No longer an Iowan: Day 1

Kearney, Nebraska: Just past Grandpa’s Steakhouse, across I-80, W Road heads west along the Platte River.

To say it’s flat here is an understatement.  After a quick twist in the road, W continues to the horizon, a lean, smooth ribbon slicing through endless green fields of green corn stalks, a testament to American monoculture.  Most of the world’s religions seem to have grown from flat, featureless landscapes like this.  Will the next be some type of corn worshiper sect?  These random thoughts flit in and out of my head, with nothing outside of myself pushing in, everything is leaking out.

Yesterday was an emotional day.  Packing the house, moving a lifetime of things onto an auctioneer’s moving van, layers of our life together peeling away.  After loading a sink we never installed, the planer and table saw that helped rebuild our old farm house and sorting through the detritus of our honey business, it didn’t take much to let hot tears stream down.  What it took was seeing my ten year old son cry as I prepared to hit the road.  How did I help create this being who loves me so much?  He fought to hold back the emotion, struggling to be manly, to be brave, and it all occurred to me at once, a strange combination of leaving, loss and the promise of something new, yet unknown.  I cried till my eyes hurt.

The wind is from the south and, at 32 minutes I turn around on a non-descript point on the infinite line that is W Road.  I’ve climbed 42 feet in 9 miles.  Half of that must have been the overpass.  My legs are gummy; I can feel the blood pushing through the muscles stiff from sitting yesterday in a Japanese car seat, and it’s uncomfortable.  A couple of sprints (but where is the sprint point?) and the feeling goes away for awhile.

Tuesday, Janet and I rode as a couple on the Tuesday morning ride for the last time.  Amidst the green waste I ride through, it occurs to me that a good friend is someone I can disagree with openly without feeling a threat to our friendship.  I haven’t met many folks like that in my life; we tend to gravitate towards people we are unlikely to have disagreement.  I’ve made some real friends on my rides with the local club…

And the ride ends and it’s time to reload.  Four bikes on the roof, loads of boxes stuffed in the car and a crucial box of wine from France, stuff we’re saving…