After the biker-embarrassment of only managing 100 miles on day 1, today was all about miles and catching up. 600 of them by the time I eased myself out of the saddle at the end of this marathon day.

The morning weather channels were all about the tornados sweeping through the southern states where I was headed, and severe thunderstorms everywhere else. The only dry bits were to be the northern Midwest.

So I set off at 6am and headed north-west as rapidly as I could, trying to run away from the coming storms. This meant breaking a rule of mine and taking the freeways. But out here they're ok. Just two lane and pretty empty. It was bank holiday weekend so there weren't many lorries. American lorries are frightening. Huge and fast. They cruise along at 70, 75, even more down the hills. My cruise control is set at 70, so they have a habit of creeping up on you if you're not careful. Harleys don't like going much faster. The traffic was mostly cars loaded up with families on this important holiday weekend. I have no idea where they were headed but I liked to imagine that they were off to see Grandma for the weekend. Grandma who lived in some wooden house with a porch and a swing. And the bored kids I could see in the cars would be excited when they got there and saw the blueberry pie Grandma had made for them. Does that America still exist? I hope so.

It was a grey, misty day. The sort of day we get 50% of the time back home. Bits of drizzle but my plan of out-running the real rain was working.

Illinois was much like yesterday. Green, mostly flat and passed by in a daze. It was 10am when I crossed the mighty Mississippi and entered Iowa. If you've read The Lost Continent, you'll know that Iowa does not fare well. It's basically cornfields. Flat and 400 miles of cornfields. Bryson didn't like it and he was brought up there. But if you like big journeys and open spaces, it ticks the boxes. And actually, there is a lot more to it. The villages are nice all-American places. They're all the same; white church, smart lawns, porches, grain stores and red barns. They all look like that, and I went through more than 20 of them, so I know. But they have a charm. And if I thought Illinois was friendly, Iowa does it's best to outdo them. Every stop here turns into a slow chat about where I'm from and where I'm going. Life moves with the earth here. I get the impression they get up with the sun and go to bed with the sun. Laid back but not lazy, there's a lot of work to do to run their farms and keep their houses looking smart - and they all do. Suspect there is a protestant attitude to work out here.

I’d found the America I wanted to find. Somewhere tourists from abroad don’t go. They see it in the movies but they never really experience it. And yet here I was in the middle of it, stretching for miles in every direction. The real deal.

I'd always known that the Buddy Holly crash site was out here so wanted to grab this opportunity to go there as I couldn't ever see myself being this way again. It might sound morbid but I have a thing about the landmarks of music history and celebrating the people who gave us this great chunk of culture. It is remote; 450 miles from Chicago and in the proverbial middle of nowhere. As I approached, I hoped that it was an appropriate memorial to all who perished in that crash as I felt the others had been overshadowed by Buddy himself. I needn't have worried. The route across the cornfields was immaculately maintained and the memorial was simple but honouring all who died; Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper and the pilot, Roger Peterson. I met others here, mostly Americans. It was a big deal to them. This was my chance to get my picture of Dad out, apologise that it wasn’t Graceland but explain that it was still somewhere pretty special.

From here, I decided that Sioux City was the place to head to as it was just across the border in South Dakota, meaning I would have crossed Iowa in one go. In what would become the norm for the rest of the trip, I spent my lunch-stop looking on my iphone for a motel for the night.

The journey across the rest of the state was much of the same cornfields and small towns that I was used to and thoroughly enjoying. The weather was still very grey but there was little chance of rain now and the wind had disappeared. As I neared the end of the state, the ground started to ripple slightly, the roads stopped being arrow-straight and the fields shrunk in size.

I set another personal record by making my fourth gas stop of the day. The bike is good for 200+ miles on a tank, but I usually stop after 150. Primarily so I always have some contingency but also because I like the short rest and the browse round the shop. American gas stations are often amazing places. They're the hub of the community, people just hang out there, and they appear to sell everything. The choice of drinks is mind-boggling for us poor Europeans; you can count 20 fridges stocked ceiling-high with various sugary beverages. The routine is the same. You have to pre-pay for gas. So I queue up to do that listening to all the local chatter in front of me. I give ten dollars to the cashier and wait for her to ask if I'm Australian. I explain I'm English. She's amazed. Then I head out to fill up. Ten dollars gives me more than four gallons! I then have to go back in for any change, and to buy one of those drinks. By this point everyone in the shop knows I'm English and wants to ask me what I'm doing here, what I think of Snoozeville (or wherever I am this time), and to tell me that Old Joe up the road once went to England when he was in the Air Force.

Sioux City is nice and that’s not just because the sun came out as I approached. It's at the meeting of two major rivers, and is at the crossroads of three states. You leave Iowa as you cross the bridge into it and enter South Dakota and from my motel room, I could see across the other river to Nebraska. I might have thought Iowa was big, these two are each twice as big and tomorrow I was going to head across them.

Sioux City's history is as a railroad town, taking all the local produce across the States. It still is but it also has a vibrant centre with good bars and restaurants. I ended up in a nice steakhouse that seemed to serve ice cold beer by the litre. I didn’t complain! But I did succumb to the amateur error of ordering a starter and a main. My starter when it arrived was big enough to be a main. For two people. This was followed by the usual free salad you get everywhere, except american salads aren't very green. They're all croutons, bacon bits and mayo. When my 14oz steak arrived I wasn't really certain where to put it.

I slept well. My biggest ever day on a motorbike. Now I was pushing boundaries!