Day Thirty-five: Washington, Iowa to Roseville, Illinois

July 14, 2019

I'd shut the bathroom door yesterday evening when I went to bed, in order to block an annoying light that I couldn't figure out how to turn off, and this morning when I got up I found that I'd locked myself out of the bathroom. So, I got dressed - fortunately I hadn't left my clothes in the bathroom - and went to the lobby of the motel and summoned the bleary-eyed guy there, who gave me a master key that probably would open every door in the motel. I was able to use it to get the bathroom door open, so that minor crisis was resolved.

I'd noticed yesterday that one of my water bottles was filled with nasty, multi-color moldy spots, presumably from filling it with various sports drinks over the last weeks. I'd tried to clean it last night, but it was still too gross even for me with my degraded bike tour standards, so I threw it away.

I went down to the lobby for breakfast. After a while a man and woman in cycling clothes came down, expressing surprise that someone was up before them. They were from Iowa City, and were cycling to the start of RAGBRAI, which is apparently their annual tradition. We talked for a while, until an obnoxious, sideways-baseball-cap-wearing dolt came down blaring music from his phone. What a jerk. I told the couple goodbye and rode away, making my way through town, and then onto country roads.

I stopped in Trenton, which was too small to have a population listed, but not too small to have a tiny park, where I sat at a picnic table for a while and ate a few snacks, until the bugs drove me away. I looked around a little, but there was nothing that interested me other than an old, closed gas station.

I got back on the road. Things were much less hillier today. Finally, Iowa deserved its incorrect reputation as (mostly) flat, the closer I got to Illinois.

I passed a sign which bragged that the area was "The single richest township of land in the world." I saw zero evidence of this as I looked around - it was just corn and soybeans. What's up with this claim?

I turned south onto country road "X-31." I was hot, hungry and thirsty now, and I hoped, although it seemed unlikely out here in this underpopulated area, that there might be a store, or at least a pop machine. For this reason, I was annoyed when I came upon some farmer's recreation of an old gas station - from a distance I'd thought it might be an actual business, not some guy's hobby.

This is in some guy's yard - it's not a real store.

I was pretty happy several miles later when I arrived in Yarmouth, population 150-ish. There was a bar and grill, The Filling Station, although it didn't open for another 40 minutes. I parked my bike by the front door and explored the village- which didn't take very long - then walked back to The Filling Station and sat outside waiting for the place to open.

A woman working in the bar saw me sitting outside and opened the place up early for me, which was very nice of her. It was cool and dark inside, and I sat at a booth for a while drinking water and soda pop, and then ordered my usual grilled cheese sandwich and fries, and finally, after deciding that wasn't enough, macaroni and cheese.

The entire time I was there, I was the only customer.

Before I left, I needed to figure out exactly how I was going to get across the Mississippi River into Illinois. I'd already decided I'd cross at Burlington, something Jeff Arnim had recommended, but Burlington was a pretty large town, with multiple ways of getting into the place. I conferred with my waitress, who seemed much more road-knowledgeable than most non-cyclists I meet, settled on a route, and rode out.

I rode through Danville, population 934, and something caught my eye: A sign for a museum called "The Anne Frank Connection." I couldn't imagine what the connection could be between Anne Frank and rural Iowa, so I looked it up later: Anne Frank's American pen pal

As I reached the outskirts of Burlington, whose population of over 25,000 made it one of the larger cities I'd passed through on this tour, I stopped at one of the ubiquitous Casey's, which are everywhere in Iowa. I purchased my usual drinks and went outside, where I encountered two women who were, in their words, "training for RAGBRAI." They told me that the "training" consisted of riding ten miles, then stopping to drink beer.

I made my way through traffic as I headed toward the bridge. It wasn't that bad, but I'm sure it would have been worse on a weekday.

After some annoying and unexpected hills in the older part of town on the river, I reached the bridge, which had a wide, smooth shoulder. It was one of the easiest crossings of the Mississippi I'd ever done on the bike.

As soon as I crossed into Illinois, the road surface literally crumbled. There was a shoulder for a few miles, but it was so broken up that it might as well have been rough gravel. I exited the busy road onto the slightly less busy Carman Road, and then, a few miles after that, onto a very empty Illinois chip-seal country road, the kind with which I'm very familiar after living in the state for six years.

Water was spraying into the road here, which was nice and refreshing.

I eventually made my way on almost completely traffic-free roads to Stronghurst, population 883. There was a small supermarket there, where I spent about 40 minutes, drinking cold drinks and taking advantage of the air conditioning.

Earlier I'd decided to try to ride to the small town of Roseville, where there was supposed to be a motel, but I'd been unsuccessful all day in reaching the mom-and-pop place on the phone, and I wasn't sure if it was still in business. It it wasn't there I'd have to ride farther to the much larger city of Macomb, which I was not enthusiastic about. I explained my predicament to the young cashier at the supermarket, and she asked everyone who came through her line if they knew if the motel was open. The consensus among the locals was that it was still in business.

So I headed to Roseville.

The chip-seal road I was on eventually turned to gravel after several miles. I'd pulled over to look at the map to make sure this gravel road was really going to lead me to Roseville when an old man in a pickup truck slowed down to ask if I was alright.

"I'm just out here trying to cool off," he said. I can think of much better ways to "cool off" then by driving a pickup truck, with the windows rolled down, on a hot, dusty, gravel road. Specifically, my idea of "cooling off" involves an air-conditioned motel room and several ice-cold soft drinks.

But that's just me!

I made it to Roseville, population 1,083, to find that the Countryside Motel did in fact exist, and that the literal "mom-and-pop" who ran the place had been unhelpfully ignoring their phone all day.

It was a nice little place - pine walls, quilt on the bed, doilies, etc. I walked a few blocks to a small grocery to buy my usual post-ride supplies, decided not to take the time to get a meal at one of the few restaurants, which might not have been open on Sunday evening anyway, and walked back to my room and ate a bag of Doritos before going to bed.

Today's ride: 99 miles (159 km)
Total: 2,809 miles (4,521 km)

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