Dubuque, Iowa

Flanked by the mighty Mississippi and Missouri rivers, Iowa can almost be considered a land of rIvers with eighty of them lacing the state and eventually feeding into one or the other of the two most prominent. They create valleys I must bike in and out of and also interfere with the network of county roads. I have all too often had to settle on busy four-lane divided highways when there was no viable alternative and occasionally been forced on to gravel.

I was subjected to twelve miles of hectic highway 30 heading towards Cedar Rapids before I could escape it on my way to Tipton and it’s Carnegie. My escape route led to Wright Brothers Boulevard past the Cedar Rapids airport, one of the larger of the many small airports scattered all over the state. A couple of pre-dusk landings interrupted the tranquility of my campsite less than ten miles away in a clutch of trees beside a golf course. I found three balls embedded in the mud, but didn’t fear being bombarded with more, as it was too cold for evening or early morning golf.

I had to cross the Cedar River to reach Tipton and that resulted in a dozen miles of gravel riding. I can only guess when looking at the county roads on my GPS whether they will be paved or not. I was lucky 140th street leading to the river crossing was paved, but beyond it I had to battle the dirt. I crossed the river on a pedestrian bridge that had been wiped out by flooding waters and replaced a few years ago.

For some reason beyond my reckoning, riding gravel has become a popular trend, which the bike industry has been promoting to sell more bikes and gear, as if one needed a bike specific to gravel.  Some think gravel is less dangerous to ride with less traffic, but for me it is much preferable and safer to be riding on smooth pavement, rather than the risk of wiping out, as I did in Nebraska a couple of years ago, taking a tumble when I hit a patch of thick gravel on a descent, suffering a severe contusion of my collar bone.

The popularity of gravel-riding is reflected not only in the bicycle industry selling “gravel bikes,” but according to the editor of the VeloNews, there were many more hits on its website of articles on the Dirty Kanza Race than on The Tour de France this past year. That might have been because three of Education First’s riders, including Taylor Phinney, contributed their presence to the Kanza race.

The latest stretch I had to ride had fairly smooth, gravel-free paths much of the way, making it almost pleasurable and giving me opportunity to let my thought drift from trying to stay upright to fond memories of riding over one thousand miles of dirt up the Alaskan Highway and other shorter stretches in Bolivia and Iceland and Cambodia and elsewhere. Those were all triumphal rides, but not altogether enjoyable. I wanted to kiss the pavement when I crossed from the Yukon to Alaska and the dirt ended. But it is true, one pretty much has such roads to one’s self. For days riding on the fringe of the Amazonia in Bolivia hardly more than a vehicle passed per hour.

My short stretch in Iowa rewarded me with a rare Carnegie relic in the Tipton “Free Public Library”—Carnegie’s cane in a glass case. There was no portrait accompanying it, just a glass-enclosed explanation for the cane. It had been given to Robert Cousins, an eight-term Congressman from Iowa, who visited Carnegie in Scotland. Cousins became hobbled by rheumatism during his visit. Carnegie gave him his cane. A few years later Cousins gave it to a local jeweler in Tipton, who likewise had developed a limp. After his death a relative bequeathed the cane to the library. It was propped up, off in a corner. I don’t know if I would have spotted it had not the librarian pointed it out to me.

Tipton’s Carnegie had an entire block to itself sitting in the center of a grassy park, the ultimate setting for a Carnegie with no other buildings detracting from its majesty. An addition to the rear couldn’t be seen when gazing at it head-on. Another check mark in its favor was one could still mount the steps up to its original entrance and walk right on in letting the cozy setting swell one with pleasure.

My route to the next Carnegie in Monticello took me through Anamosa, birth place of Grant Wood, the artist responsible for the American Mona Lisa, “America Gothic” of a farmer and his wife. It appropriately hangs in Chicago’s Art Institute, as Wood attended the School of the Art Institute and unveiled his masterpiece there in 1930, eleven years before his death at the age of 51.  

I passed the small school he attended as a youth four miles to the east of Anamosa. Banners down the Main Street had a bicycling variation on America Gothic. He is buried in the town cemetery on a ridge overlooking the Wapsipinicon River.  

On the way to the cemetery my eye caught the magnificent 140-year old state penitentiary, the largest in Iowa. If Rick in Lansing hadn’t alerted me to it, I would have been startled that this castle of a building was a prison. It’s most famous inmate was John Wayne Gacy, who was confined there from 1968 to 1970 for sodomy with a minor while managing three KFC restaurants in Waterloo, a city with two Carnegies. Upon release he returned to his hometown of Chicago where he tortured and murdered at least 33 young boys between 1972 and 1978.

I didn’t quite make it to Monticello and it’s Carnegie before dark, so ended up camping between a corn field and a stream on the outskirts of the town.  

I arrived at the address of the Carnegie shortly after eight and was thwarted once again by faulty information on Wikipedia. I had to go to the Iowa Carnegie website for the correct address, just down the street. Someone was now living in it and not taking very good care of it. There were cracks in its facade and the window frames were in great need of paint. According to Wikipedia it ranks number seven on Iowa’s list of endangered historic buildings. At least the present resident cared enough to have flowers on the steps leading to the entrance.  

The Manchester Carnegie, thirty miles to the north, was shrouded by trees.  

It had a variation on the “Free” pronouncement that has been more common in Iowa than other states, going with “Free to the people,” rather than the more common “to all” or “Free Public Library.” Beneath the Carnegie Portrait in the new entrance was a brief history of the library stating it was the third oldest of the still functioning Carnegie libraries in the state.

I had the trip’s first encounter with a police officer on my forty-five mile dash to Dubuque. He pulled me over three miles after I had been forced onto the busy four-lane route 20 for a five-mile segment in the middle of the quiet two-lane old 20 that paralleled it. He said he’d had a couple calls from motorists who were concerned for my safety, as the highway only had a gravel shoulder that I wanted no part of.  

It wasn’t against the law to be on 20. He just wanted to let me know there was a nearby bike path on an old train route. It wasn’t paved, but it would be much safer. My inclination was to spend ten more minutes on the hell of the faster and more direct four-laner before returning to old 20, but decided to give the bike path a try when the officer said it went all the way to Dubuque.

Just before we parted I remembered to ask him a question I’d been meaning to ask someone for days. I’d been noticing black caterpillars crossing the road. I’d been avoiding them thinking they could be a vital part of the ecosystem, but also thought they might be a pestilence that I ought to be crushing. The officer said they are a menace to the corn and farmers would be happy if I helped in their extermination.

The Dubuque Carnegie was the largest in the state. It’d had a huge addition to its side, but the original still reigned supreme despite the adornment of several sheets of vinyl between its pillars promoting upcoming events. It’s interior was breathtaking—more pillars and a dome. It faced to the north, rather than towards the Mississippi, though the river was several blocks away.  

It’s “Strengthen the Arm of Liberty” Statue of Liberty was just five blocks away in Washington Park on my way out of town.  

I had just enough time before dark to find a cluster of bushes to disappear into under a cliff side on the outskirts of the city. Just one more Carnegie in Maquoketa thirty miles to the south before crossing the Mississippi and heading home.