The Wrong Place for Lunch

PLATTSMOUTH, Nebraska—It was hunger that lured us off the highway and into the Twilight Zone.

After exiting Kansas, we found ourselves in Nebraska and a state of immediate unease. Previous encounters in The Cornhusker State had placed the region on our least favorite list, but hunger pangs after a delayed start to our travels lured us like a siren's song into Plattsmouth—home to Mom's Café, ostensibly a purveyor of decent road food, according to at least one travel guide. Against my better judgment, I steered toward Plattsmouth's "Historic Main Street." We joined a cavalcade of highway traffic that had been diverted onto the narrow quarter mile of what at one time must have been a proud center of commerce in the nascent days of Plattsmouth history.

Plattsmounth, Nebraska, Main Street

We got out of the car and stretched our legs. My lingering knee injury had rendered me stiff and hobbled, and the swelling from the bee sting in my eye had become serious enough to blur my vision. Upon exiting the vehicle, we were overwhelmed by the sounds of Doris Day blaring out of loudspeakers mounted on every refurbished retro lamppost inhabiting the downtown district. Even stranger than the anachronistic tune itself, was the fact that every 30 seconds or so a semi-truck applying its Jake brakes would drown out the Les Brown band, despite the music's volume, which had been cranked up to the point of distortion.

"What is this place?" I shouted above the din, as Doris Day faded to Tommy Dorsey punctuated by staccato strains of tractor trailer speed control. Caroline shrugged and pointed down the street.

Mom's Café beckoned. It seemed a suitable refuge from the madness manifesting in front of our eyes. I hobbled down the street to the café to secure a table while Caroline secured the bikes. Although a steady stream of vehicles had been diverted onto the street, ours was the only one that had stopped. Storekeepers gathered at the entrances to their stores and pressed their noses to the glass, watching us hungrily without subtlety. A man hauling a long hose from his truck to the back entrance to the eatery informed me that Mom's closes up at 2 p.m. on Mondays, so I was out of luck.

Mushroom Rock in Kansas, which really has nothing to do with this story

I had to pee so bad that I was sporting wood. I clapped my hand over my crotch and spun around in place so I could hightail it back to the car. I was almost run down by a semi as I crossed the street. I was certain that every person in Plattsmouth was evaluating my stiffee as I danced in place waiting for the truck to pass, hoping that my old prostate hadn't lost pee-arresting powers. I realized I wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. My eyes darted back and forth and my brain registered the word BAR. I jogged for the wooden front door despite the protests from my knees.

"Can I use your restroom Mr.? Please?"

The man behind the bar used a voice box to answer in the affirmative. Then he picked up his cigarette and turned toward the television. I hustled into the water closet.

Although the bathroom was as cleaner than any I've ever seen during years of travel, the smell of urine was overpowering—as if every generation of Plattsmouth men from the year 1896 forward had peed on the floor daily and the wallboard had stepped in to soak up the mess. I gagged. I finished my business and shook extra carefully to ensure that none of my urine would mix with the angry ghost urine that was haunting the place.

The bartender offered me several suggestions about where to eat with his fuzzy Mr. Roboto voice. We decided to try the restaurant at the historic hotel up the street. Other than a family of plump misfits with dirty hands and angry scowls, we were the only customers. Our waitress was pretty and blonde and couldn't have been more than 20 years old. We overheard her tell the other table that she and her husband had divorced and the she had stopped allowing her kids to visit him because they were not being fed during the previous visits. I searched my memory to match the waitress's face with one of the featured kids on MTV's hit reality series, "Teen Mom." I didn't recognize her as one of the regular cast members.

Strangely enough, Caroline's reuben sandwich was the best she'd ever eaten—a life-changing experience, the pretty waitress had said—but we were distracted by the parade of trucks outside and the endless selection of down-and-out country music hits blaring inside. We left a generous tip and stepped back out onto the diesel-scented street, where Louis Armstrong was saying to himself, "What a Wonderful World."

Our route out of town led us across the Missouri River by way of a toll bridge, a final Nebraska insult. I hadn't seen a toll booth in years, and for all we knew, a family of hobos had taken up residence inside an old Tough Shed at the end of the bridge and had come up with an innovative plan for securing some Fourth of July drinkin' money. But when we arrived at the booth, the guy in front of the shack was wearing a safety vest, so I figured everything was on the level. I paid the man at the toll booth the buck and a quarter he demanded.

"Do I get a gumball or something?" I asked as I plopped my money into his hand.

Later that night we ate at Happy Chef in Mankato, Minnesota

"Come on out of there and I'll give you something," he said, pantomiming a kick to my nuts.

On the other side of the bridge we were in Iowa. The birds were chirping and motorists were smiling once again. We turned on the radio and it was playing Rock 'n' Roll music. Good Rock 'n' Roll music. We were free of Nebraska once again!

See you on down the road.

The greening of the highway

SOMEWHERE in Kansas—The farther away we traveled from New Mexico, the greener it became.

Weeds taking over a highway

Our route out of the Land of Enchantment took us through Clayton, where we stopped briefly for a bite to eat at the old Hotel Eklund. Our former neighbors had taken ownership of the place a few years earlier, and they were surprised to see us stroll through the lobby. New Mexico legislator Sen. Tim Keller had scheduled a pre-election campaign stop there as well, so we enjoyed a final taste of New Mexico red chile as the Senator was courted by lobbyists seeking to change the economic development fortunes of the depressed and dry region.

A while later we traveled a stretch of some of the most decrepit and lonely road we’d ever seen in New Mexico. Despite the lack of moisture, healthy green weeds were encroaching on the shoulder of the highway as Mother Nature struggled to wrestle back what mankind had stolen from her. Soon the cardboard colored landscape began to soften somewhat. Wisps of green began to take hold among the stalks of dry brown failure, and we knew we had reached Kansas.

The house of the old Dalton Gang

Our travels in the Sunflower State took us along the path of the old Santa Fe Trail, the Mormon Trail and then later, the Lewis and Clark Trail. Out here in Meade, Kansas, we stumbled upon a fine little  barbecue joint called the Smoke Hoss.  With bellies full of smoked pig, we searched for the hideout of the old Dalton Gang—the fearsome train and bank robbers who swore they’d outdo Jesse James. Though the Dalton escape tunnel was closed for the day, we still managed to get a picture of the outlaw gang's house.

A little ways past that blood-streaked landmark, we came across a town unlike any other we had seen in Kansas so far.

Instead of being dotted with small square farm houses and a strip of drab main street, Greensburg, Kansas, was punctuated with new hip-looking houses with solar panels and energy producing windmills. The town’s main street was a redeveloped strip of tasteful shops and buildings. The modern stone-and-glass architecture was easy on the eyes and definitely incongruous to the rest of the Midwest.

We drove down the refurbished area with awe and wonder as we searched for the Big Well—the community’s tourist draw, and reportedly the largest hand-dug well in the United States. Across the street from the Big Well, we encountered a marvelous building made entirely of glass. The panes surrounded huge wooden timbers.

The Big Well, left, seen though sculpture

“What kind of place is this?” I wondered. “Is it some funky community that was taken over by artists?”

We would learn a day later that Greensburg had literally been wiped off the map in 2007 by a giant tornado. The mile-wide funnel cloud had obliterated every structure except the grain elevator and killed more than a dozen people. The former community of 1,600 was transformed to rubble in an afternoon. Many of the residents fled and never came back.

But the 700 people who now live in the community decided to rebuild Greensburg as a “Green” community. Modern houses capitalize on alternative energy sources and everything in town makes a nod toward sustainability. Like that strip of land in New Mexico that had been asphalted over, Greensburg is slowly sprouting out of catastrophe to rise again from the fertile dirt.

There are surprises and wonders to be found everywhere.

See you on down the road.

For amber waves of grain

Junction City, Kansas—We were saved from an expensive speeding ticket by an Atomic Cannon.

Gluten free ain't heard around here.

Driving on back roads through golden fields of waving wheat and emerald stalks of ripening corn, it's easy to become mesmerized by the comforting hum of tires on old asphalt. Just as the speedometer needle crept past 70 miles an hour on the long, straight stretch of rural road we were traveling just west of Junction City, Caroline saw the state trooper. We could feel the radar waves penetrate the windshield and slam into our chests, elevating our heatbeats. We were busted!

The amiable cop introduced himself and asked Caroline if she knew why he had pulled her over.

"Yes," she said unambiguously.

"You were speeding," the cop said. Caroline nodded. "Do you know by how much?"

"No," Caroline said honestly. "What is the speed limit around here anyway?"

"55," the cop answered with a slight smirk. "You were going 71. Pretty fast. Where are you headed, anyway?"

"Junction City," Caroline said solemnly.

"And you didn't take the Interstate?" he asked.

The Atomic Cannon at Freedom Park in Junction City

"We're on our way to see the Atomic Cannon," I piped up, handing the proof of insurance card over to Caroline.

"You folks really are from out of town, aren't you?" the cop asked.

We both nodded in unison.

"Well, sit tight and I'll write this up and get you back on your way in a few minutes."

The cop reappeared sometime later with a yellow slip of paper in hand. Caroline and I had been taking bets during his absence of how big the fine would be. $100? $250? More? Who knew? It had been 25 years since either of us had gotten a ticket.

He handed Caroline a warning and asked her to slow down from now on.

"Wow! Thanks!" we both said brightly.

"Enjoy your visit," the cop said with a smile.

About 15 minutes later we were in Junction city staring up at the top of a huge hill. The Atomic Cannon sat overlooking the highway as a testament to the utter insanity of a bygone era.

Atomic Cannons had been deployed across Europe during the Cold War. They were designed to deliver an artillery round about one-foot in diameter to a target 20 miles away. The big difference between this gun and other giant artillery installations, however, was that the Atomic Cannon was designed to hurl a nuclear warhead with a 15-kiloton yield—a payload about equal to what was dropped on Hiroshima at the end of World War II. 

Atomic Cannon, Grable shot, May 25, 1953

The gun was fired only once—in Nevada on May 25, 1953, as part of the Upshot-Knothole test series. The Grable shot proved that devastating nuclear weapons could be delivered effectively from the battlefield if needed. I suppose someone, somewhere can take comfort in that fact.

Fort Riley—the home of the Big Red 1, the Army's 1st Infantry Division—is custodian of the Atomic Cannon. There are just three of them left in the world. The others reside in Oklahoma and Maryland [Editor's Note: I am told that there are more than three still in existence, with one more residing at the National Atomic Museum in Albuquerque, N.M.].

As we scrambled up the steep hill, my knees screamed like an incoming artillery round. I squinted with my one good eye toward the summit, which was still a good distance away. When we finally reached the top, the seriousness of the relic at hand was juxtaposed with the excited chatter of two young boys who were clambering all over the stern steel beast. Their father patiently answered questions about how the weapon worked, as the boys made explosion noises. For a generation that never got to see a mushroom cloud or feel the dread of protracted conflict, the sight of the cannon must have been as exciting as it was to the handful of military Top Brass who gathered at Frenchman's Flat in Nevada to watch the weapon unleash its uncompromising promise of mass destruction.

Road trips allow us to get back in touch with our nation's journey through history so we can better understand how we arrived at our current destination. The Atomic Cannon reminds us of the lengths humans will go to when they feel threatened. Perhaps that Kansas State Police officer knew this when he let us go on our way unhindered.

See you on down the road!

The Sting of the Road

LAWRENCE, Kansas—I woke up blind in one eye in a hotel far from home, wondering what my unexpected affliction would mean for our continuing journey through the Midwest.

Ice takes down the swelling somewhat

Adding to the uncertainty was the grim fact that my knees had been crippled from overuse, so it took a good two minutes of excruciatingly painful hobbling in pitch-dark, unfamiliar surroundings before I was able to get to a mirror to assess the damage to my eyesight. Swaying unsteadily back and forth in front of the bathroom mirror, the full extent of the horror came slowly into focus—the bad eye was ensconced behind grossly swollen rolls of eyelid tissue. The skin had puffed up to the point of translucency, and the lids were wedged together so tightly that my eyelashes were invisible. A slight crust had taken hold in the outer corner. It was worse than I thought, though not unexpected.

Just 24 hours earlier, my traveling companion and I had watched the sun rise over the Switchgrass Mountain Bike Trail just north of Wilson, Kansas. The trail was recently listed as an IMBA Epic, and we were anxious to try some new trails in someplace other than Utah or Colorado. Admittedly, our initial expectations for the trail were way off. The photos we had seen showed ribbons of smooth singletrack trail cutting through calm Kansas grasslands. In reality, however, the trail moves in and out of extremely rugged sections of Dakota Sandstone formations, so the riding was tedious and slow. We had also been warned of an abundance of ticks on the trails, so we had slathered ourselves with a thick layer of DEET before our ride. The chemical smell drowned out the pleasant pastoral odors of Kansas farmland that had soothed us along our previous daylong journey.

Kansas prairie riding!

After riding and walking through a few of the more-gnarly sections, the initial trail panic subsided. We relaxed a bit and began to settle in to the rhythm of the trail, which is a labyrinth of tight switchbacks, rocky descents, rock-armored ascents and ribbons of satisfying smoothness. During one short period of carefree riding—a serpentine section of smooth dirt that descended toward the lake below—I was suddenly jarred out of my zen-like riding stupor by a sharp smack to the corner of my face. I was overwhelmed by a frantic, angry buzzing, accompanied by the alarming sensation of exoskeletal legs clawing at the corner of my right eye.

"Good God!" my mind shrieked, "what kind of hellish tragedy is this?"

I struggled to maintain my concentration to keep the bike on the trail as I wound quickly through the terrain. As I grappled to reason what had happened, it suddenly became obvious that some giant bug had flown into the tight space between my sunglasses and face, and now it was struggling to escape!

The volume of the buzzing and the size of the creature's legs clawing at my tender face flesh made me first believe that I had been assaulted by a giant prairie grasshopper, and that the worse thing that could happen would be that the corner of my eye and the side of my face would be covered with an abundance of tobacco juice and maybe a small yellow stain of bug guts.

But then the stinging began.

After feeling the fourth one, which was dangerously close to the corner of my eye, I let out an audible howl—one that Caroline would later tell me was so loud and girlish that she though she was hearing a bikini-clad tween tipping over on a jet ski in the lake below. With the bike still descending out of control, I grabbed the brakes hard and skidded to a stop in an uncontrolled blind panic. Thankfully I did not go over the bars. I ripped my sunglasses off of my face and saw a dark object fall to the ground at my feet. A sensation of prickly fire gripped the right side of my face.

Sucker stung me three times in one spot and drew blood

"Sweet stinging Jesus!" I screamed as Caroline rode up with a look of concern. "What the fuck is that!" I pointed at the ground at the giant black mass wriggling in the dirt below.

"Holy shit!" she exclaimed. "Is your eye bleeding?"

I put my glasses back on to take a look at my attacker just as Caroline's words registered in my head. I jerked the glasses back off and pointed the side of my face at her nose.

"Am I bleeding?"

"A little bit. What is that thing?"

I put my glasses back on, tipped the bug over with the toe of my shoe and gasped. It was a bumble bee!

But it wasn't just any bumble bee. It was a giant Kansas prairie bumble bee with a body as big as my thumb and a three-inch wingspan from tip to tip. The top of its body was a fuzzy dandelion yellow, but underneath it was as black and as evil as the yawning chasm of Tartarus. Its giant stinger flicked in and out of its abdomen sheath as it lay on its back on the trail in its death throes.

"Holy fuck! I hope I don't go anaphylactic," I whimpered, remembering a couple of episodes as a youngster when I was rushed to the hospital after bee stings for a quick dose of Benadryl to keep my throat from swelling shut.

On the other hand, you've gotta die somewhere, so after I ceased my senseless sniveling, we decided to keep riding and see what happens. A few miles later my face started to throb. My eye started feeling funky, so we diverted our course back to the trailhead.

Who doesn't love turtles?

Around a corner, I skidded again to a halt when I saw the gaily-painted boulder with legs crawling down the center of the trail.

"Lucky turtle!" I shouted, as Caroline skidded into the back of my bike. The corners of her mouth betrayed her annoyance until she saw what I was pointing at just in front of my tire.

The critter withdrew its arms, legs and head tightly into its shell and refused to reemerge for a photo op. Finally I picked up the little guy and gently placed him off the trail. Even that act of kindness couldn't coax him out of his shell.

Having recently read about turtle behavior, I have no doubt that the little bugger crawled right back out onto the trail a few minutes after we left and began crawling along its original heading. I hope the other riders on the trail were as kind as we were.

Time is running out to paint this egg!

Back in Wilson after the ride, I placed some ice on my eye and was able to banish the small amount of swelling. Wilson is the Czechoslovakian capital of Kansas, so on our way out of town I stopped to photograph Kansas's largest Czechoslovakian egg, which is supposed to be festively painted for the community's Czechoslovakian Festival on July 27. Judging from the fact that the only paint on the egg so far was an improvised smiley face made of spray paint, and that weeds had grown up around the vehicle owned by the original procurer of the community egg, I'm betting that the painting plan is never going to hatch.

That night at the hotel, as I drifted off for the first full-night of sweet slumber that I had had for three days, I felt as if all my troubles would drift away. Little did I realize that I would wake up blind. But sitting here looking like the English Patient far away from home with an ice-bag draped over my face, I realize that bumble bees and bad luck are a part of the life. If it were not so, we wouldn't have ever had the Blues, and I never would have started playing the harmonica. Whatever that means.

The road is like that sometimes. But it sure is fun nevertheless.

See you on down the road.