Come for the corn, stay for the beans: Illinois and Iowa

Yes, that's right. I've entered the great midwest, home of lots and lots and lots and lots of corn. Not to mention some soybeans thrown in the mix. After leaving Chicago, I headed west through the countryside of Illinois. I hooked up with a bike route called the Grand Illinois Trail, which is a network of bike paths and bike-friendly roads that creates a loop through the northern portion of the state. While on the trail, I passed through many small towns. If you've ever been in the midwest, you've probably noticed watertowers at the center of most towns. Often, the first indication that a town is coming up is by spotting the water tower, which is nearly alway the tallest structure by far. In Hebron, Illinois the water tower was painted like a basketball to commemorate Hebron's 1952 high school basketball state championship. Quite a claim to fame.

While I was riding one of the off-road bike paths, I stumbled upon a flock of wild turkeys, who calmly continued to aimlessly peck around as I took pictures 20 feet away.


Here's an abandoned schoolhouse I saw in Illinois:

All of the doors were removed, most of the windows were bricked upand the only thing in the place was a busted old chair with a bird's nest in it.


There were also some prayers to Jesus written in chalk on one of the walls.

Most of northwestern Illinois consists of rolling hills, farms and forests. In many places the landscape looks a bit like Vermont.

There were also several ruins of old stone houses in this area.

As I got nearer to the Missisippi River, the hills became much larger and steeper. In fact, the biggest and toughest hill I've tackled so far was in Illinois.

This hill was a 15% grade for about half a mile. It's also been really hot and humid, which made it that much harder. Once I climbed the hill, I rode on top of a ridge for around 25 miles. Once I got off of the ridge, I started to ride the banks of the Missisippi River.

Just before crossing the bridge to Iowa, I met a guy who was riding cross country while his wife drove their huge RV as his support vehicle. Pretty sweet setup.
The eastern part of Iowa is pretty hilly, and about as scenic as endless corn fields can get.

Once the landscape began to flatten out, things have been pretty boring. It's mind-boggling to think about how much land is devoted to corn in this state. There is literally almost no land around here that is not covered in either corn or soybean fields.
On the positive side, Iowa's lack of natural features and it's cultural void have resulted in people with nothing better to do than get along with one another. I spent my second night in Iowa in the town of Independence, where I found a bar called Bob and Jean's. Since my paerents are named Bob and Jean, I figured I had to check it out. It ended up being a pretty wild place, considering it was a monday night. People were slugging back cheap cans of beer, playing pool, and listening to a jukebox which only produced bass, making it sound like the music was coming from behind the wall. I kept my head down, sipping a beer and writing in my journal while everyone slurred, drank and smoked. Before long, a thirteen year old kid plunked himself down on the barstool beside me and began asking me a bunch of questions about my bike and my trip. It caught me by surprise somewhat, but apparently minors are allowed in bars before 10pm. Apparently this kid was hanging out while his dad enjoyed some drinks.
Not long after he left me, a raucous, reeling guy swaggered up and propped his elbows on the bar, a cigarette clenched between his teeth and a wad of twenty-dollar bills clenched in his fist. He was a big, rough-looking guy, with the calloused and sun-dried look of a man who works outside. He asked me if I was writing a book, nad I filled him in on my trip. "You taking donations?" he asked, and peeled a five-dollar bill off of the wad and slapped it into my palm. As Bob and Jean's closed down, I accompanied this guy and some other folks down to the other bar in town, where I met John, a 71-year-old farmer drinking bourbon and smoking marlboros. Our conversation went from corn farming, to his service in the Korean War as a medic, to Kirk, the guy I met earlier who gave me five dollars. "If you never see him again, it'd be the best thing that ever happened to you," he warned, his eyes fixed on mine. He went on to tell me how Kirk's wife had been murdered and found in a freezer. Apparently he wasn't seriously considered a suspect, but the circumstances of the crime were mysterious and there were no arrests made. Fortunately by this time Kirk had disappeared, and our conversation turned to Johnny Cash, and a long explanation of the well-drilling business, which John did for a while. By that time I was exhausted, so I thanked John for the company and went off to camp in the town park under the band shelter.
The next day, I headed out of town, slightly hung over and playing over the bizarre events of the night in my head. I continued down deserted country roads for several hours, every so often passing an oncoming truck, the driver giving a wave by raising only his index finger off of the steering wheel. Around one in the afternoon, I came upon a house, where a man was standing shirtless on his front stoop, not doing much of anything. As I came closer, he began walking toward the road and waved me down. "Would you like a cold drink of water?" he called to me. I said sure, and he told me to come on inside. I walked into his modest ranch house, where his wife, dressed in hospital scrubs and smoking a cigarette, was packing her bag lunch. The man poured me a tall glass of water, and lit his own cigarette. He was middle-aged, deeply tanned, and sinuous, with a thick mustasche. He talked with a slow, slightly aimless tone, pausing often in midsentence before carefully choosing his next word.
I finished my water, and he offered to feed me lunch, declaring that he wanted to show me that Iowans could be friendly and hospitable. I made the mistake of asking him what I should do while in Iowa. He looked at me with an incredulous look and said "there ain't nothing to do, unless you like staring at fuckin' corn." Now that I've been here for three days, I'm inclined to agree.

Later in the day, I getting really tired of riding and decided that I would hitchhike in order to cover some more ground and rest. After a few minutes of standing on the road with my thumb pointing west, an old Ford pickup drove by, slammed on its brakes with a screech of tires, and reversed toward me as I pushed my bike to meet him. He said he could take me about 40 miles west, and I eagerly accepted the ride. His name was Dave, and he was coming home from the John Deere tractor factory. We talked a bit, and he confirmed my impressions of Iowa, saying that there was really nothing going on here and because of that, people have nothing better to do than get along with one another. When I said I was headed to Colorado, he told me all about how amazing it was out there, which made the featureless landscape that was whizzing by seem all the more monotonous. Dave ended up driving me an extra 10 miles or so, and left me at a truck stop. I rode another few miles to Clarion, where I found a hotel for the night. There I met Lynn, the manager. After I told her about my trip, she said she would give me a discount for my room, and offered me some dinner. I've been so surprised at all of the random kindness people are willing to offer to a stinky stranger. It's definitely made all the difference in keeping me sane amid the corn rows.
After a bath, some TV, and a good sleep, I left this morning. Now I'm in the Renwick Public library, where the librarian is having an Elvis-themed coffee party. Right now I'm about halfway through the state, so it looks like I'll be in Iowa for at least two more days before I hit South Dakota. For now, I'm going to do my best to meet some more people and stare at some more corn.