The Triple B-Tour:
Baseball, Bicycling and Beer
(and not necessarily in that order)
by Jeff M. Sambur 
| On this three-state tour, author Jeff M. Sambur stopped for a snack and to play a little ball at the famed
"Field of Dreams" movie set in Dyersville, Iowa. |
|
"I want to thank everybody for making this day necessary." Yogi Berra
I have always loved baseball. When I was a runny-nosed kid growing up in the Bronx, my heroes were Mantle, Maris and Berra. At bedtime, I'd sneak a transistor radio under my sheets to hear Phil Rizzuto exclaim, "Holy cow! It's a home run!" An afternoon spent at
Yankee Stadium was a near-religious experience for me: the murmur of the crowd, the smell of stale beer and the lushness of the grass. Yes, I have vivid and happy memories of baseball.
Much later on, it was no wonder that I decided to spend a summer doing my three almost-favorite activities: riding a bicycle, watching baseball and drinking beer. I picked the Western Division of the Midwest Baseball League to be my three-state venue. A psychiatrist might hypothesize that I was
making a feeble attempt to relive my youth. That psychiatrist might be right. "You can observe a lot by watching."
Yogi Berra After stashing my SUV at Vito's house in Blue Grass, Iowa, I packed my bike and my baseball glove. I struck out northwest to visit the Cedar
Rapids Kernels. I spent my first night on the road in Tipton, Iowa. Local kids cruised Main Street while fireflies signaled each other in the night. I was looking forward to my tour of small-town America and its pastime, too.
With the exception of a few dive-bombing red-winged blackbirds, my ride to Cedar Rapids was pretty uneventful. That evening, Vito, the mayor and Pauley drove up from the Quad Cities to join me for the game. We met at the Union Station pub prior to the contest. Happy
hour was in full-swing, with tattooed and pierced locals leading the charge to the bar. We stole out of there with a mild buzz and escaped to the new Veterans Memorial Stadium.
At game time, we had perfect baseball weather warm and windless. We took our seats behind home plate, and waited for Pauley to hoist a round our way. During the game, we were entertained by dance competitions, a few pie-throwing contests and Mr. Shucks, the Kernel's sweaty mascot. "Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes you get rained out."
Satchel Paige The next morning, after a restless night of overhearing drug deals gone bad, I awoke to a battleship-grey sky. I mounted my bike with full rain
gear on. The gang tried to coax me into the comfort of a pickup truck, but I resisted temptation and headed out into the downpour en route to Clinton, Iowa. I slogged eastward on U.S. Highway 30 toward Clinton. At mile 50, I sought refuge in a church in Calamus, while a thunderstorm raged overhead. After an hour rain delay, I regained my bike. I was 36 miles short when the boys and their pickup truck came by. I pitched my
bike into the back of the mayor's truck. Yes, the stats would show that I had an incomplete game for my journey to Clinton.
After drying off, we ventured forth to the Alliant Energy Field. The stadium was as dreary as the weather. When it began to drizzle, the ground crew came out to cover the infield with a tarp. The announcer told us the sad truth a rain out. I should have known right from the start when a stadium named after an energy company had its lights off and the
mascot, Louie the Lumberking, was a no-show. "We're lost, but we're making good time."
Yogi Berra We awoke to another gloomy, rust-belt-region sky. After breakfast, we crossed over the heaving, wind-whipped Mississippi River into Illinois.
In Albany, we retreated into a cozy cafe for another gallon of coffee as a storm cell had its way. After that it was smooth running through the quaint river towns of Cordova, Port Byron and Hampton.
Later on we regrouped at John O'Donnell Stadium to watch the River Bandits play.
J.O.D stadium sits on the edge of the Big Miss. The stadium is so close, in fact, that an occasional flood pours carp into the infield. It would be hard to find a more tranquil setting for a baseball game.
After a last-minute photo op with Rookie, the River Bandit Raccoon, I left the beautiful stadium. The next morning would bring my bike and me to the Land of Lincoln.
"There comes a time in every man's life and I've had plenty of them."
Casey Stengel
I decided to split the 100-mile distance from Davenport, Iowa, to Peoria, Illinois, into a two-day ride. Galesburg seemed to be a good objective. I observed fields of soybeans on my right and cornfields on
my left. It was all very placid and comforting.
Galesburg is famous for being the birthplace of Carl Sandberg. I tried finding his home while twisting and turning my way through the city. When I began to see the outline of the Rocky Mountains, I quit that quest and retraced my wanderings. I'll just assume that Carl was born somewhere and that it was probably Galesburg.
"When you see a fork in the road, take it." Yogi Berra
The next morning, I pulled the curtains aside and was blasted by sunshine. I hit the road with a shameful tailwind pushing me along to Peoria. I spotted a sign, "Wolf Covered Bridge, eight miles." The promised covered bridge sat over the cocoa-colored waters of the Spoon River. I found out later in Yates City, Illinois, that a few local yahoos burned down the old bridge. A newer and more fire-resistant bridge replaced it.
That night, I purchased my ticket and entered O'Brien Stadium. After the meager crowds in the Hawkeye State, this was sensory overload. Piling into the stands that summery evening were 4,013 people. There was a DJ revving up the fans, dancing hula girls on the tops of the dugouts and spectator contests galore. It was a workout for me just to keep my attention on the game.
"We made too many wrong mistakes."
Yogi Berra
I left Peoria early on a Saturday morning to get to Geneva, Illinois, in time to catch a Sunday game. I followed the Illinois River Road where I occasionally glimpsed the gently flowing waterway. At LaSalle, I hopped on the Illinois and Michigan Canal National Heritage Trail. This manmade, 96-mile water route was built in 1836 to join the Great Lakes to the Mississippi. I rode beneath a canopy of hardwood trees, loving the dapple-like shade they provided.
"Nobody goes there anymore.
It's too crowded." Yogi Berra
That Sunday morning was another fine day, and I felt that my weather luck was improving. A short jaunt was all that separated me from the Kane County Cougars.
The trail wandered along the bucolic Fox River. As I moseyed along, I spied great blue herons, fisherpeople trying their luck and many weekend-warrior cyclists.
I arrived in Geneva, Illinois, in time to catch the 2 p.m. contest. There
were over 8,000 spectators watching baseball on a too-warm-to-drink-beer-in-the-sun day. I took a seat in the meager shade that was available. I quickly decided that evening games were more to my liking.
"You've got to be careful if you don't know where you are going because you
might not get there." Yogi Berra
After three weeks of continual biking, I decided to take the Midwest League's All-Star break in Madison, Wisconsin. I left Geneva, Illinois,
along the Fox River Trail. In Algonquin, Illinois, I took to the road once again. I arrived at State Line Road where I wandered north and south along the byway, my team allegiances vacillating between the Brewers and the Cubbies. Eventually, I turned into Wisconsin proper. Was it my imagination or did the scenery take on a more wholesome, yesteryear flavor?
The next morning I dawdled my way toward Mad-town for a much-deserved rest day. I rationalized it this way: if Lance Armstrong
and the major leaguers could take one, so could I.
"If people don't want to come out to the ballpark, how are you going to stop them?"
Yogi Berra
After an evening at the Northwoods League All-Star game, I left Madison the next morning for Beloit, Wisconsin, to see the Snappers play.
I pedaled lovely back roads and took a break by the placid Yahara River where I saw a beaver performing belly flops. In Beloit, I checked
into another ma and pa motel on the banks of the Rock River.
Before taking my seat, I couldn't pass up another mascot photo op with Snappy the Snapping Turtle. He, she or it was only too happy to oblige my whim. A few hours later, I figured that Snappy was a female terrapin when she emerged from the women's restroom.
"Good pitching will always stop good hitting and vice-versa." Casey Stengel
The next morning I hopped on my bike and began my journey to
Appleton, Wisconsin, and stadium No. 7. Once again, I rode the Dairyland's back roads and once again, I was thrilled with the scenery. At Beaver Dam Lake, I watched as fry-sized fish pirouetted out of the water.
It was a flat and somewhat boring 70-mile ride to Neenah, where I was planning on holing up for a few days. I spent my days eating a wide array of fatty foods and washing it down with Leinenkugel. I wanted to look sharp for my pitching debut at Fox Cities Stadium. The Timber
Rattlers' director of promotions offered me the honor of tossing the first pitch after hearing about my ride. This was an offer I couldn't refuse.
I walked toward the mound and wound up and threw a sinking fastball to a bored catcher. Well, maybe it was a slow sinker. Whatever! Now I can truly say, "I pitched in the minor league."
"Baseball is 90 percent mental.
The other half is physical." Yogi Berra
The next morning, I began my long ride to Burlington, Iowa. Luckily for me, Wisconsin is a cyclist's paradise and once again, the scenery did not disappoint. I saw Amish in their fields shocking hay by hand as their ancestors had. We waved and smiled at each other.
I left my dingy motel in Friendship and 107 miles later, I entered a wonderful new land. As I sat on the banks of the Mighty Miss in De Soto, Wisconsin, I witnessed a softball game played by munchkin-sized
girls. A full stand of proud parents cheered on the action.
The following morning, fog shrouded the great river, but it quickly burned off as I left the land of cheese and crossed a bridge into the land of corn and pork. The Great River Road in Iowa was my companion as I climbed up and careened down the bluffs along the river.
I decided to spend another night of river gawking in Guttenberg, Iowa. I enjoyed seeing the barge traffic pass through Lock and Dam No. 10 on
the voyage up or downstream. I was in no particular rush; I was merely a morning's ride from Dyersville, Iowa, and the "Field of Dreams" movie site.
"If you build it, they will come."
Field of Dreams
Before my baseball season ended, I had one more pilgrimage to make; I turned off Iowa State Highway 136 and followed the signs. Three miles later, I saw that familiar white house with the baseball diamond in its front yard. It was just like in the movie.
I grabbed my baseball glove and played catcher for a father and son duo. Later on, I got my chance to take a few swats at the ball. I felt gleefully happy.
A short time later, I met Don Lansing, the owner of the white house. He was mowing the grass around the bleachers. When he shut off the mower, we spoke about my journey and his movie site.
Don explained to me what happened after the hit movie was made. "At first, I didn't even have a sign on the highway. One day a fellow from
New York City appeared out of nowhere. He just found the place on his own. It was then I decided to keep the field as it is."
As we spoke, I saw vehicles from four states pour into the parking lot. Oh, yes, people will surely come. I took a final look around and said goodbye to Don and his magical baseball field.
"The game isn't over until it's over."
Yogi Berra
I rode through Dyersville half-heartedly, knowing that I was one game
away from completing my short season. I had run out of time. My manager, also known as my girlfriend, Jane, told me that I was long overdue for a home stand. Vito volunteered to pick me up and drive me to the final stadium in Burlington, Iowa. So on a lonely stretch of Iowan highway, my bicycle tour ended with a whimper.
That mild evening, while cheering on the Bees, I reminisced about the things I'd miss about minor league ball: the kids scurrying for a pop-up
foul, the 50-50 raffles, thirsty Thursday beer specials and the small talk in the stands. I would miss it all.
I began to wonder what biking and baseball would be like in the Southern Atlantic League. Maybe next season.
Jeff Sambur is a 49-year-old backpacker, bicycle rider and avid beer drinker from Fort Collins, Colorado, who craves retirement so that he might ride and write his life away with his girlfriend, Jane. | |
