76 Day 6 Waverly to Independence: Washing Ashore in Tripoli

We arrived in Tripoli, which being named after the capital of Libya, one would hope would be warm and dry. But, no. We dumped the bikes at a promising looking VFW and went inside.

And inside it was what one would imagine on a cold rainy day on ragby. The bar was packed, wall to wall with wet, grumpy, stinky cyclists, with rain water squelching out of their chamois into their shoes and slurping all over the floor. They had the hollow eyes of refugees who had fallen off their raft in the middle of a dark and stormy sea, only to be swept up on some lonely shore. They slurped beers and bloody marys and wandered out back for the promise of a breakfast sandwich, or huddled in a corner, alternatively shivering and sweating, trying to maintain their hard-won 12-inch square piece of linoleum floor.

Inside the Refugee Camp/VFW Hall. Photo Courtesy of Too Much

This was our fate. A bleak one at that. I fought my way to the bar, bought a bloody mary and went out back. I checked out the breakfast sandwiches, but they were being served on Wonder Bread. No thanks. I decided to avoid the crowd and hang out under the tent. Most of the tables were empty, but I made some friends with locals, who told me out Tripoli is actually pronounced: Try-Polly? Trip-ilolly? #whocares?

They told me all about their town! Volley ball champions! And some other stuff I can't remember that seemed cool at the time! We had a nice chat. They were a friendly couple with a couple of kids in high school. They had ridden a day or two of the ragby. Their house wasn't locked, so if you ever need a place to stay in Northeast, Iowa just try the door at 1543 Main Street, Trippi-lly. Just kidding. But I was asking around for possible bail out opportunities. The apparition of a warm, dry bed floated through my mind.

As we were talking the rain picked up. I eyed all the cords, running through the muddy puddles in the yard, going to the DJ booth under the tent. Did that seem like a good idea? I mean, these guys, in theory survived, you know, like 'Nam and Dunkirk and Falujah. Aren't we scared that we all might be called to the great stop-loss program in the sky with all the cords all over the place? Yikes.

Then, a huge crack of lightening lit up the sky. I noted the massive aluminum pole that held up the tent. Oh dear.

As the rain pounded the plastic roof of the tent, I held my bloody mary in one hand, and shook my other fist at the sky, cursing the Gods of Ragbrai. "We've already sacrificed a virgin! What more do you want from us?!"

And, then, like a bolt of lightning it hit me. I knew what I had to do.