Nebraska

“…I don’t know jack but I stay sincere…”

I grew up in Puerto Rico, the smallest of the Greater Antilles islands at 3,500 square miles. I spent about 17 years in Israel, a sliver of a country at 8,550 square miles. I’ve been living in Ohio since 1998, not a small state at 44,825 square miles, but you can drive the width of the state in a few hours. But I am overwhelmed by the size of the states “out west,” especially when crossing them on a bicycle. Wyoming is just under 100,000 square miles and Nebraska, which I just started to traverse, is 77,421 square miles.

So much space.

I’ve ridden four consecutive days since a day off in Lander, Wyoming, for bicycle repairs.

Friday: I rode through undulating terrain just north of the Great Basin (the dry area in Wyoming where water does not drain to an ocean but rather where the water that falls either sinks underground, evaporates, or flows to lakes) and got caught by a lightning storm. I had a strong tailwind and was making great time northwards, but with the sky flashing bright every few minutes, I did not wish to remain on the road as the tallest object for hundreds of meters in all directions. But there was nowhere to take shelter! I pulled on my rain jacket just as the rain came driving down at a sharp angle, and noticed a large wooden “wildlife marker” sign in a pull out area on the other side of the road. I took refuge behind the sign, which seemed to block out most of the rain. Soon afterwards, the rain stopped. But massive, dark clouds creeped steadily overhead, and I could see bolts of lightning in the distance. Discretion being the better part of valor, I did not continue to ride. As the storm passed over, I could see lightning strike a hillside about a mile away from me. It wasn’t a quick strike, but, as in a black and white Frankenstein movie, I saw it connect with the ground and expand for a few seconds. All that was missing was the cheap, sizzling cinematic sound effect. A few minutes later the lightning hit the open area between me and the hill. I felt so exposed… and very small.

Then it started hailing. Within minutes my legs stung from the half-dollar sized white pellets that came down in Biblical fashion. I put on my helmet to protect my noggin. Soon the pull off area where I cowered behind the sign was full of cars that did not want to risk driving in the storm. They sat in their warm, dry seats and looked at me with a mixture of bemusement and pity.

The storm passed quickly. The sun came out. And I continued my way to Alcova Reservoir. I had to slog through 10 miles of road construction, where the crews had chewed up and removed the asphalt, leaving just an unmarked, grooved surface. And most of the 10 miles was uphill. At one point, right as a biker pulling a trailer carrying a bicycle (can you say, “cognitive dissonance?”) passed me, the trailer came unhitched and was dragging on the road, sparks flying everywhere. He pulled over and, as I passed him, he smiled sheepishly at me and said, “I’m sorry.” My reward for surviving the rain, lightning, hail, and road construction was a long descent to Alcova Reservoir.

Saturday: This was the day we awoke to hazy skies from the forest fires. But the haze provided cover from the sun, and I rode northeast alongside the North Platte River into Casper, a city known for its cowboy culture and dominated by the extraction industry. I followed a bike trail along the river lined with trees (finally, some shade!), through a funky, newly renovated downtown area, and then up through big-box store alley. I picked up US 26, which runs parallel to I-25, and therefore was relatively empty. The rough mountains bordering the Great Basin were behind me and the hills became more rounded and gentle. I was blessed by a tailwind (again) and made excellent time until US 26 ended, and the route took me through ranch lands alongside the North Platte on a gravel road that was wide and either sloped up or down. The late afternoon sun beat down as I rode under a blue sky tinged only slightly by the smoke from the fires. Ranch land stretched in all directions. Cows stared at me blankly as I passed. As during the storm from the previous day, I felt so small as I passed through the wide, oh-so open space.

Sunday: I left Douglas and the route took me on a freshly paved country road that loped ever-upwards. After nine miles, the pavement ended and I was on a gravel road similar to the one I had ridden the day before. Pickup trucks coming from the opposite would pass me, leaving a trail of dust in their wake, the drivers politely waving at me. One steep uphill section of gravel was just too loose for riding and I walked my bike up. Coal-laden trains passed slowly on tracks in the distance. Again, I was awed by the sense of space. But frankly, because I was moving slowly on the gravel, I was overwhelmed by the heat.

I got to the paved road (US 18) and chugged uphill until I got to a lost village called Shawnee (population: 4). I sat in the shade of what once was a school to cool off. I met Joanie for lunch in a park in a small town called Manville (sorry, no sister town called Womanville). Despite the drought, the sprinkler system was seeing heavy action. After a quick snooze and a cup of coffee from the Three Sisters Truck Stop (where diners came for their Sunday afternoon helping of meat loaf and gravy), I hit the road, determined to cross into Nebraska.

What followed was what I can only describe as bike trek heaven. The tailwind pushed me along briskly; the road descended and dropped me into the town of Lusk. I took a turn to leave town, and it was as just like a set change in a theater. A mile or two before town I had been riding through hilly, high desert land. After the turn, I entered a valley and the road shot straight as an arrow southeast, the hills replaced by grasslands. I hadn’t crossed the state line yet but I felt as if I had already entered Nebraska. And the tailwind! I sped along effortlessly. Under blue skies. On an empty road. Miles and miles of grasslands on either side of the road. If I had the vocal chord power I would have whooped and screamed in delight. What I did instead was to raise my arms out to the sides and glide along on the open road like a bird.

Let me tell you, Nebraska ain’t flat! I crossed the state line and started climbing. Up and down, over and over. The hills were brown and rolled out to the horizon on both sides of the road. Nine miles later, I crested a hill and saw a green oasis, the town of Harrison, where we spent the night in a public park with spaces for tents and RVs. After sunset, we could hear live music from the local saloon (open until 2 a.m., I was told; don’t these cowboys have work on Monday morning?).

Monday (today): For the first stretch of the day, I continued my tailwind heaven on empty US 20. The sweeping grasslands gave way to Butte country, and the road descended about a thousand feet in a few miles. US 20 took me through the small agricultural town of Crawford (where I had been hoping to score some good coffee at the “Perk Up Java Shop,” but the sign on the door said, “Closed indefinitely as I have to care for my mother-in-law.” Double bummer.) So I just sat on the metal chairs outside the shop and drank my electrolyte-supplement spiked water and ate two hard boiled egg sandwiches. I can’t eat enough. The wind was not as favorable over the next 24 miles to the small city of Chadron, and I was tired, so it was not a fun stretch. I had a long, gradual climb up to our current campsite in Hay Springs. I crested the climb at mile 66 and froze in my tracks out of sheer exhaustion. I inhaled a Clif Bar and continued to town, alive but depleted. Of course, the cure for depletion is lots of food and drink, and here sit I, hours later, writing these words with the intention of riding another 80 miles tomorrow.

My taiji teacher in Israel once gave us students a handout of “The Song of Taiji, which contained the line, “The mind commands and the body obeys.” This line alludes to the centrality of intention and mental focus. But the body does not obey in a vacuum. “First feed me and hydrate me,” the body says to the mind, “and then let’s talk about tomorrow’s ride.”

“Oh,” it continues, “and please shut up so I can get some sleep!”

Live Here or There?

I know a lot of people refer to these parts as “flyover country.” David Byrne. while flying over these parts, penned the words, “I wouldn’t live there if you paid me.” We in the more populated urban centers often scoff at the people who live on the farms and small towns out west. But after meeting and talking with a lot of people here, I’m guessing they look at, say, anyone living in the I-95 corridor from Boston to Washington, D.C., and think, “Why would anyone want to live there (where “there” has no open sky and clean air).