This post is the third instalment chronicling my long-distance bike ride across the USA. This section covers sweltering summer days in the mid-west, as I rode through vast swathes of arable countryside on a mission to reach Mount Rushmore.
Day 21 – Tuesday 31st May
My host pedals out with me as far as the shores of Lake Erie. He’s a strong cyclist and not weighed down by any luggage, so I soon find myself panting for breath. Nevertheless, we make mincemeat of the first seven miles of the day.
I am revived by a steak wrap and a coke in Dunkirk, which gives me the strength to ride on against the afternoon headwind. There is an endless procession of houses along the south bank of the lake, but eventually I arrive at Mitch’s place.
He lives in a sprawling three-storey family home that he built back in the 80s. We dine on chicken cassoulet from a huge roasting pot and quaff glasses of fruity shiraz out on the terrace. After a couple of shots of grappa, I’m ready to tackle the rickety ladder down to the beach and see the sun swallowed by the waters of a Great Lake.
Day 34 – Monday 13th June
I wake on the 54th floor of a Chicago high-rise, just to the north of Millennium Park. It’s a rest day, so I accept my host’s offer to head up to the rooftop pool. The viewing terrace affords sensational views over the city’s skyline, and Daniel tells me how drones flew past here to capture aerial scenes for The Dark Knight.
Much of the day is spent running errands – I visit Chinatown to top-up my phone, then hit REI to buy bear spray. Back in Daniel’s apartment, he calls me over to his laptop where he’s looking at radar data of a rather angry storm moving towards the city.
My phone buzzes with an emergency tornado alert sent out to all mobiles in range of Chicago’s cell towers. We ride the elevator down to the lobby where a huddled crowd is already gathering. Though it’s only early evening, the city outside the glass-fronted entrance is black. Rain pelts the ground, decorative plants whip in the wild winds, and over it all the tornado alarm plays like a siren from the blitz.
Day 40 – Sunday 19th June
It’s Father’s Day and I’m awake before 5am in the grey light that precedes dawn. I pack down camp in faintly chilly conditions, and seek the heated shelter of a public bathroom to speak with my father.
I cover a solid forty miles through hilly country, crossing over to the eastern side of the Mississippi. “No thru traffic,” reads a red sign barring my passage. I contemplate the unpalatable detour up into the hills, then decide to plough on past the warning sign. There is no one else about, and I ride with soaring spirits on smooth tarmac, sped along by a tailwind.
Several hours earlier than planned, I hit La Crosse and am able to join my host for a Father’s Day cruise in his boat. I relax in the cushioned seat with an ice-cold strawberry lemonade watching the banks of the river slip past.
Day 48 – Tuesday 28th June
A lavish breakfast is spread on the table when I pad down to the kitchen. There’s a freshly baked puff pastry roll filled with eggs, ham and fresh herbs, juicy slices of melon and watermelon, and chocolate chip cookies.
So prodigious is the spread that I’m unable eat it all, but my host thoughtfully packages up the leftovers for my bike bags. As it turns out, I need all the calories I can get. With temperatures over 100 degrees and 25mph headwinds forecast for the next day, I skip over my planned campground and push on to Huron, South Dakota.
By the time, I arrive in Elliot’s yellow-painted house, I’ve cycled over 100 miles and drunk nine litres of water and electrolytes. I’m dizzy and almost delirious as he shows me to a chair, where I collapse between a synthesizer and a stack of century old religious music.
Day 58 – Friday 8th July
The needles highway is a spectacular ribbon of tarmac running through some of the most scenic country in all of the Black Hills. For a bicyclist, there are some pretty aggressive climbs, but at least I’m able to leave my panniers in my hotel room in Keystone.
I stop for a bite to eat beside Sylvan Lake at over 6,000ft, watching kayakers paddle between walls of granite. On a dirt road descent, I notice that my front derailleur isn’t shifting properly. While craning over to inspect the mechanism, I hit a sandbank and go flying over the handlebars. Fortunately, sand provides a soft landing.
Hauling my way up the steep climb to Mount Rushmore, I lock up my bike and walk down the avenue of flags representing each of the 50 states. Before me are the carved stone faces of the monument, looking thoroughly incongruous against the otherwise natural backdrop. I gaze on their stern presidential countenances, then make for the café. The vanilla ice cream is made according to a recipe penned by Thomas Jefferson, presumably during breaks in his work on the Declaration of Independence.