The Boys of Summer, Part 3: Illinois to Washington
Although baseball is a beloved pastime on the East Coast, the age-old American sport is merely an echo that travels gently toward the Pacific Ocean. There are no obstructions along its path, so it might resonate with the people trapped in the noise. After Wrigley and Guaranteed Rate fields (the latter housing the White Sox), all the cheers from the crowd and the calls from home plate dissipate into a whisper amongst Iowa corn fields. They’re just loud enough for you to hear in your daydreams.
Once you reach South Dakota, Wyoming, and Montana, the crack of a baseball bat is replaced by the babble of a brook, the crunching of dirt, and a gush from Old Faithful. That’s why, after visiting the famous Field of Dreams movie set in Dyersville, IA, we didn’t encounter Major League Baseball (MLB) again until Seattle.
Turning on the Lights
In a roughly 3,500-mile cross-country trip, the last (unplanned) leg of our baseball adventure spanned two-thirds of the total distance. Its significance wasn’t merely in the length, however. The expanse between Illinois and Washington state alone encapsulated the sheer vastness of America.
Going from the densely populated Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut, and Pennsylvania to the edge of Iowa, where even the inhabited landscapes felt remarkably bare of civilization, entering the West was an entirely new experience. It was as if someone opened a door and let all the light spill into the room—the sky made a grand appearance for the first time during our big adventure. Buildings and structures quickly gave way to rolling landscapes lined with mountains and tall trees.
Nathan (our friend, travel companion, and videographer) bid adieu to us back in Chicago. We were all meant to leave that day, but Justin and I were compelled to keep riding our Indian motorcycles into the sunset. Maybe we couldn’t quite let go of the summer, or this amazing expedition that had given us so much in such a short window. Not wanting it to end, we persuaded the crew at RoadRUNNER to let us hold onto the handlebars just a little bit longer. Next stop: the Field of Dreams.
Motorcycles & Gear
2023 Indian Scout Rogue
2023 Indian Challenger Limited
Helmet: Shoei Neotec II, AGV Sportmodular Carbon
Jacket: Icon 1000 The Hood, REV’IT! Livingstone Jacket
Pants: Tellason Denim Ankara, Worse for Wear Denim
Boots: Danner 8-Inch Quarry Boots, Danner Light Boots
Gloves: Aerostich Elkskin Roper Gloves, REV’IT! Caliber Gloves
Luggage: OEM Panniers, Wolfman Luggage E-Duffel
Comm System: Sena 10C Pro, Sena 10S
Fields of Gold
To my surprise, the rural parts of Illinois along US 20 were some of the most beautiful we’d traveled yet. Even on a well-worn road, the ride seemed intimate. The tree-lined pavement weaved gently through the last green thicket the Midwest had to offer. Once we crossed into Iowa, the forest fell away, changing everything in sight from chartreuse, emerald, and evergreen into a sea of gold at our feet and white-blue waves across the horizon. We even felt less sticky as we exited the cloud of humidity we’d endured since Boston. Better yet, Dyersville was quaint, unassuming, and small. “Just enough” is the foundation of the town’s character, which suits its residents “just fine.” I loved it.
It’s truly a shame that Nathan couldn’t join us as we toured the Field of Dreams. This isn’t just a ‘90s movie set. You can have a sincerely authentic encounter with this place. Folks young and old playing catch in the grass patches, kids pitching at the mound, batting at home plate, and running the bases. Before we knew it, even Justin and I were tossing a rogue baseball we found in the corn. The whole thing seemed impulsive, unconscious, as if stepping onto the diamond somehow transported us back to our youths. For generations upon generations, baseball was the solace of idle adolescents. In the summer, it was life. You didn’t need more than a glove, bat, ball, and your boys.
Saying goodbye to Dyersville was bittersweet. We were leaving this surreal, alternative universe where corn is the commodity, the Bambino is king, and the dream is what you make of it. But more than that, we were leaving behind the impetus that had brought us here in the first place—we were saying goodbye to baseball for the next 2,000 miles. The South Dakota border muffled the enthusiastic sounds of the sport we’d followed from New England to the Midwest.