Eastern Illinois
PART 2- THE TRIP OUT: 25-28 June, 1996
Day 1: Tuesday, 25 June, 1996. Charlotte, NC to Frankfort, KY
I was so keyed up with anticipation, that I hardly slept the night of the 24th. I had wanted to leave after sunup, but before the Tuesday morning rush, if possible. When I awoke, the temperature was a mellow 72--but the humidity was almost 90%! Even the mild exercise of strapping the alice pack and tank bag onto the bike was enough to cause the sweat to bead up on my forehead and drip into my eyes. Because I hadn't practiced a full "pack up", I wasted a fair amount of time trying to figure out where the rain suit and nylon bike cover would go (I was determined to take it.) As usual, I had packed too much stuff and the Alice pack was as tight as a drum. Once I got everything packed, my bike looking for all the world like a two-wheeled gypsy wagon, I decided to take a picture of myself and the bike. I set the auto timer on the camera, set the little tripod carefully near a pine tree root, and posed with my trusty steed. It wasn't until I retrieved the camera that I noticed the sticky pine tar on my hands and jeans! There was no way I was going to ride all day with that sticky mess on me, so I wasted more time running back into my apartment to wash it off.
I finally got going at 7:30 am, just in time to dip into Charlotte rush hour traffic. After a brief but harrowing journey on I-85, I turned up state highway 16, which would take me Northwest, up towards the mountains. It remained warm until I started climbing into the foothills outside of Lenoir. Going up into the mountains, I saw more and more cars coming back the other way with their lights on, a sure sign that it was probably raining up ahead. Finally, when it started drizzling lightly, I lost my nerve and pulled off to the side of the road to put on the rainsuit, full helmet and all. Probably a wise move as it was drizzly and foggy for the next 50 miles or so, although there was never any rain as such. It had also turned quite cool, and I was glad to have the rainsuit on to keep me warmer. Despite the fog, US 421 from Boone, NC to Mountain City, TN was a spectacular ride. The sport-bikers would have a blast on the numerous tight curves and switchbacks. As heavily loaded as I was, I didn't push too hard, but I did have a good time. One warning: Many of the curves have sand in them, a nasty surprise if you're doing your Kenny Roberts impersonation through the corner and aren't expecting it.
By the time I got into Bristol, which straddles the TN/VA state line, it was warm & dry enough for me to doff the rain gear and just ride the way I'd started, with my open helmet and leather jacket. I stayed with 421 through Virginia and into Kentucky, until I intersected with the Daniel Boone Parkway near Hyden. Although not as tight or twisty as the NC/TN area, 421 through Kentucky has plenty of curves to keep a motorcyclist happy. The Boone Expressway, although only a 2-laner, is quite nice, traveling through a green and lush Appalachian valley. The only drawback to the turnpike was the three tollbooths where, of course, I had to stop, take off my gloves, and dig through my pockets for change as impatient auto drivers fumed behind me. Hey, don't get pissed at me just because you're stuck in a car on a beautiful Summer day!
Once I came out of the mountains near Mt Vernon, the trip became relatively uneventful. I followed US 150 and then 127 up to my first nights destination of Frankfort. The rolling bluegrass country of farms and horse pastures is easy on the eyes, but by this point I was getting pretty tired. When I finally found a hotel that looked run-down enough for me to know I could afford it, I collapsed on the bed and soaked up the AC before crashing for the night. My butt was killing me, and I was cursing myself for not having gotten a better seat for the trip.
Day 2: Wednesday, 26 June, 1996. Frankfort, KY to Jefferson City, MO
Day two of my trip dawned early -- and cold! It was just about 60 degrees when I left, cold enough that I'd wished all my cold riding gear wasn't packed. Another "lesson learned", I suppose. By the time I rode through Louisville, KY's morning rush, I was shivering so badly I had to stop, and there I found that, by pure chance, I had a polypropylene long-john top in my right saddlebag. I put on the polypro, drank some decaffeinated coffee (since they didn't have cocoa) and got back on the road towards US 50.
For years I have been fascinated by the numbered US routes that cross the nation from East to West. US 40 was the "main street of America" long before Route 66 usurped that designation, but its central alignment has made it a victim of its' own success: Most of US 40 has been paved over as soulless interstate highways (I-70 and I-80.) In fact, US 40 now officially "ends" in the middle of Utah, more than 1,000 miles from the coast.
This leaves US 50, from Ocean City, Maryland to Sacramento, CA, as the only centrally-aligned US coast-to-coast route to retain both its' identity and it's two-lane configuration along most of the original length. Driving route 50 from coast to coast has been a dream of mine since before I was old enough to drive, and I decided to take the opportunity presented by this trip to see a big chunk of it.
Out of Louisville I headed Northwest on US 150, to intersect with US 50 near Shoals, IN. I was quite surprised at how hilly the land was. There were several nice spots with some fun curves, nothing like the ones in the Appalachians, but a lot of fun and certainly not what I expected from Indiana. I even went by a ski area near the town of Paoli!
I got into Shoals (where everything seemed to be named "Albright") at about 9:30, only to find that I had somehow, mysteriously crossed into the Central time zone, although neither a sign nor my map indicated I had done so. With some extra time to kill, I stopped in the oddly named town of Loogootee and rested my weary butt while I admired the architecture of an apparently new gas station called "Gasoline Alley" that looked like something straight out of the "golden age of auto travel" of the mid-60's, complete with the pyramid of oil cans in the windows. I wondered if this was an authentic relic from those days or just an attempt to cash in on nostalgia?
It was here that I got onto US 50, the highway I would follow for the next 2 1/2 days and nearly 1,000 miles.
I was sorry to leave the rolling Indiana country behind for the tallgrass prairie of Southern Illinois, but delighted to find that the highway paralleled the "old" highway 50 for a considerable distance. The old road was mostly a frontage or access road, and most of the bridges were still standing, although most of them were blocked off to vehicular traffic.
Near Clay City, I stopped to look at one of these old warhorses, a strong and sturdy looking girder bridge over the Little Wabash River, running parallel to the new highway. It made for quite an interesting contrast, the old, brutish, truss design, now heavily rusted, but still looking as firm and resolute as ever, and the new, sleek, almost invisible I-beam bridge of the "new" highway.
Another view of the old bridge on the Little Wabash in Eastern Illinois
The new bridge may be stronger, but I can't help but think the older bridge, with its' wooden side-decking, reinforcing buttresses and girders, studded with rivets, had more "character". It was a bridge, by God, and don't you know it! The new bridge, well, if you were a trucker trying to make time, or a harried salesman on your way to an appointment, or a father driving a mini-van full of screaming kids, you probably wouldn't even know you had gone over a bridge. Just another anonymous, characterless section of road, like so many in this country. I wonder how long ago this old bridge was bypassed? Will they eventually tear it down or will they leave it here like a monument? Doubtful. Unlike forts, churches and mansions, there doesn't seem to be much of a movement to preserve old roads (unless they're really old roads like the Oregon or Santa Fe trails.)
Other than getting misoriented (not "lost", exactly) in St Louis by trying to follow every brick of Highway 50, the remainder of the trip was uneventful, except that the 50+ mile stretch of I-44 coming out of St Louis was anything but enjoyable. Nothing like having semi trucks get within a few feet of your bumper to make you hate everything with 18 wheels. Geez, guy, sorry I'm not doing 90 like everyone else, but I only like to drive like a maniac when I'm at work! Finally, I turn off the interstate at Union, MO, and have an absolutely wonderful (and wonderfully truck-free) 80 mile drive through the Ozarks to my second day's destination of Jefferson City. The Ozarks aren't anything like the Appalachians. Since the roads here are newer, they incorporate big, sweeping curves that dare you to throttle on as you go into them. Apparently I wasn't the only one who had this idea, as I saw several other motorcyclists on this leg of the trip. I knew these would be the last hills I saw until I got into Colorado, so I was determined to enjoy them, and I did! The Motel 6 in Jefferson City was remarkably nice and very cheap, and once again I repeated my ritual of spending the first half hour or so sitting in the motel room, stripped down to my skivvies, with the AC on full blast.
Day 3: Thursday, 27 June, 1996. Jefferson City, MO. To Dodge City, KS:
As I started off on day three, I missed the turn in Jefferson City that would take me to Highway 50 West, and I ended up going onto the bridge over the Missouri river. This turned out to be an unexpected pleasure. As soon as I got to the other side, I turned around to go back, and saw the Missouri state capitol building. This is a beautiful building, in the classic dome style, made out of what looks like pink granite or marble. It sits on the South shore (right bank) of the Missouri river, and when the morning sun hits it, as it was now, with fog swirling in the trees to either side and in the misty haze of the great river, it looks like something out of a fantasy story.
Back on Route 50, I slowly left the Ozarks, although it was clear that the "fun" part is the area to the East of Jefferson city, not West. By the time I got to Sedalia, I was back in the gently rolling prairie. At least I was making good time. I gritted my teeth as I approached Kansas City, knowing that it heralded a 100+ mile stretch of interstate (the longest stretch of US 50 to have been taken over by an interstate East of the rockies.) I hoped that hitting it early in the day would make it easier to take than that horrible stretch of I-44 I'd had the day previous.
I needn't have worried. Once I got out of the KC metroplex, the interstate wasn't bad, although I did have to force myself to keep up to at least a 65 mph average speed (my normal "comfortable" cruising speed is 55-60) as the Kansas roads have significantly raised their speed limits. Average on the interstates is now 75, and even on the two lane roads it can be up to 70 (side note: Do you think this will put the radar detector industry out of business?)
I finally reached the end of the interstate, the last I would see (except for a couple of very brief stretches) until I arrived in Denver. I decided to celebrate my "interstate liberation" by having lunch in the city of Emporia, where I-35 heads Southwest towards Wichita and US 50 heads straight West towards Newton, Hutchinson and Dodge City. Emporia is a classic small plains town, and seems to be thriving. I was driving down main street and admiring the angle parking and "dry goods" stores (just like the small town in Oklahoma where I spent my very early childhood), looking for a fast-food place where I could get a quick meal before returning to the road, when I saw, sitting in a vacant lot, an actual, honest-to-God Diner! No, not some trendy, franchised, diner look-alike with chrome trim and neon lights, but a real railroad dining car, set up as a restaurant. This was too much to pass up, so I violated my "no big noon meals" rule and ate a huge submarine sandwich in the Diner.
Whistle Stop Diner in Emporia, Ks.
Sure enough, the bill for my big lunch came after I headed out onto the lonely expanse of US 50 West. It was hot and incredibly humid, and I found it difficult to stay alert and awake. It wasn't until I got close to Newton and Hutchinson, when a huge thunderstorm loomed in my path, that I began to shake the post-gastronomical langour that was dulling my senses.
I first spotted the storm cloud when I was 25 miles from Newton. One nice thing about the flat and treeless plains, you can sure spot the weather a long way off. I saw the cloud building, and remember thinking, "boy, that's a classic anvil-shaped thunderhead, right out of a meteorology textbook!" It was far off to my right-front when I first saw it, and it wasn't until it started getting closer, and darker, and moving into my path that I began to get concerned. When I got to be about 10 miles from Newton, I could clearly see the dark underside of the cloud, and the translucent gray sheet of rain connecting the cloud to the ground like a dark curtain. By this time the storm was less than 10 miles away and headed right into my path. I rushed into Newton, pulling into a gas station to fill my tank, and expecting to have to put on my rainsuit as well -- not a very comforting prospect, as the temperature was still well over 95 degrees. Then, after I filled my tank, I noticed that the storm seemed to be heading away. Once again I seemed to have dodged the bullet and got only a few light sprinkles.
An hour later, with Dodge City still over a hundred miles away, I was wishing it would rain. Or snow, or hail, or do anything to get the merciless sun out of my eyes. The gently rolling and tree-dotted prairie of Eastern Kansas had slowly given way to the drier and flatter Western Kansas plains. The temperature had to have been over 100 degrees in the shade, and "shade" was probably a word used more as a form of cruel irony. About 80 miles from Dodge City, I stopped in the little town of Stafford, intent on gulping down a pint of water and enjoying the air-conditioned darkness of a chain-type convenience store for a few minutes. As I rolled into town, though, my eye caught a small, obviously hand-painted building, entirely pink, with a hand-lettered sign that read "The Strawberry Patch". Since I was tired of the cheerful uniformity of the oil-company convenience stores, and because I've always had a weakness for strawberries, I stopped in. I was the only customer there, in fact, I got the idea they hadn't had more than 5 or 10 customers so far that day. I sat in to cool, air conditioned room, where every wall decoration was pink and done up in a strawberry motif, and waited for them to fix me a large shake (strawberry, of course!) When it came, it didn't disappoint! Thick and creamy, with none of the grain filler you get at fast-food places, and filled with thick, meaty chunks of strawberry. I nursed the shake as I cooled off and read the local paper (Front page story: The Summer harvest was in full swing.)
After that serendipitous break, I reluctantly headed back into the unforgiving sun, finally arriving at my destination, Dodge City, KS, at exactly 7pm local time. I barely had time to eat and unpack before I had to crash, exhausted, sore and sunburned. I was too tired to take a picture of the bike in front of the Dodge City landmarks, but that's OK because most of it is tourist-trap fakery anyway.
Day 4: Friday, 28 June, 1996. Dodge City, KS to Denver, CO.
Day four started with a minor annoyance: The night clerk for the hotel was not on duty, so I wasted a half hour or so waiting for him to come back in before I realized I had already paid my bill and could just leave the key in the room. In many ways, this was the day I anticipated the most, not only because I would be returning to my home in Colorado, but because I would be doing it, for the first time, on a motorcycle. Plus, the prospect of not having to ride all day, and being able to sleep in, was quite attractive, too. Western Kansas continued to get higher, drier and more treeless, and when I finally crossed into Colorado, I could have been on the surface of the moon for all the recognizable terrain I saw. 11 miles later, I left US 50 for the first time since the morning of day two. I had ridden 985 miles on that highway from Shoals, IN to Granada, CO.
Entering Colorado on US 50
By 9:30, I stopped for my second gas stop in Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, about 145 miles Southeast of Denver. I was bone-tired as I pulled up beside the gas pump, which may explain what happened next: I kicked the sidestand down casually, without rocking the bike back to make sure it locked in the forward position. Since Murphy's Law had been a constant on my trip, my momentary lack of attention to detail had the predictable result: As soon as I took my hands off the handlebars, the bike dropped like a rock onto its' left side. At first, I couldn't believe I had made such a bonehead mistake. I've been riding bikes since 1982, and this is something most beginners learn on their first day!
After a frantic few seconds of struggling with the bike, another customer came out of the gas station and helped me to right it. My biggest concern at this point was the windshield: If it is cracked or damaged, it could significantly impede my ability to travel long distances without becoming overly fatigued. Upon close examination, I am relieved to discover that there are nothing more than a few scratches on the edge of the windshield, despite the fact that it took the brunt of the fall on its edge. If I was impressed with the National Cycle windshield before, I am awed by it now.
Except for racing another thundercloud across the plains, the remainder of my trip, up US 40 to Limon, then Colorado 86 to Franktown, and up Colorado 83 (aka Parker Road) into Denver, was uneventful. Due to an early start, a short itinerary, and a change in time zones, I arrive early, at about 1:15 pm. The odometer reads 19,110. My butt is so sore from the stock seat that I can barely move, and would gladly sign a blank check for anyone who could provide me with a comfortable replacement. But I have arrived, in one piece, and I'm glad to be here.
Click on the links below to continue the narrative
Part Five: Would I do it again?