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Kansas City Irish Festivals, Music, Pubs, & Events by an Artist in Ireland

Nebraska

Part 45 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)

The next section of the journal is taped and transcribed but as both tape and transcript are inaccessible in storage here is a brief outline of that day from memory, and from excerpts of the journal that was handwritten, a more detailed account of the following day.

September 29. A short day. Nebraska. Omaha to Lincoln.

A sunny day, I took US 6, a rare diagonal road in a world of the perfect grid. It runs southwest, parallel to I-80.

Much of US 6 had no shoulder so luckily it was Sunday as I wouldn’t have been able to cope with the traffic of any other day. In Gretna I took a photo of the water tower, another of those giant white spaceburgers on stilts, and further down the road a picture of an elevator.

I decided on Ashland for food. It meant turning off the road and cycling back for no more than a mile. When I saw what appeared to be an independent sandwich place I decided to try what always seemed too intimidatingly complex - to order a sandwich. I ended up with something hot and ate it outside in the warm autumn sun before ambling back to the highway and peddaling on towards Lincoln.

Greenwood and Waverly are passed, more place names I know from England, before I pass under I-80. I’m just over 60 miles cycled when I reach the Lincoln. It’s early. For me.

Lincoln is instantly beautiful in the sunshine amid the suburban trees. And then I get a puncture. A pod had burst and tons of little spikes released had done the damage. Looking around the street I see countless more of these pods so once I replace the tube I very carefully pick my way into the centre of town.

I make my way through the impressive university campus and then settle in for the evening in a motel. While I have a possible contact for Lincoln I’m pleased it doesn’t work out as the day’s cycling has me wanting to be alone with the bicycle. Despite the puncture it’s still an early day for me, so I enjoy a chat on the phone to Kansas City with a son of Nebraska before dinner and a night with my maps.

[An account of the next day in Nebraska constitutes the rest of this entry and it’s below the fold]

30th September 11.20 pm York, Nebraska

Mornings aren’t mornings without flat tyres. Maybe yesterdays patch didn’t take. Again I assume it’s a slow, pump it up and gently roll out the back of the motel down 28th to avoid 27th, ’til I reach Vine Street. An enormous bike shop. Spent ages choosing a new pair of gloves. The old ones were those given to me back in Maryland.

Yet again I struggle to get out of bed. I leave so late it’s 10.30am when I reach the bike shop. Despite this I dither for 20 minutes over the colour of the gloves. I try and get them to go with my Dublin jersey. Should I go with the sky blue or dark blue? Eventually I get sense, choose the purple ones (knowing secretly that they’ll pick up the purple on those other lycra shorts I have) and decide on buying just one thorn-proof tube rather than the tyre liners.

Today it was warmer in Omaha than in L.A., Dallas, or Atlanta. Tomorrow is forecast in the 80s again before dropping dramatically after that.

Lincoln should be the biggest town I’m in before Amarillo, Texas, so time for a service. They were good to me. He tightened the bottom bracket axle and put some grease in there to stop that horrible clicking that was bothering me. From touching the bike alone this magician could tell the rear hub was loose so he fixed that too. And while he was at it he loosened the too-tight headset.

While he was doing his work I spoke with another mechanic who last year had toured from British Columbia, Canada down to Tijuana, Mexico. Then I tried out my bike, gave it the thumbs up and yer man a $5 nominal charge for his time. He said he was just trying to help me on my way.

This area of Lincoln was easy to negotiate. A very definite grid. Look at a street and if it’s not busy then it’s the one for you. So many beautiful houses too. Reminded me of the South for reasons I couldn’t think of. Perhaps more surprisingly was the number of houses decorated already for Halloween. Huge pumpkin lanterns, figures - life-size - dressed up as witches with a raven. At first I thought it was Halloween in a couple of days and then I remembered this is America. When I cycled past Christmas Tree farms I was able to put thoughts of Christmas out of my head.

Almost mid-day and I still haven’t left town. Want miles under my belt but have to eat. Went to a McDonalds ’cause I don’t like them and it would encourage me to hurry up.

The northwest of Lincoln was not so easy to negotiate as it was not grid-like. Went around in a few useless loops before getting directions to US 34 from a couple of helpful people who, in contrast with much of the route to the south and east, didn’t express any interest in me.

So I was finally on the road, the comfortable wide smooth shoulder of US 34 heading west. Seward was 21 miles away and so was lunch or whatever you call a meal at 3.30pm. I had no food or drink with me whatsoever. Maybe I’m getting far too casual at the time I can least afford to.

A very strong gusty wind from the South did manage to slow me down as did the road itself - going up and down in a grand sweeping sense. On such a warm beautiful day I had no right to complain. On my right a field of milo a rich shade of burnt sienna contrasting nicely with a dug up field on the other side of the road, a mellow burnt umber. And then there was corn. And all the barns were wooden, large and painted red, most of them with white painted trimmings. Overhead the sky was a pure blue save for the scratch marks of dozens of aeroplanes. At any given time you could see 4 or 5 new scratches being made. All of these marks were east to west or vice versa. Nothing, even in the skies was going the North-South axis, the way I would be going in 2 or 3 days. There mustn’t be too many motels in the sky either.

You could go for a mile or more and no traffic would pass you. Then a semi would nearly blow you off the road. Some people waved to me and I of course saluted formally back but mostly I wasn’t paying attention to the traffic. Comfortable in my shoulder I was looking around at the land on both sides, in front of me and indeed behind me.

Distant low hills of green, and large sweeps of yellow crops, smaller fields of just prairie grass like the “15 acres” in need of a haircut. Trees dotted around in an uncomplicated hedgerow manner. Some cattle but not much, and the odd farm had a couple of horses who were always good for a conversation.

The grasshoppers were still trying to attach themselves to my legs and I had also to flick ladybirds off my jersey.

No towns of any description before Seward, a couple of Spur or Link roads to I-80 which was parallel about 5 or 6 miles South. Not even a gas station. In this renewed heat I was thirsty. From 6 miles away I could see the water tower that marked Seward.

A lovely town with a lovely square. I knew there was a fast food strip to the South towards the Interstate but I was determined to find something downtown. Couldn’t spend too long mind you because with that wind I was only going 10mph which means if I restart at 4pm then it’ll be approaching 7pm before I finish the 28 miles to York. And approaching 7 means approaching dark.

The “Corner Cafe” had closed their kitchen at 3 o’clock - it was now 10 after - so she directed me to Runza. After my talk of the gorgeous sausage bread in Oxford, Mississippi, my host had told me of the Runza chain. The sign on the window said “Runza and the Huskers - a Fall tradition”. There wasn’t too many signs in Nebraska but most of them manage to refer to the Huskers. I was pleased I’d managed to cycle past the stadium earlier this morning.

It was nice and certainly filling, but not a patch on what I’d eaten in “Blind Jim’s” back in Oxford. The meat was bland. Still I enjoyed it and the several drinks of lemonade were just perfect. The buildings were all pretty much square but not like in Kansas. Some had intricate tops and edges, or window borders. Some had a Spanish or South-western feel to them. Again they stubbornly refused to be framed by my camera.

Coming out of town I crossed the Big Blue River which is a fabulous name for a little green stream. From here as the Nebraska Department of Transportation Cycling Map suggested, the traffic lessened, and I still had a shoulder all to myself. The land changed too. The rolling hills stopped. It was flat.

The road was flat, and straight. It was fantastic. An enormous expanse of crops, mostly corn, as far as you could see. Usually there were a few trees visible 5 miles up the road, maybe a grain plant 10 miles on the horizon, the much rarer farms than previously, or a train to break up the continuity of the corn. A brilliant splash of a white Lutheran church. A small pond with a wooden sign calling it “On Golden Puddle”.

And the towns that punctuated this landscape - Tamora, Utica, and Waco. All very small islands in the corn. The wonderful colour of an American Football game at Waco begged watching and photographing but I was chasing the sun. Everything you saw here, be it a house, a town, a factory, was in the context of the corn. A house with 20 trees around it, a pond and a fountain in its front yard, a green lawn with flowers and bushes. Yet all around it for miles is unbroken corn.

I thought it was magnificent and I remembered what the sales bloke in the bike shop back in Lincoln had said - “It’s very desolate west of here”. People have been saying that for two thousand miles now. It’s always west of where they live. I presume that’s simply because they’re so familiar with their immediate area. A part of me suspects that none of this country is desolate at all.

As I approached York the sun was low casting a beautiful light over the milo to the North. In milo there’s always a taller shoot (by a foot or two) for every hundred or so which results in dots of green throughout the textured golden brown even tops of the rest of the crop.

In the sky the scratch marks had disappeared. Didn’t seem to be as many trees in York’s downtown compared to Seward and it had an even greater number of buildings that seemed Spanish. Nowhere here for me to stay so I was destined the 2 or 3 miles south to the interstate.

But first my first historical plaque of the day. It marked the Nebraska City cut-off of the Oregon Trail and it was erected by the Daughters of the American Revolution in 1928. Most things out here happened in the last hundred years. The buildings in the towns looked about that age at most, the red barns had 1945 or 1934 painted on them and all the farm equipment seemed to gleam as if brand spanking new.

Almost convinced myself the American woman at the Yorkshire Motel had a Yorkshire accent - I’d forgotten I was in a town called York. They were somewhere between expensive and full so I’m at another Super-8 and even joined their VIP club. Too late in the day to avail of the heated indoor pool but I was hungry anyway and my first trip to Arby’s was a good one. I’ll be going back real soon.

Just out my window is the corn all the way to the western horizon. I’m looking forward to tomorrow. Looking at the maps Colorado seems so near. Should I contact a friend back in Ireland to see about her friend in Boulder? Especially as the weather is supposed to be good for another week ? We’ll see.

Read the Next Entry (#46) in My Bicycle Trip Across America

Read more from my Cycle Across America

This entry was posted on Saturday, May 24th, 2008 at 6:59 am and is filed under 1-eolai, Cycle Across America. You can follow responses via my RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.