To The Golden Gate 7
George Nellis' 1887 Wheel Across
The Continent
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Day 26, June 18
Iowa City, Iowa to Marengo, Iowa. 36 miles, 6 hours
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Despite an early start we did not secure breakfast
till 8 o'clock at Tiffin and push on over some horrible hills and sandy roads
to Homestead, a genuine old fashioned Dutch settlement in time for dinner.
Here all is on the real old fashioned German scale. Large brick houses
with sand on the floor, and wooden shoes, which ground and crushed the
dirt in a nerve racking manner. Two hours sufficed to fill us so full
of Germantown, we could hardly pedal to Amana in one hour. We did and
pushed into Marengo one hour later, about done up. It was one of those
hot spells, which usually precede a thunder storm. Hardly had we housed
our cycle when the storm burst in a great fluster of wind, dust, hail
and rain and kept up its onslaught for two hours.
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Day 27, June 19
Marengo, Iowa to Grinnell, Iowa. 38 miles, 5 hours
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Sunday we donned our best garb, which we carefully wear during the week
also, attend church, hear a devout old preacher expatiate upon the wisdom of
"Casting thy bread upon the waters." Mounting our wheel at 1 p.m., ride out
in company with one of our craft in the direction of Brooklyn and push on to
Grinnell. Of all bicycle centres yet encountered, Grinnell takes the cake. A
place of some 3,000, it has seventy-five riders of the silent steed and we
unanimously dedicate it as the "Great American Cycling Centre." Riders of
all ages and of all machines are here met – enthusiastic and alive to the
issues of this delightful pastime, and ever ready to stretch for the hearty
hand of welcome and good cheer. "Long live the Grinnell Bicycle Boys" is the
burden of our song as we leave their cozy club rooms.
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Day 28, June 20
Grinnell, Iowa to Newton, Iowa. 24 miles, 5 hours
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Monday dawned dark and dismal, and it was eight o'clock before we struck
out. After running and walking, at intervals, for seven miles, a grand
thunder shower comes up and relegates us to an old forsaken and dilapidated
shanty that once did service as a house. Along came a belated farmer to
share our portly hovel. Our compulsory companion was inclined to be
talkative, and we were inclined the other way, so there was no love lost
between us. The rain took pity on us and passed away in time for a walk to
Kellogg. A good bath and dinner set us to rights – me and my bi and at 3:30
we launched out for Newton. Here another shower set in and we put up for the
night.
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Day 29, June 21
Newton, Iowa to DesMoines, Iowa. 36 miles, 6 hours
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The march was resumed and the hills were also resumed. Twelve miles
thro' mountain and dale brought us to Colfax, a summer resort of on little
prominence, and we take dinner at the Grand Hotel, now filled with watering
people. At 7:30 we wheel into Des Moines, the capital city of Iowa, and
register at the Aborn [Hotel]. Meeting several cyclists, we took a run
around the city and its beautiful parks, saw the Capitol, and got posted on
our journey. Iowa lays claim to the third finest Capitol building in the
country [completed in 1884] and it is certainly a fine structure. Some extra
fine people were encountered at Des Moines, and we treasure many pleasant
recollections of Hawkeye's Capital.
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Day 30, June 22
Des Moines, Iowa to Menlo, Iowa. 60 miles, 10 hours
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A run of 17 miles landed us in Waukee with a
tremendous gale blowing us back all the way. A short distance from the city
we met Mr. William Buck and his estimable wife, former residents of
Fairfield, Herkimer county. Mr. Buck removed to Iowa about 25 years ago, and
now owns one of the finest and best farms in the State. Herkimer grangers
ought to come out here and get a few points on tillage. Everything is done
by mechanical process. Iowa is the great corn producing State, and immense
fields line the roadway on either hand, while wheat, oats, rye, barley, and
timothy grass thrive equally well. We proceed to Adel to dinner and thence
to Dale City and Glendon. Supper over at 6:15 we set out for Casey and until
7:00 o'clock rush over miniature mountains in a direct southwest bee line,
when suddenly the road comes to a full stop. To the right, the left, and on
all sides appears the same barren waste – no path. No fences have guided us
for miles, nearly all this way the road is simply two beaten wagon tracks.
Just as Old Sol is making great shadows creep along the crest of each
adjacent hill, and evening is waning into twilight, we espy away to the left
a telephone line. That settled it, and quicker'n Jack Robinson we pointed
for those phone poles knowing they went somewhere. They proved to be on a
wagon road running south and that we took, coming out, in thirty minutes in
sight of a small town. It proved to be Menlo. We do not begrudge the five
miles for the excitement of our chase was worth more than that. Ah, tis
sweet and soothing to the cycler to get into exciting predicaments. If you
ride a bike, you will recognize at once the immense sport we had in being
actually lost on the prairie.
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Day 31, June 23
Menlo, Iowa to Avoca, Iowa. 65 miles, 10 ½ hours
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Leaving Menlo early next morning we ate
breakfast at Casey and thence encountered the most terrific hills
imaginable. We push into Anita, at twelve, tired and hungry as a starving
bear. We wheel into Atlantic, the best country town by all odds we have seen
in Iowa. Here we meet several cycling men – all bankers and secured some
points ahead. It is a remarkable coincidence how many bankers out here ride
bicycles. You can find one or two in about every institution and it sort of
runs in the family. Under the advice of Messrs. Tarshay, Whitney, and Midles
of the local bicycle club, we push on via Marne and take supper. The
gentlemanly proprietor of the Marne house will accept no remuneration for
the privilege. From Marne to Walnut we have fair sailing, and still better
to Avoca, where we pull up for the night at 8:30.
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Day 32, June 24
Avoca, Iowa to Omaha, Nebraska. 38 miles, 5 hours
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Waking up with the sun making great columns of
fire on my chamber walls, I found it 5:45 and by the time I got down in the
office six o'clock. I decamp and take a run of ten miles to Minden for
breakfast. I push on to Neola and thence to Weston. Riding has thus far been
fairly passable, but I'm now promised a good twelve-mile run to Council
Bluffs. I am whisked over the river and into Omaha in short order, and at
1:30 am taking dinner and digesting a half bushel of mail at the
Metropolitan Hotel. One hour later I am shaking hands with such wheelmen as
Prince, Peabody and a host of others of more or less cycling celebrity. All
is expectation and excitement over the coming races and tournament on the
morrow. The afternoon was spent in seeing the city, and in the evening a big
illuminated bicycle parade was inaugurated. Chinese lanterns were fastened
to our handle bars and pedals, and these bobbing up and down in a line of
100 wheelmen, made a merry, grotesque, and attractive appearance. All over
the city's fine asphalt paved streets we wheeled to the lively music of a
brass band, and formed the center of attraction for thousands of people
lining the streets. This over, the visiting wheelmen to the city, myself
included are handsomely entertained by these Omaha hosts, until a later
hour.
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Day 33, June 25
Omaha, Nebraska
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Saturday was all that could be desired as a
racing day, and with good track, etc., some fine sport was looked for. First
we saw Sailor of Minneapolis take a gigantic tumble in the 3:30 class that
settled his racing for the day. Stockdale walked off with this race in good
shape. Peabody captured the three minute gait. Smith got away with the 3:15
event. The chief enthusiasm centered in the one mile professional handicap,
with Price, Whittaker and two other starters. "Whit," as he is fraternally
known, had twenty yards start, and took the first heat. Refusing to avail
himself of the handicap on the second heat, he also won. "Whit" is a dandy
from way back and a rough 'un to tackle when in his black silk tights.
The Omaha Bicycle Club treated their guests right royally at their spacious
club rooms on Saturday evening, and several pleasant hours were spent around
the festive cycle camp. [Because of his journalistic background Nellis must
have been pleased to learn that Omaha had three daily papers, two weeklies,
one tri-weekly, and one monthly]
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Day 34, June 26
Omaha, Nebraska to Fremont, Nebraska. 37 miles, 5 hour
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Sunday Whittaker again came to the front and
carried off the laurels in the ten-mile championship race, thereby
precipitating a challenge for a $200 match from Prince, his plucky
adversary.
At eleven a.m. we wheel out of Omaha under the guidance of about a dozen
knights of the crank and take an easy run of five hours to Fremont. Fremont
is a fine little town of over 4,000 souls and wholly given up to business.
But it contained an attraction of far more interest to us – the shape of an
old Herkimer boy [Irv McKennan] we had not seen for five years. We were soon
exchanging reminiscences of by gone days when Irv was trying to beat the
stock holders of the Herkimer bank out of their jobs and I was loafing in
Howe & Ackley's store just next door, where the New York Store now stands.
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