Day 87, Peoria to Springfield, 89 miles
"Our greatest glory is in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."
We consented to a television interview this morning, so we got a bit of a late start. Hopefully we'll be able to post it and put it on Facebook and YouTube.
We'll keep you posted.
Today the heat seared earlier and more intense than ever. We left at ten and by eleven were cooking as it neared the hundred mark. The ride to Springfield, a mere seventy five miles, felt long and hot.
Have you ever driven by a car wreck? You can't help but look. Terrible. Yet the accident fades in the rearview mirror and the carnage forgotten. Not so with corn. Miles of dry to dead corn line the highway, the tops changing color from the amber hues of the tassels to the deeper brown of death. The leaves, yellow and crisp, hang down from the stalks. Dead leaves lay beneath the plants. And it just keeps going.
We rolled into town and immediately spotted the capitol so we stopped for a tour. Bonus time, the Treasurer's Office was giving a tour of their vault. Neat. I should have known better when the guide sent us down without going first; informing us that another guide would meet us at the bottom of the stairs. We trekked down the narrowest spiral staircase I've ever witnessed. At the bottom, a guide met us and showed us the vault with a sixteen ton door. Why the vault, you ask. People leave safe deposit boxes and the treasurer's job, after some years, is to recover the contents and try to find the owner. They have millions of dollars of money, bonds, jewelry and stocks. I thought after a time the state would take the valuables, but no, never. They auction the stuff after a time, but hold onto the money. The state keeps the interest to manage the valuables, and extra goes into the general fund. But they never take it.
The capitol building, while really impressive, paled in comparison to Iowa's. Good luck any state now! In one hallway, hung portraits of past governors but none of Rod Blagojevich. It seems the old governor must pay for his portrait,
and RB is making twelve cents an hour in prison, so he's a bit strapped. In a pathetic display of irony, close by stood a statue of Richard Daley, a criminal if there ever was one. Apparently RB just didn't know whose palm to grease.
We fired up the Honda RV and set out searching for a motel. An easy way to find a motel is to ride into town on the freeway and look for one at an off ramp. If you avoid the freeways however, another clever way is to ride into town on a highway then go around in a big circle and don't find any. Much more fun if it's a hundred or so. We finally called Super 8 and got an address.
High tech answer. We got in by three and stayed inside. Tomorrow we tour Lincoln historical stuff. Supposed to be hot again, then possibly rain and drop a few degrees. Hopefully so. See you tomorrow. Take a look at more entries in the National Motorcycle Museum, below. Previous post.