Shut out by a trail closure toward Winterset, our bicycle trip turned north to an overnight in Johnston and then to Ames, where we stayed two nights.
We used the off day to visit the Reiman Gardens for Sabra and a brewpub for me.
The 17 acres of garden are about 16 too many in my opinion, so I found a picnic table and worked on a crossword while Sabra strolled around. Each year the gardens adopt some sort of theme and this year it is “going boldly where no garden has gone before.” A couple dozen sculptures of extraterrestrial beings are tucked in and among the flowers, shrubs, bushes and vines. Sabra tracked them all down and got their photo plus a bonus shot of the world’s largest concrete gnome (and people on the coasts think Iowa is just a fly-over state). I finished the puzzle. We reversed roles over at the Olde Main Brewing Company: I tiptoed through the lagers, malts, pilsners and ales while Sabra worked the word jumble.
The next morning we shoved off late because of a rain and made it only as far as Nevada 10 miles down Highway 30, also known as the Lincoln Highway. Opened in 1913, the Lincoln was our nation’s first coast-to-coast road and was a main east-west artery for a half century. The highway is still in heavy use and we were thankful for the bicycle lane along the edge.
In Nevada, rain forced us to stay an extra day. It worked out, however, because we liked the town, and the town’s annual celebration, “Lincoln Highway Days,” was taking place. The party was pretty lame but we did uncover one gem: the renovated Camelot Theater. Opened in 1928, the building went through several reincarnations and now is a live performance venue known as the Iowa Talent Factory. It was our good fortune to take in a show featuring a trio of magicians who normally play Las Vegas in the other Nevada.
The next day was the worst of our trip and a comedy of errors.
The problem was math.
I made the first mistake by estimating the miles for the day to be about 28, much shorter than the 42 it actually took us to reach our destination of Marshalltown. There’s nothing worse than thinking you only have 10 miles to go and then finding out it is actually 24. So when we hit the small town of Melbourne with 28 miles on the trip meter we should have been done but actually had 14 miles of pedaling ahead. Happily, to assuage our sorrows, we came across Clark’s Bar on the edge of town just about Miller Time. The place was dark and cool, the drinks cheap and the patrons extra-friendly: everything we look for in a bar. As a result we stayed for one more than we should have before hitting the trail.
Under almost all conditions we average about nine to 10 miles an hour on our bikes so we had a good hour-and-a-half ahead of us. Sabra, however, did the math and estimated we’d be at our destination in just 30 minutes. Also we expected the trail to be flat, but it was hilly. The end result was one cranky Sabra. “Who the hell’s idea was this ride, anyway?” I heard her mumble under her breath, and “I’ll never do this again.”
Fortunately, we made it to our motel without further incident. We checked in at 7 p.m. and by 8:30 p.m., Sabra was showered and asleep. By nine so was I. We got an early start the next morning and things improved greatly.
About lunchtime we found ourselves in the small town of Garwin, population 527, not counting us. We thought there was a restaurant but it turned out to be closed. Now it was my turn to grumble about the trip but before I could get up a good head of self-pity, a couple in a van pulled alongside and asked if we needed help. It turned out they were retired and bicycling enthusiasts like us. I can’t remember their first names, but I do their last because it was Folks. “We’re the Folks from Garwin,” they said.
In any event, they offered to take us into their home and fix us lunch.
As we pulled out of their driveway, our appetites appeased by turkey sandwiches, I looked up in the sky. There, three miles in the air and traveling at 500 mph, I saw a jet airliner probably on its way from New York to L.A.