The Long Road East

Time to leave Montana. A strange land of camouflage uniforms, guns next to the coffee maker and the word “Prepper” peppering each conversation. I’m still not sure if they are referring to the end of the world or just a very hard winter. I think I’d rather not know. Leaving Billings meant we were now on our own; the longest stretch with no family or friends. And it was winter in the northern plains. We received an offer of a roof over our heads on the first night out, in Gillette, WY. A member of Soviet Steeds, the online forum for Ural owners, offered to put us up. I was a bit apprehensive about staying with complete strangers but it turned out to be one of life’s gentle reminders that there are truly nice people out there who just like giving a helping hand. Our host met us on the outskirts of town, immediately recognizable on his beautiful white and black Ural. It was gorgeous. He would have looked more at home on a cobblestone Paris back street than an open prairie metropolis. We were escorted to his large, sunny home (no ominous drains in the bedroom) and a Brady Bunch family. After meeting 3 out of 5 All-American kids, we went out to dinner and talked and laughed like we’d always known each other. Another unexpected glimpse of life in a random spot on the map.

The next couple of days continued in autumn splendor. We had some work done to the bike at the Ural dealer in Spearfish. The town’s name promised more than it delivered but the main street was quaint for an evening stroll. We planned to stay two nights but shortened it as snow was forecast. We pushed on to Hot Springs, South Dakota, another picturesque spot but hard to tell if the businesses were closed just for the season or permanently. There was one restaurant open, in the big picture window lobby of an old hotel. It turned out to be more than fine, with white tablecloths, good wine and the missing population all sitting in a second room behind the bar.

The Gods are smiling on us with the weather. It held long enough the next day for us to enjoy the South Dakota prairie and enormous bison hanging out on the grasslands by the side of the road. We didn’t linger. After sleeping under one of their cousin’s heads we got a pretty good idea of how big they are up close. You ain't in California anymore Dorothy!

Now we are in Winter. I used to like Nebraska with its wide open spaces. One could check the brain out while the miles underneath clicked by unnoticed. Not so in a sidecar. Cold, miserable rain and a landscape 40 shades of brown and grey gave nothing to relieve the monotony. Small farm towns with barns and out-houses crept in and out of vision, shapeless in the gloom and fogged visors. I was frozen stiff, arms crossed like a disapproving grouch, head and neck disappearing into hunched shoulders. An elderly man with one leg took our picture when we stopped to fuel. It was the first friendly gesture the state had given us. At the end of a VERY long day a quick look at the phone came up with an old hotel in Basset. Pulling up on the dripping main street, it looked like nothing I’d stop for willingly but the reviews were good. The big lobby was filled with local kids escaping a washed-out Oktoberfest parade. Their consolation prize was a ‘Haunted House’ in one of the second floor rooms. Squeals and howls and the sound of clumping feet on wooden floorboards drifted down the staircase. Their youthful enthusiasm coupled with the warmth of the welcome and a cosy room were just what we needed.

On the second day through the state the sun shone and the fields were bright yellow instead of brown. It was the difference between hell and heaven. After a couple of cups of coffee we got on the road and immediately hit a traffic jam. A herd of cows coming in the opposite direction stopped us in the middle of the road. They advanced as one which had me worried but fanned out on reaching the bike and went on their merry way. Ireland is full of cows but I’m still at townie at heart. Besides, their lonesome cowboy stopped for a chat and for just a few minutes we felt a true part of the landscape.

The Cornhusker State had redeemed itself.

Amber Waves of Pain

With apologies to my old friend Mark, I am going to skip through Iowa double-quick. It’s not like I don’t like it, I do. I find it very pretty in a wholesome sort of way. I did enjoy the drive in the beginning but after two days of cornfields, and some very odd smells emanating from the stalks, I’d had enough. And they kept detouring us so we completed big squares through more of the same, then they’d forget to tell us how to get back onto the highway. We did pass one cop with a ‘Sheriff’ vest directing traffic and he gave us a massive thumbs-up as we scooted past. That gave us a smile. I snoozed both afternoons, the second day nearly the entire time. Whenever I woke up, I’d look around and on seeing more amber waves, would promptly drop the head and go back to sleep. I’ll blame the gentle drone of the engine. The evenings were equally unmemorable with the stops in Sioux City or Waterloo lost in a mid-west haze.

We were not looking forward to Chicago. The plan was to drive to a spot so far south it could be shortlisted for a RyanAir hub, then go north again. We changed course just 24 hours out with good weather forecast for Lake Michigan. Turning left instead of right, we headed up into Wisconsin, another wholesome state with red barns and cheese signs. We stopped by the lake in Madison for sandwiches. I remembered my visit there in 1981, when my whole life was still ahead of me. My Wisconsin friend was in college there but had beaten me to retirement by 5 years. I took a gamble and texted her and she replied 5 minutes later from the ring road in Iceland. It wasn't quite full circle, but almost. Wisconsin to me always equaled Lynn so it was just as well we hadn't planned a stop.