A Missouri-able Day

Day 6
States: 15 (25 if you count total crossings to and from Iowa
Miles: 4260

Missouri does not exist.  That is what I came to believe.  Or it is very good at hiding.  I know the people of Missouri are known for their stubbornness, but I was completely unaware that an entire state itself also has this capability.  But let me back up first.  The morning in Sioux City brought humidity beyond belief.  I usually remove Hern's tourpack, because it has quick disconnect clips.  As i was lugging the tourpack out of the room and back onto the bike I watched the chrome luggage rack fog over within seconds of stepping outside.  Then I tried to take a picture only to have the lens of the camera fog over.  Wow, this was going to be a fun day.  It was brutal.  And it was hot. 

As usual another Harley rider was preparing his bike out in the parking lot, and we got to talking.  He and his wife were coming from the direction in which I was headed, and they advised me that I-29 had more closures.  Nebraska and Missouri were not going to be easy to access.  And they were not kidding.  Just south of Sioux City a section of the interstate was actually below the water level.  

A series of what appeared to be sandbags, but were actually sand-filled barrels wrapped with plastic, were acting as a dam to hold the water back.  As you approach this section of the freeway, you actually descend below the level of the water, which is an incredibly eerie feeling.  Actually I felt a bit like Moses, albeit a little grimier version.  

In the middle of this unintended lake a farm house and barn could be seen. 

For Sale - Island House, Freeway Access

Omaha lay somewhere beyond this lake, but I soon would find that indeed it was not so easy to get to.  I-29 was closed not too far beyond this seen, so I was forced to go deeper into Iowa, then backtrack to get into Nebraska.  It was a little farther that I expected.  Beatrice was unhappy that I was not taking the freeway - her favorite phrase, "recalculating," soon got quite old.  She took me through Council Bluffs Iowa, which is across the river from Omaha.  I dutifully traveled through the small, quiet streets of Council Bluffs, passing many churches whose parking lots were filled with pick-ups, Chevrolets, and Fords.  I'm sure the rumbling from Hern's pipes added to the substance of the preachers' words.  Soon I crossed the river, and looming before me were the towering buildings of Omaha's downtown, the first city I had really encountered since leaving LA.  Having crossed Nebraska off my list, I punched up my next destination, a small town in Missouri.  Beatrice responded with instructions that can be pretty well summarized as, "turn here, no here, no here…..recalculating."  I was literally going in circles.  Before I knew it, here came Council Bluffs again.  OK, this was my third trip into Iowa, but I could deal with that.  My goal was to get to I-29, south of Omaha, and I guess this was going to be the way.  Eventually I found a route to I-29 and set out for Missouri.  More flooding could be seen.  And more road closures - including the one I was on.  Signs turned us around and offered a detour route, which I dutifully followed - all the way back to.... Council Bluffs.  I wasn't that thrilled with Council Bluffs in the first place, and really had no desire to visit it a third time, so I exited the detour route, because it was time for a fuel break. 

And here's where yet another amusing character along my way appeared.  As I pulled up to the pump, I noticed a grown man wearing pajamas cleaning his windshield.  He beamed as I rode up, marveling at the extensive bug collection on the front of my bike.  He said something about the bugs and went back to cleaning.  But not just his windshield.  He was using the squeegee to clean the entire car!  He would systematically dip the sponge side in the water bucket at the pump, then squeegee off the car.  And he was wearing pajamas.  I managed to get a photo of him on the iPhone, but I figured dragging out the Nikon would be pushing it.  His photo is on the tracking webpage, but I don't have time to transfer it to the blog here.  He actually turned out to be a reasonably personable guy, so I figured that it was customary to wear your pajamas on Sunday mornings in public in Iowa, because nobody else seemed to pay him much mind.  He asked where I was from and where I was going, and I explained that I was trying to get to MIssouri, but was having a bit of a challenge with all of the closed roads.  He took great delight in solving that problem for me as he spewed out road numbers and letters and names that I quickly lost track of.  I thanked him for his help, started up and rode away wondering if I should try to follow his directions.  But then I remembered the Mama always said, "Never trust a man wearing pajamas cleaning his entire car with a squeegee," so I decided to trust Beatrice. 

Big mistake.  I set off in the direction that Beatrice commanded.  It seemed like a wonderful little two-lane road, and indeed another Harley came from the other direction, the couple on it both waving gleefully, so I figured I was in good shape.  But after about 20 minutes it didn't seem like I was going in the right direction.  My suspicions were confirmed when a roadsign advised me that I was 25 miles from……Council Bluffs. I flipped to the compass reading on the GPS, and indeed found that I was heading north rather than south.  I decided to take the first right I could find, since I had noted on a map that several major roads to the east run south to Missouri.  A sign soon appeared announcing that a town call Mineola was in my direction.  By that name, it seemed like a nice enough place.  I was beginning to enjoy this little detour.  I flipped on the helmet cam to record this delightful enclave hidden in Iowa.  t wasn't long before I rolled into Mineola. I decided that it was the kind of town where everyone knows everyone.  Because they all live in the same house.  Seriously, if more than four people live in this town, I would be shocked.  Still, it was a neat little town with an old-fashioned western style bank and…..well, that's about it.  My tour of Mineola complete I set out for Missouri.  But my road continued to go east.  And east.  And east.  Finally coming to an intersection, I turned south again.  The road ran south for about one half mile and then turned….you guessed it, east.  Missouri could not be reached.  Eventually I came upon signs that read "I-29 South detour," so I knew I was close.  At this point I had traveled over 200 miles, and all i really could claim was a trip to Omaha (and several to Council Bluffs).  I simply followed the signs, and after what seemed like days, but was really hours, I was greeted with a sign that read, "Missouri welcomes you."  I doubted the sincerity of it. 

Do You Really?

OK, now it was time to get back to Iowa and on the way to Minnesota, the next state on my list.  Despite her increasing incompetence, I let Beatrice lead me in the intended direction.  But she seemed to interpret every farmhouse driveway and dirt cowpath as a road back to Iowa.  "Turn here, turn there, recalculating."  Once again I was going in circles.  I finally came upon a town where i stopped, got out my paper maps and found that I was even deeper in MIssouri, further away from Iowa.  Missouri wouldn't let me in before, and now it wouldn't let me leave!  I pointed in a direction that seemed right based on my map reading, but that proved fruitless.  Once again I pulled over and dismounted.  As I pulled out my maps again I heard a voice yell, "Hey!"  I looked up a hill next to the road that I had stopped on and there was a man waving to me, about 200 yards away, standing in front of what looked to be his garage.  He motioned me up, and yelled "C'mon up!"  Figuring he sensed my predicament, I wound up a long, twisting gravel driveway to the garage that he had been standing in front of.  As I pulled up and shut off the motor, he looked at me in surprise and said, "Well, hell, you're not Cliff."  I confirmed that I was in fact not Cliff.  But he stuck out his hand and introduced himself and asked if he could help, clarifying that my bike and I looked just like a friend of his that he was waiting for.  I explained that I was trying to get to Minnesota.  "Minnesota?!?" he asked, clearly a bit confused.  "What the hell are ya doin' here?"  I told him that's what I was wondering, and told him I couldn't get out of Missouri.  I gave him the name of a town in Iowa that I had asked Beatrice to take me to and he said, "Oh, no you can't get there - all the roads are under water."  He said, "I"ll help you get out of here."  I was sure he was going to tell me to head in the direction of Council Bluffs again, but in fact he did point me in a more desirable direction.  He offered me a drink, which I declined, but I thanked him for his help and set off for Iowa once again.  Eventually I found my way out of Missouri, but by this time I had lost approximately four hours.  Combined with the time I had lost over the past few days, I discovered that I was a full day behind now.  I compensated by staying on the road longer than intended, but was rewarded  by not only knocking off Minnesota, but also by reaching Wisconsin, both of which were reached without any reportable encounters (thankfully).  It was a long day, but I still feel relatively good, and Hutmo's Lincoln Highway Tour and a Wednesday Pittsburgh arrival still look doable.  I'll have to really kick it the next two days, but hey, after conquering Missouri I think I'm pretty much capable of doing anything now.  

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A pajama wearing man squeegeeing his entire car
• An axe murder museum
• A Spam museum

Unusual things heard at the gas station today:

A motor home pulled up to the pump opposite me in Iowa,  The driver, an elderly gentleman, got out of the motorhome and inserted his credit card into the pump.  He then turned to his wife, who had also exited the vehicle and announced, "I"ve gotta take a leak.  Put ethyl in it."
Her:  "Put what in it?"
Him: "Ethyl."
Her:  "It says 87, 89, and 91."
He walks back over to the pump and points, saying, "Here, this."
Her:  "That says ethanol."
Him: "Yeah, that's what I said - ethanol."
With that he walked away, shaking his head. 
 

High Plains Shifter

Day 5
States: 11
Miles: 3497

I woke up early on Saturday, which was good.  I wanted to make some time.  The skies were clear and sunny, and things looked promising.  There was a McDonalds across the street from my hotel in Miles City, Montana, and a sausage and egg McMuffin sounded like just the right way to start the day.  Despite the early hour, the place was filled with locals, all of whom appeared to buy their clothing from the same designer -  Paul Bunyan.  Plaid shirt, wide leather belt, and Wranglers (four inches too small) are apparently the only thing available in this town.  Oh, and a baseball cap, displaying the seed company of choice.  I felt terribly out of place in my t-shirt and leather vest.  At least my Levi's (two inches too small) came close.  I tried to remain inconspicuous.  That would turn out to be impossible. 

I have gotten into the habit of grabbing my GPS and shoving it in my pocket when I leave the bike.  It is way too easy for curious bystanders to pop it off of its mount and make off with it.  I refer to the stern English woman who gives me directions as Beatrice, and her favorite word, evidently, is "recalculating."  Sometimes Beatrice has a way of making a scene at the worst possible times.  Due to the wind and bike noise, and the fact that I have my iPhone plugged into the aux jack on the "entertainment center," I max out Beatrice's volume so that I can hear her when I'm riding.  Although I try to remember to turn her off when I shut down the bike, there are times that I forget.  This morning was one of those times.  As I was waiting in line to order my Egg McMuffin, Beatrice announced to the entire McDonalds that she had lost satellite reception.  Suddenly I got a bird's eye view of every conceivable seed company in the world.  I grabbed her and tried to turn her off, but succeeded only in bringing up the volume and brightness adjustment screen.  "Lost satellite reception," she yelled again.  Now the employees behind the counter were giving me the evil eye.  Finally, with great relief I got her turned off.  I ordered my breakfast, slunk away, and sat down to eat and  run through my iPhone messages and emails.  Soon I decided that I needed to plan out the day's route.  For reasons I still can't figure out, Beatrice had refused to acknowledge Bismarck, N. D. and I was trying alternate cities.  Finally I settled on a reasonable destination.  To my horror Beatrice starting yelling to everyone again, "Turn left on I-94, turn left on I-94."  The heads  turned again.  None of the locals were amused with the greasy looking criminal and his stern English companion.  I balled up the rest of my breakfast, tossed it in the trash, and got the heck out of there.  I could feel every disapproving eye on me.  I'd had enough of Montana and they probably had had enough of me.

I set off toward my destination, somewhere not called Bismarck.  It was a beautiful morning and there were very few vehicles on the road.  I was making great time, and soon knocked off my ninth state, North Dakota.  Beatrice and I had made up.  About half way between Bismarck and Fargo I decided to stop and get some gas.  When I pulled into the station, there were at least 30 motorcycles, primarily Harleys, of course, parked all around, some of them fueling up, some just sitting around yakking.  I found and open pump, filled up and scraped the bugs off the windshield.  As I did that, there must have been 50 more bikers roll by the station, some of them stopping, some not.  Since there was a line at all of the pumps I pulled Herm over to the convenience store to get a drink.  I ended up next to a group of couples chatting, and as I got off, I asked them what I gotten into.  It appeared to be a poker run.  One guy, on a gleaming white Gold Wing confirmed that they were, in fact, on a poker run, rattling off some name that I didn't catch.  We were out in the middle of nowhere, and I just couldn't figure out where that many bikes had come from.  Maybe sensing the question by my expression, he proudly proclaimed that they were on a 120 mile ride.  I guess I was supposed to be impressed.  I had just done over 300 before lunch.  I didn't bother responding.  I did, however, take the opportunity to use the restroom.  Several other poker runners were lined up at the urinals.  As I took my spot and began relieving myself I suddenly was greeted with, you guessed it, "Lost satellite reception."  The guy next to me looked over at me and said, "Was that you?"  I sheepishly replied that indeed it was me.  Now you ladies have to understand something.  We guys are very different from you in the restroom.  Where you use it as a social occasion, we are not quite so inclined.  Talking in the restroom is not exactly considered a manly thing.  Nevertheless, he was undeterred.  He said, "I can never get that thing to work for me."  The ice broken, I responded with "She hasn't let me down yet."  HIs response:  "Maybe I should follow you." I smiled to myself picturing that.  Fortunately he climbed on his bike and took off, following someone else.

I had never been to North Dakota before.  In the west it had some interesting geographical formations, which soon gave way to endless farm fields.  I punched up Beatrice (literally - I was still unhappy with her behavior), seeing if it might be possible to get down toward Iowa through South Dakota in a more interesting manner.  She responded by suggesting a two-lane road that seemed to be a shortcut, and much more fun than the Interstate.  I turned in that direction and was greeted with a site that was completely unfamiliar to me - a farmer jamboree.  There must have been 100 pickup trucks pulled over to each side of the two-lane, and soon I came upon the farm implement dealer.  There was a large crowd gathered around a bunch of harvester blades (I'm guessing that's what they call them), looking them over.  It was the farmer version of a bike show.  I was fascinated with this, and stopped to take a picture. 

The 2012 Farm Implements Are In!

I started back up again, and was enjoying the two-lane road, which turned out to be quite picturesque.  It was dotted with small lakes and farm fields.  Then there were more small lakes, and they appeared to be displacing the farm fields.  It suddenly occurred to me that there were lakes where there were not supposed to be lakes.  Like over the road.  It was then that I recalled the problems that this area had been experiencing with flooding.  There were portions of the highway that had been dammed up with pumps trying to keep the water out.  The road was passable, but it was muddy in spots and down to single lanes in some spots.  The damage to the crops appears to be considerable.  I concluded that the farmers I had seen earlier were planning how to spend their insurance payouts.  One of the more amusing results of the flooding was a herd of cattle, some of whom decided that a dip in the lake was in order.  I had no idea cows like swimming. 

 

Rolling down the highway was quite an experience as I often was unable to distinguish water on the highway from the shimmer that one gets from a distance.  

In some cases, lakes surrounded the road, and the shimmer made it look like the highway just disappeared.  It did get my attention for sure.  Eventually I managed to get to the Interstate. 

I passed through South Dakota, and got into Iowa soon thereafter.  Three states in one day!  I was hoping to add a fourth, Nebraska.  Omaha was in my sites, and it was only 100 miles away, but as I rolled into Sioux City Iowa, the evidence of the flooding was surprising.  Entire roads adjacent to Interstate 29 were under many feet of water.  In some cases the only thing visible is the road signs and the tops of trees.  I had no idea that the destruction was still present.  It was too dark to take pictures.  I had been advised that I-29 might be closed due to the flooding, and decided that discretion was the better part of sinking.  Nebraska will have to wait until tomorrow. 

Unusual things seen on the road today: 

• A bank thermometer displaying a reading of -68 degrees
• A dude driving a tractor down the road - while talking on a cell phone
• Cows relaxing in an impromptu lake

Storm Chaser

Day 4, Part 2

My encounter with Amber behind me, I rolled north, toward Custer, Montana (without Amber on the back).  I turns out Amber was prophetic.  It wasn't long before I noticed the clouds beginning to gather and turn dark.  It looked like rain was on the way.  I came around the bend, and indeed a storm cell with water pouring down was off in the distance.  And I was heading right for it.  I pulled off the highway at a convenient spot and donned my rain gear.  Bikers all know that the principal that causes possession of an umbrella to ward off any chance of rain whatsoever also applies to motorcycle rain gear.  Only with much more dramatic effects.  Not only does donning a rain suit prevent rain, but it clears the skies completely, resulting in a blazing hot sun which then turns the rain suit into one of those rubber sweat suits that high school wrestlers use to lose 15 pounds in two hours.  Of course, this was the case for me, with the exception that the storm was still visible but quickly moving in an easterly direction.  I had paid good money for this rain suit, and since I had gone to the trouble of stopping and dressing up like the MIchelin Man, I reasoned that it damn well better rain on me.

I set off in search of the rain.  Fortunately, my route soon took me to the east, looking straight at the storm.  The rain resembled a huge gray curtain enveloping the entire horizon beyond, beckoning me.  I was excited.  Suddenly it occurred to me that I had become the worst thing imaginable (short of becoming a BMW owner).  I had become a Storm Chaser.  Storm Chasers, those nut jobs who roam Kansas and Oklahoma in July and August praying to get caught in a tornado, are the kids who never outgrew the thrill of the baking soda erupting volcano in grade school.  They are the douche bags who wear T-shirts that claim science is fun.  And here I was, one of them, determined to find that storm and its resulting rain.  But the storm was moving quickly.  Rain had been around me, it was obvious.  The road was wet, and the tires of the cars and trucks shot rooster tails of mist that just made riding that much more fun.  But this is not what I had bought my rain suit for.  I wanted rain - real rain.  I found myself on a two-lane highway, and ahead was traffic that had come to a stop.  

It looked like a crash from a distance, but as I approached I could see that a huge branch had fallen from a tree onto the roadway.  I soon realized that the tree had been hit by lightning from the storm.  It apparently hadn't been too long, because there was only a truck between me and the tree.  The storm was baiting me.  Several men were trying to lug the branch out of the way and one local had a chainsaw and was busy cutting it into small pieces, the section in my lane.  I silently urged them on.  Rain was ahead.  Soon it was clear enough that they waved the truck and me through.  I shot around the truck.  i could see lighning off in the distance.  The road got wetter.  But there was no rain.  The wind picked up.  The temperature dropped.  Still no rain.  Pretty soon the trees began to sway wildly.  White caps appeared on the distant lakes.  I fought for control of the bike.  It was storming all around me, but agonizingly there was no rain.  That's when the reserve fuel light came on.  I had been so focused on finding rain that I had completely lost track of my fuel situation.  And I was in Montana, where filling stations are about as common as Democrats.  The "miles remaining" gauge read 24.  I came upon a sign advising that the next town was 26 miles ahead.  I didn't care.  I could see the rain, I could smell the rain, but I couldn't feel any rain.  The fuel gauge wound down, 14, then 10, then simply "lo."  I had to made a choice.  Fuel up or find rain?  I decided to call off the chase.  The storm had eluded me.  The storm had won.  Tired, distraught, and disillusioned, I exited the freeway.  As one last taunt, I was rewarded with another rainbow, another double rainbow, in fact.  And it was not the first of this trip  I think I've seen more rainbows than states.  Again, though, I stopped for a picture.  But I remained unsatisfied.  Sleep will not come easy tonight.

This is a Fine Meth You've Gotten Us Into!

Day 4 - Part 1

States: 8
Miles: 2737

It had indeed rained on Herm during the night.  I went out to the front of the Days Inn to find most of the other bikers drying, packing up, and preparing their bikes for the day's journey.  The hotel obviously welcomes motorcycles, as they had several parking spots up front reserved just for bikes, so we were all concentrated in one small space.  I took advantage  of the collected rain water to clean Herm up a bit, and while doing that one of the others walked over and made a comment about my wheels ( a complimentary one).  We made some small talk, the usual, where ya from, where ya goin exchange.  He was a burly, rough looking dude, a typical biker straight out of central casting.  He said he was from New York, and this was his first trip out west.  He motioned over to another big burly, younger guy who was packing up his bike and told me that was his son.  He said he was experiencing the ride of his life and proceeded to tell me how his vacation plans locally in the New York area had fallen through.  Given that, his son called and said he was going on a ride and wanted to know if his Dad wanted to join him on a trip out west.  He said his wife said, "You better do this," and therefore he was with his kid exploring the country.  He said they were headed to Yellowstone that day and proceeded to tell me how amazed he was with Utah and Arizona and all of the sites that the west has to offer.  His expression was almost like that of a kid experiencing his first trip to Disneyland. The beaming in his eyes and the pride in his son was obvious.  The contrast between the roughness of these guys and the love and pride between them was fascinating to me.  It was clear that both of them were experiencing something special.  Soon they had everything ready and got ready to mount up and go.  They started up their bikes and pulled out, both giving me a wave, the anticipation on their faces a telling sign.  I felt good for them.  It's interesting, these encounters between motorcyclists.  You may never meet again, but there's a bond there. 

One of the interesting things on a trip like this is the encounters you have off of the road.  Some of the more interesting people I've met have resulted from a need to refuel my motorcycle.  People always seem to want to chat up bikers who are obviously on a long trip.  This one was more interesting that the typical encounter. 

It was late afternoon and not much had happened on the ride so far. I was fearing that I'd have to use one of my random ramblings that I'm saving up when there's nothing to report on.  That's when Amber came to my rescue.  Just before departing Wyoming I was ready for a break and I needed some gas.  A sign ahead indicated fuel was available at the next exit.  I took the exit, but didn't see any sign of a station.  This wasn't your typical roadside Stuckey's stop.  Instead there was a sign indicating gas was available one mile down the road.  So I proceeded to go down that road.  What I found was a small, depressed, nearly abandoned little town.  Apparently I had stumbled onto the meth capital of Wyoming.  I pulled into a sort of convenience store/fertilizer dealer/pawn shop that also happened to sell gasoline.  I was thirsty and needed a soft drink from the fountain machine.  I saw something I don't believe I've seen before, a sign on the dispenser indicating that food stamps could not be used to purchase soft drinks.  

As I returned to the pump, I heard a voice yell, "Hey!"  I was pretty sure I didn't know anyone here, so I ignored the sound.  I heard footsteps and turned around to see what I think was a woman coming out of a van parked nearby.  The van screamed child predoator/meth transportation vehicle all over.  The "woman" smiled (I think) and my suspicions were confirmed - missing teeth.  "Where ya goin'?" she asked.  "Up north," I replied.  "You ain't headin' to the mountains?"  "No," I replied.  Her expression turned to disappointment (I think).  She said, "my friend wants a ride on your bike."  I said, "Sorry, I don't have room for a passenger."  I looked over toward the van, and sitting half in and half out of the van was a malnourished, rather frightening looking female.  She had short black hair, long baggy shorts that hung below her knees, and a gray wife beater tank top (which somehow seemed appropriate).  She then got out and walked over while I filled the tank.  The conversation went something like this:

Her:  I want a ride on your bike.  I really like your bike. 
Me:  Thanks, but you'd have to ride fender. 
Her:  Doncha think I'm cute?
Me:  Absolutely - you're the cutest thing I've seen all day.
(It wasn't that much of a stretch - the only females I had seen were the fat Indian woman at the hotel check-out, and a gas station attendant dressed like Doris Ziffel from Green Acres.  It was then I noticed some strange tatoos.  The most interesting one read Black Bear in script on her arm.  I was imagining demons on her back and a battleship on her chest)
Her:  Where you from?
Me:  Southern California
Her:  Where you headin'?
Me: North
Her:  Where north?
Me: Custer.
Her:  Where's that?
Me:  In Montana
Her:  On this?
Me:  Yep
Her:  Right on!
(She looked a little young for "right on."  I figured she was trying to appeal to the demographic)
Her:  I don't believe we've met.  I'm Amber.
Me:  Pleasure Amber, I'm Biff.
(She then proceed to extend a closed fist to me - a fist bump.  I returned the bump.)
Her:  Where you from?
Me:  California
Her:  Where in California?
Me:  San Francisco
Her:  Oh, that's right.
Me:  Where you from?
Her:  Right here.
(Shocking)
Her:  I really like your bike. 
(Another fist bump)
Her:  It's really pretty
Me:  It's awfully dirty
Her:  I thought you like 'em dirty
Me:  Not that dirty.
(I thought that might deter her.  She remained undeterred, however)
Her:  Where ya' stayin?
Me:  I'm hoping to get to Bismark
Her:  Where's that?
Me:  North Dakota
Her:  Right on.
(One more fist bump)
(At this point I was done fueling.  I began removing my iPhone, my GPS, and locking everything possible.  I faked inputting  a destination into the GPS, trying to imply that i was ready to get going.)
Her:  What do you do when it rains?
Me:  I put on a rain suit
Her:  What if it rains really hard?
Me:  I pull over
Her:  Right on

At that point the van started up.  Toothless and a male driver I hadn't noticed yelled, "C'mon, Amber!"  Amber gave me one more fist bump and sauntered over to the van, trying her best to look sexy.  I could only shake my head.  I think I handled it about as well as possible.  Sometimes it's not easy being a chick magnet.