1 | Dinosaurs Roam the Paluxy

On the Northwest side of the Paluxy River, Glen Rose | 113 million years ago

Life is relatively bucolic out west of Glen Rose these days; most creatures do not spend their time stalking or being stalked. But this was not the case 113 million years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the balmy coastline around what is now the Paluxy River. Bipedal carnivores called acrocanthosaurs preyed on quadrupedal herbivores known as paluxysaurs, leaving behind more than a thousand tracks in the calcium-rich mud. Today, if you find yourself approximately one mile north of FM 205 and Park Road 59, in Dinosaur Valley State Park, there’s no need to watch your back—though you should watch your step. —KATY VINE

2 | John Graves launches his canoe

Texas Highway 16 at the Brazos River | November 1957

John Graves

Wittliff Collections/Texas State University

On the gray day in the fall of 1957 when John Graves pushed off from the banks of the Brazos River and paddled his canoe downstream, both he and the river were at a crossroads. Graves was taking care of his sick father and had yet to definitively make his mark as a writer; the Brazos was in danger of being diverted with a series of lakes and dams from Possum Kingdom to Lake Whitney. So Graves’s trip, which began one mile downstream from the Morris Sheppard Dam at the 1942 masonry arch bridge, was intended as a farewell. But as he pushed away from shore, “into the bubble-hiss of the rapids,” he couldn’t have known that the trip would end up changing the course of his own life and the river’s. The book that came out of it, Goodbye to a River, helped prevent the Brazos River Authority from carrying through with its plan. As a result, today you can glide down the same river and cast your mind back to his thoughts on that overcast day—which were probably “Let’s get to camp and build a fire.” —KV

3 | Mary Martin Opens a Dance Studio

West Oak, Weatherford | 1933

Long before she became a Broadway legend, Mary Martin taught dance in Weatherford in her uncle Luke’s cleaned-out grain storage loft. But hoping to expand her limited curriculum, Martin headed west to study at the Fanchon and Marco School of the Theatre, in Hollywood. When she returned to her hometown in 1933, her parents surprised her with a new dance studio on Oak Street, a block from their home. Elaine Vandagriff, whose father helped with the construction, remembers a cozy studio with a sitting room and three large windows on the east side. Martin led dance classes there until she returned to Hollywood, in 1935, and it remains there to this day, the site where so many local boys and girls had their first dance. —ALISON FINNEY

4 | Gunman kills two at Cullen Davis mansion

4100 Stonegate Boulevard, Fort Worth | August 2, 1976

The gunman was dressed in black and wearing a woman’s wig when he appeared at the 19,000-square-foot mansion belonging to Cullen Davis, the oil tycoon whose net worth was pegged north of $250 million. When the shooting spree ended, Davis’s estranged wife, Priscilla, known for wearing a diamond necklace that said “Rich Bitch,” lay wounded. His twelve-year-old stepdaughter, Andrea, and Priscilla’s live-in lover, Stan Farr, a former TCU basketball player, lay dead. Most shocking of all was that Davis himself became the crime’s main suspect. He was thought to have been the richest person in America ever charged with murder, though he was eventually acquitted in a circus of a trial in Amarillo, only to be subsequently charged with trying to hire a hit man to kill Priscilla and the judge in their divorce case, where he was acquitted a second time. Today Davis lives in Colleyville with a new wife. As for the mansion where it all began, it has since served as a restaurant, a gallery, and even a church; now it is an event center that is rented out to the public, though viewings are by appointment only. —BRIAN D. SWEANY

5 | KAP writes a society column

1627 College Avenue, Fort Worth | September 15, 1917

Like most aspiring authors in their twenties, Katherine Anne Porter was having trouble getting a job. After the Dallas Morning News rebuffed her, the Indian Creek native turned to her Fort Worth friends J. Garfield and Kitty Barry Crawford, founders of the Fort Worth Critic newspaper, who not only gave her a job as a society columnist but allowed her to move in with them. It was in the Crawfords’ home that KAP wrote her first column. The future Pulitzer Prize winner was introduced to readers as a person who “likes things which many people consider frivolous and of no consequence—society and the many small factors which go toward making life pleasant and interesting are among her hobbies.” —KV

6 | Ornette Coleman is kicked out of high school band

1411 I. M. Terrell Circle, Fort Worth | 1947

Ornette Coleman’s landmark album The Shape of Jazz to Come shocked listeners in 1959 with its unfettered improvisation and its lack of chord progressions. And in the years that followed, it lived up to its title, opening the door for the free jazz movement and upending traditional notions about composition, instrumentation, tone, and, well, just about everything. But the shape of jazz to come had been taking shape for a long time. The Fort Worth native attended the then-segregated I. M. Terrell High School, where future jazzmen like King Curtis Ousley, Charles Moffett, and William Lawsha (a.k.a. Prince Lasha) were his classmates. Coleman played sax in the marching band and would often improvise parts and riffs. One day in 1947, during a rendition of John Philip Sousa’s “The Washington Post March,” he and Lawsha were accused of being “jazz hounds” and kicked out of the band. Since Lawsha also went on to become a free jazz pioneer, it’s safe to say that both players learned the best lesson of all: Ignore the critics. The original band rehearsal room on the south side of the building—which is now an elementary school—has since been remodeled, but the auditorium where the band performed remains intact. —KV

7 | Kenneth McDuff abducts his first victims

Oak Grove-Shelby Road and Dan Meyer Drive, Everman | August 6, 1966

The backstop of the old baseball field at Everman High School still stands at the edge of campus. There, one Saturday evening, a twenty-year-old reprobate named Kenneth McDuff encountered three teens, Edna Louise Sullivan, Robert Brand, and Marcus Dunnam, whiling away the warm summer night. At gunpoint he forced them into the trunk of their car, then drove them around the countryside. Eventually he killed the two boys with point-blank pistol shots, then raped the girl repeatedly and strangled her with a broomstick.

There’s no way to know if those were the first people McDuff killed; he’d already bragged about others. But it’s certain that if the justice system had worked, they would have been his last. He was sentenced to death, but through a series of events—the U.S. Supreme Court’s brief ban on the death penalty in the seventies, the state prison overcrowding crisis of the eighties—McDuff walked free in October 1989. For the next two and a half years he would continually break the peace, get arrested, and slip through the cracks before authorities finally realized he’d resumed raping and killing. After a nationwide manhunt, he was arrested in Missouri in May 1992. Eventually he was convicted of murdering Melissa Northrup, a Waco convenience store clerk, and Colleen Reed, an Austin accountant. By the time he was finally executed, in November 1998, three more victims had been confirmed. The actual number of dead may never be determined. —JOHN SPONG

8 | Nolan Ryan pummels Robin Ventura

1000 Ballpark Way, Arlington | August 4, 1993

Nolan Ryan

Linda Kaye/AP

It was the most infamous bench-clearer in Texas Rangers history: After a 46-year-old Nolan Ryan plunked 26-year-old Chicago White Sox third baseman Robin Ventura, the youngster thought—ever so briefly—about trotting to first base before he charged the pitcher’s mound at Arlington Stadium instead. Talk about youthful ignorance. Ryan swiftly put him in a headlock and delivered eight or nine sharp uppercuts before catcher Ivan Rodriguez and a scrum of players from both teams pulled them to the ground. Ryan retired at the end of the season, and the incident cemented the all-time strikeout leader’s legacy as one of the toughest Texans ever. That year also marked the end of the old Arlington Stadium, which was razed to make way for parking lots around the new Ballpark in Arlington. But if you walk to the southwest corner of Lot I, you’ll be standing near the site of the old mound, where Ventura learned a painful lesson about respecting one’s elders. —JORDAN BREAL

9 | First auditions for Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders are held

2401 East Airport Freeway, Irving | 1972

Courtesy of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders

In the early summer of 1972, scores of young women came to Texas Stadium to try out for the Dallas Cowboys’ brand-new cheerleading squad. “They were looking for wholesome, all-American girls—girls who loved the Cowboys and loved to dance,” remembers Dixie Smith Luque (back row, center), who was eighteen at the time. She and the hundred or so other prospects brought their own eight-track tapes and danced for the judges in an empty banquet room on the stadium’s second floor. “I wanted to be picked more than life itself,” she says. After Luque aced a few questions about the Cowboys, she was called back to a second round of auditions. “I opened my mail one day and found a handwritten note that said, ‘Congratulations—you’ve been chosen to be one of the new Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders!’ ” That September, Luque and the squad’s six other members made a lasting impression on the American psyche when they walked onto the field at Texas Stadium in front of 55,850 spectators, wearing go-go boots, hot pants, and satin blouses tied high above the midriff—and sex became forever associated with the sidelines. The stadium with the famous hole in the roof was demolished in 2010; now the high kicks are featured in Arlington, at the new Dallas Cowboys Stadium. —PAMELA COLLOFF

10 | Tex Schramm and Lamar Hunt invent the Super Bowl

8008 Cedar Springs Road, Dallas | April 4, 1966

Perhaps you think that history’s most important parking garage conversation took place in 1972, when Mark Felt (a.k.a. Deep Throat) divulged the secrets of the Nixon administration to the Washington Post’s Bob Woodward. Hardly. Six years earlier, in a parking garage at Love Field, Tex Schramm and Lamar Hunt had hatched the idea for the world’s greatest sporting event. Schramm, the blustery general manager of the National Football League’s Dallas Cowboys, met Hunt, the son of Texas oil giant H. L. Hunt and the head of the rival American Football League, in front of the twelve-foot-tall Texas Ranger statue inside the terminal. Having been rebuffed by the NFL in his bid for an expansion franchise, Hunt had formed the AFL in 1959, with his own Dallas Texans as a charter member. Schramm’s success with the Cowboys had driven Hunt to Kansas City, where he renamed his team the Chiefs, but now, at the direction of NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle, Schramm had been ordered to cut a deal with Hunt. Fearing they would be recognized, the two men headed to Schramm’s car in the dark, two-story parking garage, and the conversation began. The NFL-AFL merger was completed four years later, featuring a championship game between the top team from each league. After watching his kids play with a Wham-O SuperBall, Hunt even came up with the name for the game: the Super Bowl. —SKIP HOLLANDSWORTH

11 | “One Riot, One Ranger” is etched in Stone

8008 Cedar Springs Road, Dallas | 1961

Texas Ranger captain Bill McDonald liked to tell stories of his heroic exploits. One of them, from 1896, was about his arrival in Dallas by train to disperse an angry crowd of spectators and bettors who had gathered to watch an illegal prize fight. He stepped off the train unaccompanied, and his anxious greeters asked him where the rest of his Ranger company was. Captain McDonald responded, “Well, you ain’t got but one mob, have you?” This idea, sharpened in the retelling, caught on, and although Captain McDonald never said “one riot, one Ranger,” many people believe he did. Including sculptor Waldine Amanda Tauch, who finished a heroic Ranger statue in 1961 that would impress generations of travelers passing through the main terminal of Love Field and contribute, as much as anything, to the myth. —H. W. BRANDS

AP/Pat Sullivan

12 | Clayton Williams refuses to shake Ann Richards’s hand

2201 Stemmons Freeway, Dallas | October 11, 1990

From opposite sides of the Chantilly Ballroom, the candidates advanced toward the stage: a giant cowboy hat and an enormous white bouffant. It was just weeks before voters would choose their next governor, and Clayton Williams, a Republican oilman, and Ann Richards, the Democratic state treasurer, had arrived at a Greater Dallas Crime Commission luncheon at the Loews Anatole hotel (now the Hilton Anatole) for a final face-to-face meeting. Despite leading in the race, Williams was angry—a few days earlier, Richards had publicly suggested that his Midland bank was laundering drug money—and so when they reached the stage and Richards extended her hand, he stiffly refused to shake it. The gesture, or nongesture, instantly caused a ruckus. Williams, who had survived making a joke about rape, was decried for being ungentlemanly and went from being twelve points up to four points down in the polls. Then he lost the election, 49 percent to 47 percent. Richards was catapulted to the Governor’s Mansion, where four years later she would face an underdog challenger herself, George W. Bush. —KATHARYN RODEMANN


13 | Bonnie and Clyde meet

105 Herbert, Dallas | January 1930

Clyde Barrow was a funny-looking kid from Dallas with an interest in safecracking and robbery. In 1930 he and a close friend, Clarence Clay, dropped in at Clay’s parents’ house on the west side of town. Clay’s sister was there, with her husband and sister-in-law, a pretty, headstrong girl named Bonnie Parker. When the boys came in, Parker was in the kitchen making hot chocolate. By all accounts, the pair, who would go on to become the most infamous outlaw lovers the world has ever known, were immediately smitten. Though Barrow went to prison for a two-year stint shortly thereafter, he remembered Parker when he was paroled, in 1932, and the two quickly joined forces to embark on one of the most legendary robbery and murder sprees in U.S. history. The original house two blocks south of Singleton no longer exists, though a few pilings for the pier and beam foundation remain at that address beyond a barricade on the dead-end street, a derelict monument to the spark of passion that ignited a homicidal romance. —KV

Courtesy of Neiman Marcus

14 | Neiman Marcus opens

1200 block of main, Dallas | September 10, 1907

Opening a luxury store in a cotton-and-cattle town of 84,000 was a bold idea, especially since in Texas the majority of high-end women’s clothing was still custom-made, procured from ateliers in Europe or New York. But Herbert Marcus, his younger sister Carrie Marcus Neiman, and her husband, Al Neiman, were convinced that local women were ready for a sophisticated salon. (The story goes that one suddenly oil-rich woman from Electra came in barefoot and left wearing heels and a fur coat.) Dallas women were so drawn to the elegant confines of Neiman Marcus that within a few weeks the stock was depleted and head buyer Moira Cullen had to hastily schedule a purchasing trip to New York. Less than six years later, the original store—a grand corner building in the then-popular Renaissance Revival style—burned down, though the flagship store that was constructed the following year ably carries on the tradition of hedonistic luxury to this day. —JB

15 | Abraham Zapruder films the Kennedy assassination

The pergola at Dealey Plaza, Dallas | November 22, 1963

Nearly fifty years after shots were fired from the Texas School Book Depository Building (or the grassy knoll or the triple overpass, depending on your version of events), the assassination of President John F. Kennedy remains the most important moment in Dallas history. On that tragic day, Abraham Zapruder walked from the Dal-Tex Building, opposite the depository, on Houston Street, with his 8mm camera to claim a spot on top of the far western column in front of the pergola on the grassy knoll. A cinematographer couldn’t have picked a better location—the ground sloped gently toward Elm Street, providing Zapruder with a clear view of the scene. As the president’s car drove past, Zapruder’s Bell and Howell Zoomatic Director Series Model 414-PD silently captured everything. Though the country had already suffered through three public assassinations of presidents, never before had the public been able to watch it in Kodachrome. The column where Zapruder recorded the country’s most infamous 26.6 seconds of film provides a chilling reminder of how a soft-spoken dressmaker crossed paths with history. —BDS

Watch a video about Dealey Plaza in Dallas.


16 | Jack Ruby opens the Carousel Club

1312 1/2 Commerce, Dallas | 1960

Jack Ruby was running out of time and money, and his partner in the Sovereign Club, a second-floor establishment above Commerce Street, wanted out. Ruby had envisioned the place as a high-class “private membership” joint where patrons could order liquor. But the clientele never developed, the rent was coming due, and hard feelings were taking shape. So Ruby approached an old friend, Ralph Paul, for enough cash to keep things afloat. Paul had another idea, one that he believed could make money for both of them: Turn the Sovereign into “an open place” where men could drink beer, toast champagne, eat pizza, listen to a four- or five-piece orchestra, and, most important, watch strippers perform on three short runways. And so was born the Carousel Club, which soon became a spot for businessmen, journalists, and police officers. (Today the building has been replaced by the headquarters of AT&T.) Ruby’s dreams of running a successful business were within reach. Finally he had a chance to make his mark on Dallas for good. —BDS

17 | Robert Johnson records his final songs

508 Park Avenue, Dallas | June 20, 1937

Robert Johnson, “the most important blues musician who ever lived” (according to Eric Clapton), spent most of his life in Mississippi. But his only two recording sessions took place in Texas. The first, when he was 25 years old, was in November 1936 in room 414 at the Gunter Hotel, in San Antonio, where Brunswick Records had set up a temporary studio. The second and final session took place over two days the following year in Brunswick’s offices, on Park Avenue, in Dallas (Johnson would die a year later). Among the songs Johnson played on the second day, a Sunday, were “Hellhound on My Trail” and “Me and the Devil Blues.” But just where in the building did he record? All the producer, Don Law, has written was that it was in a “makeshift studio in our own branch office.” Most likely, Johnson would have recorded on the fourth floor, facing the corner of the room. Perhaps some future musician can weigh in: The historic art deco building has been locked and abandoned for more than twenty years, but the First Presbyterian Church, located across the street, has the property under contract and plans to restore it. —KV

18 | UT Longhorns win their first football game

Parry Avenue at Fair Park, Dallas | November 30, 1893

Just before midnight on the eve of Thanksgiving, the varsity team boarded a train from Austin to Dallas. The fifteen young men had played together for only a few practices, but the University of Texas football team was in high spirits as they left the station, chanting, “Halla-ba-loo, hooray, hooray; halla-ba-loo, hooray, hooray; hooray, hooray, varsity, varsity, UTA.” Such optimism may not have been warranted, for the Longhorns had traveled to play the meanest, baddest team around: the undefeated and self-titled “champions of Texas,” the Dallas Foot Ball Club. Varsity had made a date to meet its foe at the fairgrounds on a verdureless plot of land that was converted into a cattle arena in 1895. What transpired in the ninety-minute contest would be unrecognizable to the modern enthusiast, as football back then looked more like rugby. But no matter: When all was said and done, the score read 18—16 in favor of UT, leaving one dejected Dallasite to proclaim, “Our name is pants and our glory has departed,” a sentiment that has been felt by other teams 849 times since that Thanksgiving Day. —STACY HOLLISTER

19 | Billy Graham holds a revival

The Cotton Bowl, Dallas | June 1953

Courtesy of Dallas Morning News

In the midst of a summer heat wave, more than half a million people attended Billy Graham’s monthlong revival at the Cotton Bowl. Each night a 1,500-voice choir sang to the record crowds who came to hear the evangelist speak. “The blond young North Carolina preacher’s melodious baritone made the soaring roar of the roller coaster and other Midway sound effects seem far away,” wrote the Dallas Morning News. “He shucked off his cream-colored linen coat and stood there on the fifty-yard line and opened his service with prayer. He quoted Scripture lovingly and with consummate theatrical effect.” On the final night of the revival—with more than 75,000 faithful in attendance—each person was given a match. Graham asked that the stadium lights be extinguished, then announced to the crowd, “I’m going to strike a match, which is only a small gleam of light. When all of you strike your matches, the light will become stronger, like the light of faith.” The Cotton Bowl was soon illuminated. —PC

20 | Lawrence Herkimer invents the Herkie

3120 North Haskell Avenue, Dallas | Early 1940’s

As a teenager, Lawrence Herkimer was too short to play on the football team, so he joined the North Dallas High School cheerleading squad instead. One day, while trying to execute a split jump at practice, he inadvertently created one of the most popular leaps in the history of cheerleading. If you’ve attended a football game in the past six or seven decades, you’ve seen a “Herkie”: Gathering every ounce of oomph, the jumper springs into the air, kicking one leg out straight and bending the other back while one fist punches the heavens and the other fuses to the hip. Executed correctly, it’s charmingly off-kilter; if underperformed, it looks like a half-baked toe-touch. But it wasn’t until Herkimer became the head cheerleader at SMU that his signature move gained national prominence. “Reporters would come out and want to take pictures, so I’d sit four or five girls in a row and then jump over them,” he says. “It was seen so many times, I guess it just caught on.” Though he’s now retired and living in Florida, the 85-year-old still has the vim of a yell leader. So how would he instruct a novice trying to pull off her first Herkie? “You just have to practice,” he says. “But remember: Really use that right arm to get yourself off the ground.” And the best place for you to try out your new move would be a small triangle of grass in front of Herkimer’s old high school, where it all began. —JB

21 | Sarah Weddington takes Norma McCorvey to dinner

5734 East Mockingbird Lane, Dallas | February 1970

Twenty-one-year-old Norma McCorvey met attorneys Linda Coffee and Sarah Weddington for the first time at a pizza joint off Greenville Avenue called Colombo’s. McCorvey, who was homeless and pregnant, wanted an abortion; Coffee and Weddington were looking for a plaintiff to challenge the Texas law that made abortions illegal. In her autobiography, I Am Roe, McCorvey wrote of the moment she walked into the restaurant and saw the two young attorneys sitting at a corner table: “For a second, I felt like turning around and running out the door.” But she was desperate to terminate her pregnancy, and hoping that she could do so if Coffee and Weddington filed suit on her behalf, she agreed to become the anonymous plaintiff in the landmark case Roe v. Wade. The restaurant has since been torn down, and on the site of this momentous meeting there is now a Walgreens. —PC

22 | Mariano Martinez creates the frozen margarita machine

5500 Greenville Avenue, Dallas | May 11, 1971

Mariano Martinez did not invent the frozen margarita; he just figured out how to produce the drink in quantities large enough to make an entire restaurant tipsy. One May afternoon in 1971, he was tinkering with a soft-serve ice cream machine in the kitchen of Mariano’s, his restaurant in the storied Old Town Shopping Center, when he discovered a new way to stir up the sloshy green drink. Though the original Mariano’s closed about five years ago—today it’s a PetSmart, and the exact location of the old kitchen is in the grooming area—Martinez still operates six restaurants across the Metroplex. As for his original machine, it has found its proper home as part of the collection in the Smithsonian. Any doubts about the significance of this contraption were settled when the museum released its list of the top ten American inventions this past September. Topping the list was, no surprise, Thomas Edison and the lightbulb. And what came in tenth? Martinez’s cool creation. —BDS

23 | Jack Kilby demonstrates the first integrated circuit

13532 north central expressway, Dallas | September 12, 1958

Courtesy of Texas Instruments

Jack Kilby was a new employee at Texas Instruments and had no vacation time. As his co-workers took their traditional two weeks off, Kilby stayed behind and sketched out some ideas concerning a problem known as the “tyranny of numbers.” The bulky and problematic vacuum tube had been replaced by the transistor, and engineers were designing complex circuits that called for such great numbers (thousands and thousands) of hand-soldered components that their manufacture was becoming cost-prohibitive and unreliable. Kilby’s answer was “a body of semiconductor material . . . wherein all the components of the electronic circuit are completely integrated.” On September 12, 1958, he was ready to demonstrate his invention, the integrated circuit (known today as the microchip). Several TI executives were called to his lab in the Semiconductor Building on TI’s north campus in Dallas. Kilby’s invention was a sliver of germanium with protruding wires glued messily to a glass slide that, when he hit a switch, produced an unending sine curve across the oscilloscope screen. It would change the world forever and win Kilby a number of accolades, including the National Medal of Science, the National Medal of Technology, and the Nobel Prize in Physics. The Semiconductor Building still stands, where a plaque in the lobby celebrates Kilby’s breakthrough. —DAVID COURTNEY

24 | First Race for the Cure is held

13350 Dallas Parkway, Dallas | October 29, 1983

Nancy Brinker had dreamed of this day. Not in the hokey sort of way that fair maidens pine for the arrival of a white knight. But in the actual, subconscious kind of way. One night, deep in sleep, her mind had sent forth images of women dressed in pink, running, racing, and walking. It had been just one year earlier that Brinker, acting on a promise to her sister, Susan, who was dying of breast cancer, had started a small foundation dedicated to eradicating the disease forever. In that first year, the fund-raising arm of the Susan G. Komen Foundation for the Advancement of Breast Cancer Research consisted mainly of Dallas society folk, who would gladly assemble, bank accounts at the ready, at luncheons and polo matches but weren’t too keen on talking about breasts in public. On a drizzly fall day in 1983, though, in front of a nascent mecca of conspicuous consumption, all that changed with the first Race for the Cure. As Brinker pulled up to the Galleria, dressed in a pink patterned jumpsuit, she saw a rosy swatch of balloons and posters and a queue of participants checking in for a 5K that would loop the mall front to back. Her slumberland vision had become a reality, and a grassroots campaign, appealing to the masses and unafraid to speak openly about breast health, was born. —S. HOLLISTER

25 | Lance Armstrong joins his first cycling team

101 South Coit Road, Richardson | 1987

Lance Armstrong was a talented swimmer as a boy and a top-notch triathlete as a teenager, but it was his decision to focus on cycling full-time that turned him into an international superstar. Like a lot of area kids who were interested in riding, Armstrong hung around Jim Hoyt’s Richardson Bike Mart, in Dal-Rich Village. It was here that, arguably, Armstrong first became a cyclist, when Hoyt started paying him $500 a month to ride for his RBM Team at his celebrated Tuesday night criteriums—multi-lap races on a closed track, often on the streets of undeveloped business parks in town. The store closed in 1997 and headed two miles north, to Campbell Road. But Armstrong’s legacy remains. A large sticker on the front door greets visitors: “Lance Is Back on the Bike. Are You?” —BDS


To visit every place on our list—or tell us what we missed—go to our Terquasquicentennial Blog.