Segment #17 The last bit of Iowa Latitude

Seg #17 Raccoon River Trail: 5/24/13 (Last Iowa Latitude, 1^st Mile Stone)

Start

Yale, Iowa

N 41.77224,W-94.35327

N-S miles 10.3mi*

End

Cooper, Iowa

N41.92006,W-94.34532

Trl lgth 57mi Ride 10.6mi

 This ride is the last one I need to pedal in Iowa. All the Iowa latitudes have now been ridden---mile stone #1. It was a comfortable seventy degree but windy day in west central Iowa for this ride a few days before Memorial Day. Connie drove me from Coralville to Yale, Iowa, a three hour trip. After unloading bike and gear, I was off pumping north toward Jefferson. The Raccoon River Trail is a well maintained fifty-seven mile north-south path that originates in Clive, Iowa (north and west of downtown Des Moines) and terminates in Jefferson. I only needed to ride a ten mile segment from Yale to Cooper. Thank goodness the wind was as forecasted, a fifteen to twenty mile per hour gale out of the southeast. With the wind at my back, I sailed along at record speeds; at least it felt like record speeds. I lost my bike computer that captures speed, distance, calories spent, etc., so I can only estimate that I averaged four to five miles per hour faster than my normal eight miles per hour. There were many song birds flying ahead of me and woodchuck that wanted a race. He was a good sprinter, out running me for a short distance before diving into the underbrush. The farmers were working frantically in their fields. The cold wet spring has them two to three weeks behind schedule. How farming has changed from my days. Every field is five to ten times bigger than the 1950’s and 60’s. Most fences have been ripped out so that the only field border is the ditch of adjacent county roads that generally surround each section of land which is six hundred and forty acres. Huge tractors pull equipment planting ten times the crop from my day. Gazing across the landscape, numerous areas of premium black soil stretched beyond what my eye could see. Back in the day, this rich farmland averaged $300 per acre; it now averages $8000 per acre. No wonder the 160 acre farm of the Maze days, which was considered above average when my grandpa Maze bought it in 1883, is now a farm you cannot make a living, at least growing crops. After the ride, we had lunch at the Uptown Café in Jefferson and then drove to my home town of Carroll, Iowa.   

We bundled this bike trip with a Memorial Day visit to the graves of my parents, George and Gladys Maze, grandparents and friends. We were impressed how nice the Carroll City Cemetery looked with a blaze of flowers, American flags and military markers. It was moving for me to visit the grave of my childhood friend Martin Tan Creti. Marty lost the battle against lung cancer in 1997 at the young age of 51. Creti as I fondly called him, had a great sense of humor and perfect sensitivity as to when to be caring and when to be funny. I remember when he told me how I should be proud my dad wanted to play the bagpipes at the last Carroll High football game---“Don’t be embarrassed Mazer, I would be so gratified if my dad would do such a thing.” These words kept me from running away or some other ill advised step to escape humiliation. Marty was a smart guy and often gave me tips on understanding nearly every subject, especially math. Whenever possible, I would take advantage of the invitation to study together at his house after school and before chore time on the farm. We would go up stairs to the library and pour over our homework. The Tan Creti’s put a premium on education and good grades, so the library was perfect environment to learn. Marty’s older brothers were top notch students. Mike was first or second in his class and Marc was 1961 valedictorian by a long shot. So the pressure was on for Marty to perform at similar levels. He did rank as top male student in the class of 63 but there were six girls ahead of him and eight ahead of me. We kidded each other about being numero uno of the Class of 63. Even though Creti didn’t rank with his brothers academically, he was more rounded because he played football, threw the discus in track and dabbled with acting on the Carroll High Stage. Marty started and ended his acting career by joining Ron Pomroy (Pomer) and me in a one act play, The Cracker Barrel. Although this was a serious play with a murder, the audience didn’t fall for a somber production with likes of us three ying yangs on the stage. So after I blasted Pomer with a couple explosive shots from a 22 caliber pistol loaded with blanks with a gun I brought from home---try that today!--- the kids that knew us just laughed! No Tony Awards for us.

Cracker Barrel Crack ups. Can you imagine
using a gun from home like this today? Creti
in the white hat, Pomer no hat and Gunner Maze



That should have given me a clue that I wasn’t a convincing actor but I went back for more playing a role of Roger (I think that was my character name) in a comedy Onions in the Stew written by Betty MacDonald. This play was the last of the year. I was a senior with a bit of senioritis. Therefore I didn’t study my lines or commit to the role. One scene had me coming on stage with bee veil plopped on my head. As I entered I ramble out my lines and Nina echoed her lines. But as the scene wore on, my confidence was waning. First I had read my lines just for going on stage---a no no in thespian terms and second Nina and I were the only actors on the stage. No one could bale me out. When it was clear I could not use the fail-safe of lost lines by saying, “is there a cookie in the house?” to the right stage prompter and “is there a magazine in the house” to the left stage prompter. How could I ask for either of these when I had a bee veil over my eyes and mouth? Instead I went into a tirade of adlibbing. Line after line I made up what I was supposed to say. As I stood at center stage and peered out over the audience, In the back row I spotted a bright red glow, probably someone inhaling on a cigarette; smoking was acceptable about anywhere back then. I am not certain how long it took to move on with the other characters, but the scene I made a scene, extended more than twice as a long as it should have. As I crumbled off stage from my boo boo, I thought, “I bet that red glow was Mr. Knot sucking a Camel straight as he freaked out over my stupidity. Mr. Knot was my English teacher and Drama coach. He had us senior goof offs figured out so he used a different style to teach us. When the play was over and the cast gave him a present and he thanked everyone, he called me out of the cast to come forward. “They say every play performance is a learning experience and I think the one that learned the most is Glenn Maze---Glenn come forward.”  “No!” I said to myself and thought of hiding behind the back curtain. But I was exposed and had to fess up. I am certain my face glowed every bit as much as Mr. Knot’s cigarette. His final words to me were, “Good Job Glenn.” No wonder I am skeptical of compliments.