of you except corn, or possibly soybeans. That's it. Corn and soybeans, and the occasional town with a few services catering to those who deal in corn and soybeans. Good, salt-of-the-earth people, no doubt, but that doesn't make the state any prettier.
I have been in Streator (that's pronounced 'streeter') for an entire day now. That's not by choice. To understand why, I offer this brief recap of the maintenance history of the posterior of my bicycle. Feel free to skip this part if you want and jump to the end, where I explain the basic problem: my rear wheel and tire are both completely shot.
a. Somewhere in perhaps Montana, I notice that my rear rim is starting to disintegrate, apparently rent asunder by some poorly designed or installed spokes. I also notice a lot of wear and tear on the rear tire. I shrug and move on.
b. Minot, North Dakota: I replace my brake pads, worn out after so many mountain descents. I have to buy an inferior set for the rear because that's all they have left in stock.
c. Itasca State Park, Minnesota: I notice it's gotten worse. I play with the wheel and manage to get it running straight. 50 miles later, it starts to go seriously wobbly on me.
d. Grand Rapids, Minnesota: I take the wheel in to a bike shop, where the proprietor declares both it and the tire as completely shot and in dire need of replacement. I concur, and am back on the road 1 hour, a $50 rim and a $36 tire later.
e. Stillwater, Minnesota: Riding the brakes down a long hill, I hear a loud bang and discover my rear tire is flat. One of the crappy brakes came loose and rode along the tire instead of the rim, blowing a hole in both the tube and my 2-day-old tire. I replace the tire (again). I replace the brake pads (again).
f. Wisconsin, Southern Minnesota and Iowa: I blow four spokes on my new rear wheel inside of a week.
g. Outside Henry, Illinois: Yesterday, I was ascending a long hill when I noticed a strange bump on the rear tire. I examined it to find the outer tread was actually separating, leaving nothing but a thin layer of plastic over the tube. It is, to use bike terminology, majorly screwed up.
I empty half the air from the tire and limp into Streator (in late afternoon with a thunderstorm brewing, naturally), which according to my tour maps has a bike shop. It doesn't. It has a former bike shop and a guy who's still trying to sell off the random odds and ends from the inventory in his garage. Luckily enough, I find the guy, who declares that my rear tire is completely screwed up. He sells me the only one he has left that nominally fits my tire for $5.
So here I am. I'm 50 miles from the nearest bike shop, I have a nonfunctioning rear wheel and a tire that I can barely ride on. It is at this point that I decide to do what I should have done back in Grand Rapids, which is evoke that magic document, The Warranty.
I call up Trek, the maker of my bike, and am told they can replace the stuff for free, but that it can only be shipped out to an authorized Trek dealer. The closest one, as I mentioned, is 50 miles away. They recommend that I arrange it with the shop from which I bought the bike to have the wheel (the tire doesn't seem to be covered, unfortunately) delivered to them, then have them ship it to me.
So, to clarify: The Trek company, which is based in Wisconsin, wants to ship my wheel to Alaska so it can be forwarded to Illinois. Which means I get to twiddle my thumbs in Streator for, what, about a week?
Needless to say, this led to me pretty much exploding at the Trek guy on the phone. After sitting down and thinking about it for a while, I hit on what seemed like the only logical solution: figure out where the closest Trek dealer to Streator is, and have the stuff shipped there, then ride out on my awful replacement wheel and tire to pick it up.
The place is Bradley, Illinois, 50 miles from here. Somehow, the bike shop guy there managed to talk Trek into letting him build a new wheel from scratch, which he plans to give to me tomorrow after I limp over there. The tire, I get to pay for (again - for those keeping track, this is tire #4.) Fortunately, it's a straight shot down one highway from here to there, so if the bike dies it should be an easy hitch. I hope.
Has there been a bright spot in all this nonsense? I suppose its the people I'm staying with. I pulled into the only campground anywhere near Streator yesterday during a violent thunderstorm. It's actually a long-term RV Park, but the owners are pretty genial toward cyclists, so they charged me $5 to stay there and let me set my tent up under their pavilion instead of out in the rain. They then proceeded to give me a bunch of bottled water and iced tea, and today foisted both sandwiches and donuts on me. Even more importantly, they've let me use their office phone to coordinate this entire wheel replacement debacle.
So when I think back about crossing Illinois, I hope I don't think about the endless blah of cornfields and the agony of mechanical failures. I hope I think about them.
P.S. Kudos to everyone who got the Sufjan Stevens reference.
I was warned about northern Illinois. And, more to the point, I spent four years of college in northern Indiana. So I had a pretty good idea of what to expect.
It's dull. Flat. It's like Montana without vistas, like Iowa without contour lines. It's not excessively flat, but just flat enough that you can't really see anything to either side of you except corn, or possibly soybeans. That's it. Corn and soybeans, and the occasional town with a few services catering to those who deal in corn and soybeans. Good, salt-of-the-earth people, no doubt, but that doesn't make the state any prettier.
I have been in Streator (that's pronounced 'streeter') for an entire day now. That's not by choice. To understand why, I offer this brief recap of the maintenance history of the posterior of my bicycle. Feel free to skip this part if you want and jump to the end, where I explain the basic problem: my rear wheel and tire are both completely shot.
a. Somewhere in perhaps Montana, I notice that my rear rim is starting to disintegrate, apparently rent asunder by some poorly designed or installed spokes. I also notice a lot of wear and tear on the rear tire. I shrug and move on.
b. Minot, North Dakota: I replace my brake pads, worn out after so many mountain descents. I have to buy an inferior set for the rear because that's all they have left in stock.
c. Itasca State Park, Minnesota: I notice it's gotten worse. I play with the wheel and manage to get it running straight. 50 miles later, it starts to go seriously wobbly on me.
d. Grand Rapids, Minnesota: I take the wheel in to a bike shop, where the proprietor declares both it and the tire as completely shot and in dire need of replacement. I concur, and am back on the road 1 hour, a $50 rim and a $36 tire later.
e. Stillwater, Minnesota: Riding the brakes down a long hill, I hear a loud bang and discover my rear tire is flat. One of the crappy brakes came loose and rode along the tire instead of the rim, blowing a hole in both the tube and my 2-day-old tire. I replace the tire (again). I replace the brake pads (again).
f. Wisconsin, Southern Minnesota and Iowa: I blow four spokes on my new rear wheel inside of a week.
g. Outside Henry, Illinois: Yesterday, I was ascending a long hill when I noticed a strange bump on the rear tire. I examined it to find the outer tread was actually separating, leaving nothing but a thin layer of plastic over the tube. It is, to use bike terminology, majorly screwed up.
I empty half the air from the tire and limp into Streator (in late afternoon with a thunderstorm brewing, naturally), which according to my tour maps has a bike shop. It doesn't. It has a former bike shop and a guy who's still trying to sell off the random odds and ends from the inventory in his garage. Luckily enough, I find the guy, who declares that my rear tire is completely screwed up. He sells me the only one he has left that nominally fits my tire for $5.
So here I am. I'm 50 miles from the nearest bike shop, I have a nonfunctioning rear wheel and a tire that I can barely ride on. It is at this point that I decide to do what I should have done back in Grand Rapids, which is evoke that magic document, The Warranty.
I call up Trek, the maker of my bike, and am told they can replace the stuff for free, but that it can only be shipped out to an authorized Trek dealer. The closest one, as I mentioned, is 50 miles away. They recommend that I arrange it with the shop from which I bought the bike to have the wheel (the tire doesn't seem to be covered, unfortunately) delivered to them, then have them ship it to me.
So, to clarify: The Trek company, which is based in Wisconsin, wants to ship my wheel to Alaska so it can be forwarded to Illinois. Which means I get to twiddle my thumbs in Streator for, what, about a week?
Needless to say, this led to me pretty much exploding at the Trek guy on the phone. After sitting down and thinking about it for a while, I hit on what seemed like the only logical solution: figure out where the closest Trek dealer to Streator is, and have the stuff shipped there, then ride out on my awful replacement wheel and tire to pick it up.
The place is Bradley, Illinois, 50 miles from here. Somehow, the bike shop guy there managed to talk Trek into letting him build a new wheel from scratch, which he plans to give to me tomorrow after I limp over there. The tire, I get to pay for (again - for those keeping track, this is tire #4.) Fortunately, it's a straight shot down one highway from here to there, so if the bike dies it should be an easy hitch. I hope.
Has there been a bright spot in all this nonsense? I suppose its the people I'm staying with. I pulled into the only campground anywhere near Streator yesterday during a violent thunderstorm. It's actually a long-term RV Park, but the owners are pretty genial toward cyclists, so they charged me $5 to stay there and let me set my tent up under their pavilion instead of out in the rain. They then proceeded to give me a bunch of bottled water and iced tea, and today foisted both sandwiches and donuts on me. Even more importantly, they've let me use their office phone to coordinate this entire wheel replacement debacle.
So when I think back about crossing Illinois, I hope I don't think about the endless blah of cornfields and the agony of mechanical failures. I hope I think about them.
P.S. Kudos to everyone who got the Sufjan Stevens reference.
Muscatine, Iowa - Until about 18 hours ago, I was having a very bad week.
Things started off well enough, I suppose. I had great fun in Minneapolis, and through a series of minor miracles I was able to bike out of the city on a self-designed route without getting either majorly lost or dead. (Minor miracle: When you find yourself staring down a massive cloverleaf freeway interchange, you randomly pick an exit ramp to follow, and it leads directly to the road you were looking for.)
After Minneapolis, the route veers south, mostly paralleling the Mississippi. This made for some tough riding, as the roads along the river are heavily trafficked and unpleasant, and the ones that veer off the river invariably climb up giant bluffs for miles on end. Granted, some of the views from the top were phenomenal; it was just the getting there that proved difficult, especially when the temperatures started to approach triple digits.
In addition to tough riding, I found myself drained by a series of really lousy campgrounds along the river. Overcrowded, overpriced, cramped, smelly, fly-infested, filled with either unbelievably loud children or even more unbelievably loud drunken partiers (with their even more unbelievably loud fireworks, which they invariably set off at about midnight.) I couldn't get to sleep at night and I was hurtling through astronomical temperatures and often strong headwinds during the day. And to top it off, the replacement wheel I got for the bike in Minnesota keeps blowing spokes on me. My spirits were at a low ebb.
In the middle of this, I crossed into Iowa. And its a pity, because under most circumstances I would have absolutely loved this stretch. The northeastern corner of the state is actually very hilly, and seems to consist of an unending series of panoramas of farmland, cute little farmhouses, and roads sloping off gently to the horizon. It's been like a 200-mile long postcard. And the towns in Iowa have been like traveling a century back in time. They're pleasant, orderly, compact and unbelievably clean. It's like Main Street USA at Disneyland, except real.
But I was in no condition to enjoy any of this. The trip was becoming a trudge.
Finally, last night, after a long day's ride and two different broken spokes, I pulled into the Massillon County Park. The $5 campground was just a grassy field tucked into the woods with water, outhouses, and a picnic shelter. And I had it all to myself.
I sat for most of the evening under the shelter, watching as a violent thunderstorm neared, threatened, then blew right by with nary a drop of rain on me. As the sky darkened, I watched as the field and woods filled with fireflies, dozens of them, more than I have ever seen in my life. The air had cooled down, the bugs weren't biting, and in the dusk Iowa was suddenly perfect. Tears - of exhaustion, joy, relief, I don't even know what - rolled down my face. It was like everything I had been missing in this trip - solitude, beauty, silence - had visited me all at once. I could feel a corner being turned, one that had been a long time coming.
Now 41 miles later, I still haven't gotten my spoke problem taken care of. But it's 20 degrees cooler, the wind isn't (quite) in my face, and I feel like I've just stepped out of a long tunnel. It took a while, but Iowa won me over in the end.
Things started off well enough, I suppose. I had great fun in Minneapolis, and through a series of minor miracles I was able to bike out of the city on a self-designed route without getting either majorly lost or dead. (Minor miracle: When you find yourself staring down a massive cloverleaf freeway interchange, you randomly pick an exit ramp to follow, and it leads directly to the road you were looking for.)
After Minneapolis, the route veers south, mostly paralleling the Mississippi. This made for some tough riding, as the roads along the river are heavily trafficked and unpleasant, and the ones that veer off the river invariably climb up giant bluffs for miles on end. Granted, some of the views from the top were phenomenal; it was just the getting there that proved difficult, especially when the temperatures started to approach triple digits.
In addition to tough riding, I found myself drained by a series of really lousy campgrounds along the river. Overcrowded, overpriced, cramped, smelly, fly-infested, filled with either unbelievably loud children or even more unbelievably loud drunken partiers (with their even more unbelievably loud fireworks, which they invariably set off at about midnight.) I couldn't get to sleep at night and I was hurtling through astronomical temperatures and often strong headwinds during the day. And to top it off, the replacement wheel I got for the bike in Minnesota keeps blowing spokes on me. My spirits were at a low ebb.
In the middle of this, I crossed into Iowa. And its a pity, because under most circumstances I would have absolutely loved this stretch. The northeastern corner of the state is actually very hilly, and seems to consist of an unending series of panoramas of farmland, cute little farmhouses, and roads sloping off gently to the horizon. It's been like a 200-mile long postcard. And the towns in Iowa have been like traveling a century back in time. They're pleasant, orderly, compact and unbelievably clean. It's like Main Street USA at Disneyland, except real.
But I was in no condition to enjoy any of this. The trip was becoming a trudge.
Finally, last night, after a long day's ride and two different broken spokes, I pulled into the Massillon County Park. The $5 campground was just a grassy field tucked into the woods with water, outhouses, and a picnic shelter. And I had it all to myself.
I sat for most of the evening under the shelter, watching as a violent thunderstorm neared, threatened, then blew right by with nary a drop of rain on me. As the sky darkened, I watched as the field and woods filled with fireflies, dozens of them, more than I have ever seen in my life. The air had cooled down, the bugs weren't biting, and in the dusk Iowa was suddenly perfect. Tears - of exhaustion, joy, relief, I don't even know what - rolled down my face. It was like everything I had been missing in this trip - solitude, beauty, silence - had visited me all at once. I could feel a corner being turned, one that had been a long time coming.
Now 41 miles later, I still haven't gotten my spoke problem taken care of. But it's 20 degrees cooler, the wind isn't (quite) in my face, and I feel like I've just stepped out of a long tunnel. It took a while, but Iowa won me over in the end.
Minneapolis, Minnesota - This isn't something I ever expected to say, but I'd like to see more of Wisconsin.
It took me entirely by surprise: after days of flat roads and unremarkable vistas, suddenly the land began to pitch and roll. Intimidating hills began to appear, and when I topped them, I discovered panoramic views of farmlands and gentle woods that semmed to stretch for miles, dissected by sinuous country lanes. Far from the flat Midwest, it reminded me more than a little of my native New England.
And the exciting change in scenery continued as I crossed the border back into Minnesota, too. Riding had become a lot harder, but it had also gotten a lot more fun.
That wasn't the only pleasant surprise I've been hit with in the last few days. on Tuesday afternoon, I took the plunge and started biking headfirst into my first major urban area of this trip: The Twin Cities. I expected an asphalt nightmare of dangerous roads and unyielding traffic, foreign territory where my bike could find no purchase.
As it turns out, that wasn't the case at all. Outside of a few places in Europe, Minneapolis is the most bike-friendly city I've ever visited. Bikers are everywhere. Drivers and courteous. Bike lanes, separated paths and greenways crisscross the whole urban area, even the downtown core. Far from frightening, biking here has proven wonderful fun.
And I've also been readily impressed with the city in general. It certainly helps that I've been staying with friends, but notwithstanding their hospitality and company its still been a great place to hang out. There's been an avant-garde building boom here the last few years, with massive glass-and-steel constructs like the new city library and the Walker Art Center, another wacky edifice from Frank Gehry, dotting the cityscape. They've got a world-class art museum with free admission, fun and vibrant neighborhoods filled with young people and scores of ethnic restaurants, and upper-deck seats for Twins games cost $6. It's not a place I think would ever be on my must-see list for tourism, but it's one of the most all-around livable cities I've seen for a long time. Especially if you prefer getting around on two wheels.
I'll be pushing off in the morning, threading my way back through the eastern suburbs and onto the open road. It's tough leaving so soon, but I know this is the first of several cities I'll be making stops in over the next few weeks, and I have a palpable fear of getting too bogged down. So onward it is, to begin the second half (well, more or less) of my journey in earnest.
It took me entirely by surprise: after days of flat roads and unremarkable vistas, suddenly the land began to pitch and roll. Intimidating hills began to appear, and when I topped them, I discovered panoramic views of farmlands and gentle woods that semmed to stretch for miles, dissected by sinuous country lanes. Far from the flat Midwest, it reminded me more than a little of my native New England.
And the exciting change in scenery continued as I crossed the border back into Minnesota, too. Riding had become a lot harder, but it had also gotten a lot more fun.
That wasn't the only pleasant surprise I've been hit with in the last few days. on Tuesday afternoon, I took the plunge and started biking headfirst into my first major urban area of this trip: The Twin Cities. I expected an asphalt nightmare of dangerous roads and unyielding traffic, foreign territory where my bike could find no purchase.
As it turns out, that wasn't the case at all. Outside of a few places in Europe, Minneapolis is the most bike-friendly city I've ever visited. Bikers are everywhere. Drivers and courteous. Bike lanes, separated paths and greenways crisscross the whole urban area, even the downtown core. Far from frightening, biking here has proven wonderful fun.
And I've also been readily impressed with the city in general. It certainly helps that I've been staying with friends, but notwithstanding their hospitality and company its still been a great place to hang out. There's been an avant-garde building boom here the last few years, with massive glass-and-steel constructs like the new city library and the Walker Art Center, another wacky edifice from Frank Gehry, dotting the cityscape. They've got a world-class art museum with free admission, fun and vibrant neighborhoods filled with young people and scores of ethnic restaurants, and upper-deck seats for Twins games cost $6. It's not a place I think would ever be on my must-see list for tourism, but it's one of the most all-around livable cities I've seen for a long time. Especially if you prefer getting around on two wheels.
I'll be pushing off in the morning, threading my way back through the eastern suburbs and onto the open road. It's tough leaving so soon, but I know this is the first of several cities I'll be making stops in over the next few weeks, and I have a palpable fear of getting too bogged down. So onward it is, to begin the second half (well, more or less) of my journey in earnest.
Osceola, Wisconsin – I just left Minnesota, but I’ll be going back in the morning. I have mixed feelings about this.
In some ways, Minnesota is the most bike-friendly place I’ve ever seen. The day before yesterday, I took a day off from the cross-country route to bike a section of the Mesabi Trail, a brand-new bike trail they’ve put together running through stretches of the Mesabi Range in the northern reaches of the state. The 40 miles I did on the Trail will certainly go down as one of the highlights of the trip: the path led past every sort of scenery you could imagine. There were lakes, long stretches of woods, parts through the fringes of big towns, parts through the centers of little ones, and everywhere hills and gravel tinted a fiery red by the iron in the soil. After so many miles of having to squeeze onto the shoulder, I got to be king of the road for a day, and I loved it.
Plus the trail – and this was my entire point in taking it – led right to Hibbing, Minnesota, the birthplace of America’s greatest musical poet, Bobby Zimmerman (lately known as Bob Dylan.) I showed up in Hibbing on a Saturday afternoon, all set to take the Dylan walking tour, only to discover there was a massive parade stretching down Main Street.
This was, a weird combination of thrilling and vexing: on the one hand, I wanted to do the walking tour; on the other hand, everybody loves a parade. I managed to do both, checking out Dylan’s childhood home, synagogue, high school, even the building in which he was Bar Mitzvah’ed, then watching most of the parade. The highlights were the three vintage Greyhound buses (Hibbing is also the home of Greyhound, though I didn't have time to hit the Greyhound Bus Museum) and the self-propelled Port-O-Let. Now that was impressive.
Hibbing is also known as The Town That Moved, because the original townsite was located right next to an enormous open-pit iron ore mine. (The mine, the world's biggest, is still there, and you can climb up a hill and stare at the massive red scar in the earth.) A few decades ago, the mine started to grow too close to the townsite, so they moved it maybe a mile away. But the townsite is still there. It's very bizarre: full streets laid out, running past grass-covered lots that mostly still have foundations and even steps on them. It's a ghost town in the most direct sense of the word, and it was a truly surreal experience to meander through it.
So anyway, back to my original point: Minnesota is blessed with remarkable bike trails, as well as a huge number of bikers to use them. But there’s a major downside: the roads. Some of them are just awful. For some reason, the joints in the pavement, those crosswise cracks that show up every 15 feet or so, are like mini-Grand Canyons up here. Sometimes it feels more like you’re riding on railroad ties than a road. Let me tell you, as much as I’ve enjoyed Minnesota, my butt will be very, very happy to see it in the rear-view mirror in a few days.
In the meantime, I am swinging through Wisconsin briefly; the route at this point heads pretty much due south, so it's right back into Minnesota in the morning. Tomorrow I get to experience my first jolt of truly urban biking when I head into Minneapolis to visit my friend Ruth for a couple of days. So far this trip has gone way faster than I had planned, but we're getting into the "stopping by to visit people I know" zone, so the pace is likely to slow up soon.
In some ways, Minnesota is the most bike-friendly place I’ve ever seen. The day before yesterday, I took a day off from the cross-country route to bike a section of the Mesabi Trail, a brand-new bike trail they’ve put together running through stretches of the Mesabi Range in the northern reaches of the state. The 40 miles I did on the Trail will certainly go down as one of the highlights of the trip: the path led past every sort of scenery you could imagine. There were lakes, long stretches of woods, parts through the fringes of big towns, parts through the centers of little ones, and everywhere hills and gravel tinted a fiery red by the iron in the soil. After so many miles of having to squeeze onto the shoulder, I got to be king of the road for a day, and I loved it.
Plus the trail – and this was my entire point in taking it – led right to Hibbing, Minnesota, the birthplace of America’s greatest musical poet, Bobby Zimmerman (lately known as Bob Dylan.) I showed up in Hibbing on a Saturday afternoon, all set to take the Dylan walking tour, only to discover there was a massive parade stretching down Main Street.
This was, a weird combination of thrilling and vexing: on the one hand, I wanted to do the walking tour; on the other hand, everybody loves a parade. I managed to do both, checking out Dylan’s childhood home, synagogue, high school, even the building in which he was Bar Mitzvah’ed, then watching most of the parade. The highlights were the three vintage Greyhound buses (Hibbing is also the home of Greyhound, though I didn't have time to hit the Greyhound Bus Museum) and the self-propelled Port-O-Let. Now that was impressive.
Hibbing is also known as The Town That Moved, because the original townsite was located right next to an enormous open-pit iron ore mine. (The mine, the world's biggest, is still there, and you can climb up a hill and stare at the massive red scar in the earth.) A few decades ago, the mine started to grow too close to the townsite, so they moved it maybe a mile away. But the townsite is still there. It's very bizarre: full streets laid out, running past grass-covered lots that mostly still have foundations and even steps on them. It's a ghost town in the most direct sense of the word, and it was a truly surreal experience to meander through it.
So anyway, back to my original point: Minnesota is blessed with remarkable bike trails, as well as a huge number of bikers to use them. But there’s a major downside: the roads. Some of them are just awful. For some reason, the joints in the pavement, those crosswise cracks that show up every 15 feet or so, are like mini-Grand Canyons up here. Sometimes it feels more like you’re riding on railroad ties than a road. Let me tell you, as much as I’ve enjoyed Minnesota, my butt will be very, very happy to see it in the rear-view mirror in a few days.
In the meantime, I am swinging through Wisconsin briefly; the route at this point heads pretty much due south, so it's right back into Minnesota in the morning. Tomorrow I get to experience my first jolt of truly urban biking when I head into Minneapolis to visit my friend Ruth for a couple of days. So far this trip has gone way faster than I had planned, but we're getting into the "stopping by to visit people I know" zone, so the pace is likely to slow up soon.
Osceola, Wisconsin - I had to plow through a pretty obnoxious road detour to get to Osceola, but it was totally worth it, as their library has USB ports. So without further ado, some more photos:
This one is from a week or so ago in Minot, North Dakota. There are huge numbers of Swedes and Nords and such up here, and Minot is proud home of the Scandinavian Heritage Park, a beautiful tribute to the region. Here we see two of the highlights: a 20-foot tall statue of a gaily colored horse, the Swedish national symbol, and a full-scale replica of an ancient Scandanavian church. The church really stands out, plunked as it is in the middle of some fairly ugly minimall sprawl.
This is from Itasca State Park, Minnesota, where you can walk across the first few feet of the Mississippi. Since then, I've crossed the Father of Waters, by my count, 9 times, with many more to come.
Grand Rapids, Minnesota - The hometown of Judy Garland, hence the yellow-brick road motif. I was too busy getting my bike repaired (needed the rear wheel and tire replaced - $100 - ugh) to visit the Judy Garland childhood home.
Ganesh was also thrilled to see the requisite statue of Paul Bunyan and Babe. Not sure how many giant Paul Bunyans there are in Minnesota, but this one was in Bemidji.
Here's what I came to Hibbing for: they renamed the road running past Dylan's home. I tried to get a sense of what the town was like when Bobby Zimmerman was growing up there, but the parade made that kind of difficult.
This one is from a week or so ago in Minot, North Dakota. There are huge numbers of Swedes and Nords and such up here, and Minot is proud home of the Scandinavian Heritage Park, a beautiful tribute to the region. Here we see two of the highlights: a 20-foot tall statue of a gaily colored horse, the Swedish national symbol, and a full-scale replica of an ancient Scandanavian church. The church really stands out, plunked as it is in the middle of some fairly ugly minimall sprawl.
This is from Itasca State Park, Minnesota, where you can walk across the first few feet of the Mississippi. Since then, I've crossed the Father of Waters, by my count, 9 times, with many more to come.
Grand Rapids, Minnesota - The hometown of Judy Garland, hence the yellow-brick road motif. I was too busy getting my bike repaired (needed the rear wheel and tire replaced - $100 - ugh) to visit the Judy Garland childhood home.
Ganesh was also thrilled to see the requisite statue of Paul Bunyan and Babe. Not sure how many giant Paul Bunyans there are in Minnesota, but this one was in Bemidji.
Here's what I came to Hibbing for: they renamed the road running past Dylan's home. I tried to get a sense of what the town was like when Bobby Zimmerman was growing up there, but the parade made that kind of difficult.
Aitkin, Minnesota - Just passin' through this surprisingly boutique-y town on a spectacular sunny Sunday when I noticed an Internet cafe, right on Main Street. So I figured some more photos are in order. This batch of four are from the thriving metropolis of Rugby, North Dakota, aka the geographical center of North America.
Lest you doubt that Rugby is the geographical center of North America, they've got a big pile of rocks to prove it. Basically, the USGS did a big survey and figured out that if you balance North America on the head of a pin (as one will), the pin would stick right into Rugby. Now if I could just get them to move the pin a few hundred miles to the west, the whole rest of this trip would be downhill.
Rugby is also the home of the fascinating Pioneer Museum, one of those places where they gather up all sorts of random buildings and other stuff from various vanishing communities and put it on display. (For example, they actually display someone's plastic keychain collection. Wow.) One of the highlights is extensive exhibits on this guy, an 8'7" guy born in the area who for a while reigned as the world's tallest man. They even have a fairly creepy life-size papier-mache mannequin.
Then there was the antiquated medical equipment. I was just amused by this caption.
And how could I not include a photo of the largest metal belt buckle in the entire world?
Lest you doubt that Rugby is the geographical center of North America, they've got a big pile of rocks to prove it. Basically, the USGS did a big survey and figured out that if you balance North America on the head of a pin (as one will), the pin would stick right into Rugby. Now if I could just get them to move the pin a few hundred miles to the west, the whole rest of this trip would be downhill.
Rugby is also the home of the fascinating Pioneer Museum, one of those places where they gather up all sorts of random buildings and other stuff from various vanishing communities and put it on display. (For example, they actually display someone's plastic keychain collection. Wow.) One of the highlights is extensive exhibits on this guy, an 8'7" guy born in the area who for a while reigned as the world's tallest man. They even have a fairly creepy life-size papier-mache mannequin.
Then there was the antiquated medical equipment. I was just amused by this caption.
And how could I not include a photo of the largest metal belt buckle in the entire world?
Grand Rapids, Minnesota - For some reason, the beautiful library here is closed on Saturdays, so I'm bogarting some Web time from the local Chamber of Commerce. Hence the terseness of this message.
After Minot, I continued heading southeast to Fargo, North Dakota, right on the Minnesota border, where I spent the Fourth of July. (And may I say, after suffering through about a week of trying to sleep in various city parks while people were setting off fireworks 1/4 mile away, thanks goodness that holiday's over.) I really enjoyed Fargo - it has an attractive downtown area, a huge number of bike trails, and the world's largest sporting goods store - though I didn't make it to the latter.
Fargo sits right on the Minnesota border, and I crossed over it a few days ago. It's more than just a state border, though: I immediately phased from West to Midwest, from Plains to woods, from red state to blue state. Minnesota simply feels different. There are hills, and curves on the road. There are more people on bicycles than in big honkin' pickup trucks. And the trees! Forests everywhere!
I spent the last two nights staying in a hostel (an actual hostel!) in Itasca State Park, a local attraction that boasts as its highlight the headwaters of the Mississippi River. They've got a little spot built up where you can walk right across it, as its about 10 feet wide and a foot deep at that point. Since then I've crossed the Mississippi about five times, and the route actually parallels it as it flows southward for the next few hundred miles.
I'm now stuck in Grand Rapids for the moment, as the rear wheel on my bike has gone massively haywire and needs to be replaced. As I'm about halfway through the trip, I'm crossing my fingers and hoping this is my major mechanical malfunction for the journey. It should be ready in about half an hour, after which I intend to take the afternoon to bike the 35 miles or so to Hibbing, Minnesota, birthplace of the Greyhound Bus, Boston Celtics legend Kevin McHale and, most importantly, Bob Dylan. Apparently there's a walking tour where you can see where Dylan had his Bar Mitzvah. Now that's history!
After Minot, I continued heading southeast to Fargo, North Dakota, right on the Minnesota border, where I spent the Fourth of July. (And may I say, after suffering through about a week of trying to sleep in various city parks while people were setting off fireworks 1/4 mile away, thanks goodness that holiday's over.) I really enjoyed Fargo - it has an attractive downtown area, a huge number of bike trails, and the world's largest sporting goods store - though I didn't make it to the latter.
Fargo sits right on the Minnesota border, and I crossed over it a few days ago. It's more than just a state border, though: I immediately phased from West to Midwest, from Plains to woods, from red state to blue state. Minnesota simply feels different. There are hills, and curves on the road. There are more people on bicycles than in big honkin' pickup trucks. And the trees! Forests everywhere!
I spent the last two nights staying in a hostel (an actual hostel!) in Itasca State Park, a local attraction that boasts as its highlight the headwaters of the Mississippi River. They've got a little spot built up where you can walk right across it, as its about 10 feet wide and a foot deep at that point. Since then I've crossed the Mississippi about five times, and the route actually parallels it as it flows southward for the next few hundred miles.
I'm now stuck in Grand Rapids for the moment, as the rear wheel on my bike has gone massively haywire and needs to be replaced. As I'm about halfway through the trip, I'm crossing my fingers and hoping this is my major mechanical malfunction for the journey. It should be ready in about half an hour, after which I intend to take the afternoon to bike the 35 miles or so to Hibbing, Minnesota, birthplace of the Greyhound Bus, Boston Celtics legend Kevin McHale and, most importantly, Bob Dylan. Apparently there's a walking tour where you can see where Dylan had his Bar Mitzvah. Now that's history!
Minot, North Dakota - First of all, if you haven't yet, scroll down and check out the photos I just posted.
Second, I will admit that when several people told me North Dakota is "beautiful," I took it with a grain of salt. But so far, I have to admit that they're right. It somehow manages to come across as more attractive than Montana, even though it's largely the same landscape. For one thing, I'm no longer paralleling the railroad tracks, which means no more grain elevators everywhere - which, though interesting to look at, are not what I'd call picturesque.
Also, there seems to be more variety to the landscape. It's actually quite hilly, with gentle undulations spreading across the landscape in every direction. There seem to be more blazing yellow fields of wheat to set off the green of the landscape. And there have been some wonderful stretches of road along the top of the bluffs over Lake Sakakawea (aka Sacagawea, they just spell it differently here) that made me feel like I was zooming along highway 1 overlooking the blue of the Pacific.
There have also been some really, really flat parts, of course, and some really, really straight parts. Which is part of why I've been making such great time lately.
For those wondering, with a flat road and minimal wind, I've been going at 16 mph or so; with the wind at my back, 18 or more. With the wind howling in my face in Montana I was down to 12 mph on some stretches. As I've been riding at least 6 hours a day, the miles are starting to add up; I've gone around 1,650 at last count. That includes two days (out of the last four, in fact) where I went over 130 miles.
This is all much faster than I expected, to be honest, which is why I'm hoping to slow myself down, at least a bit. I'm taking a day off here in Minot, which at 40,000 people is actually the largest town I've been through yet, though it sems to be largely a depressing maze of box stores and strip malls. I'll be in Fargo in three to four days and may take another day off then. And I've got friends and relatives to visit in Minnesota and/or Illinois and/or Indiana and/or Ohio, so there are plenty of chances to stop and chill out along the way.
I'm trying not to rush things, but at the same time the sooner I get to Bar Harbor (I estimate mid-August at the rate I'm going) the more options I have for what I want to do after that, as far as maybe continuing into Canada, or just riding to Massachusetts, or just getting back to Alaska early. We'll see. I have to kep reminding myself that this trip is about the journey, not the destination.
Second, I will admit that when several people told me North Dakota is "beautiful," I took it with a grain of salt. But so far, I have to admit that they're right. It somehow manages to come across as more attractive than Montana, even though it's largely the same landscape. For one thing, I'm no longer paralleling the railroad tracks, which means no more grain elevators everywhere - which, though interesting to look at, are not what I'd call picturesque.
Also, there seems to be more variety to the landscape. It's actually quite hilly, with gentle undulations spreading across the landscape in every direction. There seem to be more blazing yellow fields of wheat to set off the green of the landscape. And there have been some wonderful stretches of road along the top of the bluffs over Lake Sakakawea (aka Sacagawea, they just spell it differently here) that made me feel like I was zooming along highway 1 overlooking the blue of the Pacific.
There have also been some really, really flat parts, of course, and some really, really straight parts. Which is part of why I've been making such great time lately.
For those wondering, with a flat road and minimal wind, I've been going at 16 mph or so; with the wind at my back, 18 or more. With the wind howling in my face in Montana I was down to 12 mph on some stretches. As I've been riding at least 6 hours a day, the miles are starting to add up; I've gone around 1,650 at last count. That includes two days (out of the last four, in fact) where I went over 130 miles.
This is all much faster than I expected, to be honest, which is why I'm hoping to slow myself down, at least a bit. I'm taking a day off here in Minot, which at 40,000 people is actually the largest town I've been through yet, though it sems to be largely a depressing maze of box stores and strip malls. I'll be in Fargo in three to four days and may take another day off then. And I've got friends and relatives to visit in Minnesota and/or Illinois and/or Indiana and/or Ohio, so there are plenty of chances to stop and chill out along the way.
I'm trying not to rush things, but at the same time the sooner I get to Bar Harbor (I estimate mid-August at the rate I'm going) the more options I have for what I want to do after that, as far as maybe continuing into Canada, or just riding to Massachusetts, or just getting back to Alaska early. We'll see. I have to kep reminding myself that this trip is about the journey, not the destination.
Minot, South Dakota - Have USB port, will transmit. This batch of photos brings us back up to the present. (See below for more photos I posted today and a couple of days ago.)
This monstrosity was high on a pole outside New Town, North Dakota, and was advertising a septic service. I wish I could give a close-up of the mannequin's face so everyone could see his pale, sunken cheeks and ghostly expression. By far, the creepiest thing I've seen all trip.
Look! I really am in North Dakota! This is just for anyone who thinks I might just be writing all of this stuff from my living room in between handfuls of Cheetos. Mmm, Cheetos.
"Earl Bunyon" statue, also New Town, North Dakota. No explanation of who this 20-foot tall guy is supposed to be, except that he's apparently Paul Bunyan's brother. Which really doesn't explain the misspelled last name, now does it?
"The candy bar that made Idaho famous," the packaging declares. But what is it? A chocolate bar that tastes like a potato? Or a potato that tastes like a chocoloate bar? (Lamentably, neither of the above - it's a coconut-covered bar with some sort of gray coconutty filling. 'Cuz when I think Idaho, I think coconuts.)
This is the Mormon Temple in Cardston, Alberta, the first such structure built outside of North America. I had mixed feelings about the building - on the one hand, it's a gorgeous structure, finished in 1923 and accented with all sorts of Art Deco and Frank Lloyd Wright-esque touches. On the other and, it's a huge concrete monolith that towers imposingly over a quiet residential neighborhood. It actually looks a lot like the library in London that George Orwell used as a modeal for the Ministry of Truth in "1984," which isn't necessarily what I'd go for in a religious building.
This monstrosity was high on a pole outside New Town, North Dakota, and was advertising a septic service. I wish I could give a close-up of the mannequin's face so everyone could see his pale, sunken cheeks and ghostly expression. By far, the creepiest thing I've seen all trip.
Look! I really am in North Dakota! This is just for anyone who thinks I might just be writing all of this stuff from my living room in between handfuls of Cheetos. Mmm, Cheetos.
"Earl Bunyon" statue, also New Town, North Dakota. No explanation of who this 20-foot tall guy is supposed to be, except that he's apparently Paul Bunyan's brother. Which really doesn't explain the misspelled last name, now does it?
"The candy bar that made Idaho famous," the packaging declares. But what is it? A chocolate bar that tastes like a potato? Or a potato that tastes like a chocoloate bar? (Lamentably, neither of the above - it's a coconut-covered bar with some sort of gray coconutty filling. 'Cuz when I think Idaho, I think coconuts.)
This is the Mormon Temple in Cardston, Alberta, the first such structure built outside of North America. I had mixed feelings about the building - on the one hand, it's a gorgeous structure, finished in 1923 and accented with all sorts of Art Deco and Frank Lloyd Wright-esque touches. On the other and, it's a huge concrete monolith that towers imposingly over a quiet residential neighborhood. It actually looks a lot like the library in London that George Orwell used as a modeal for the Ministry of Truth in "1984," which isn't necessarily what I'd go for in a religious building.
Minot, North Dakota - Another computer with a USB port! Due to the way these things download (or possibly my own incompetence) they're not in chronological order. Alas.
Here's my rubbery spiritual guide Ganesh hanging out at the town beach in Sandpoint, Idaho. Sandpoint is a hip little town with an unbelievably nice beach, located on scenic Lake Pend Orielle.
Main Street in Winthrop, Wash., which is also where I sent my first 'on-the-road' post for this blog. The photo unfortunately doesn't quite capture the odd spirit of the town, which has been preserved/recreated to look like the Old West. Good fun.
This is me at the top of Logan Pass in Glacier National Park, the literal and figurative high point of the trip. Notice all the rain and cold-weather gear I'm wearing - there was still snow at the top, and under any conditions riding straight down 3,000 feet or so - which I was about to do - gets a bit nippy.
The view from near the bottom of Going-to-the-Sun Road, which leads over Logan Pass. I was traveling with several other bikers at the time, who had been twiddling their thumbs in the park waiting for the road to open. The views were incredible, though it did eventually cloud over and obscure some of it.
Me at the end of the "open" portion of Going-to-the-Sun Road. Fortunately, as I recounted before, park officials didn't seem to care if we kept going, as long as we waited for the road crews to clear out.
Here's my rubbery spiritual guide Ganesh hanging out at the town beach in Sandpoint, Idaho. Sandpoint is a hip little town with an unbelievably nice beach, located on scenic Lake Pend Orielle.
Main Street in Winthrop, Wash., which is also where I sent my first 'on-the-road' post for this blog. The photo unfortunately doesn't quite capture the odd spirit of the town, which has been preserved/recreated to look like the Old West. Good fun.
This is me at the top of Logan Pass in Glacier National Park, the literal and figurative high point of the trip. Notice all the rain and cold-weather gear I'm wearing - there was still snow at the top, and under any conditions riding straight down 3,000 feet or so - which I was about to do - gets a bit nippy.
The view from near the bottom of Going-to-the-Sun Road, which leads over Logan Pass. I was traveling with several other bikers at the time, who had been twiddling their thumbs in the park waiting for the road to open. The views were incredible, though it did eventually cloud over and obscure some of it.
Me at the end of the "open" portion of Going-to-the-Sun Road. Fortunately, as I recounted before, park officials didn't seem to care if we kept going, as long as we waited for the road crews to clear out.
About me
I'm Tom Moran, a bicyclist from Fairbanks, Alaska. I'm spending the summer of 2006 riding from Anacortes, Wash., to Bar Harbor, Maine.