RAGBRAI 2011: Stage 3 Carroll to Boone

Tuesday: Carroll to Boone and the day of "the big hill."  On RAGBRAI, I gather, the day of the BIG HILL involves a lot of speculation, a lot of wild rumors flying around, and a lot of preening and apologizing.

Snippets of conversation go something like this:

"Did you hear about _____ Hill?  It's ten times steeper than the vertical face of Half Dome."

"______ Hill is harder than No Man's Hill but not as hard as Potter's Hill."

"I am just going to walk up _____ Hill.  I don't care."


Reports of the hill come salmoning up stream: someone died on _____ Hill.  There's a pot of gold at the top.  No one/everyone has made it to the top. Lance Armstrong had to walk his bike the last half.

I think because RAGBRAI has so few relevant topics: food, where to get more food, beer, where to get more beer, and the line-to-need ratio at the kybos--people need to make the most of what they got.  Pure, random speculation and needless worry.  The fact is that the hill will happen, whether we like it or not, and it doesn't do any good to chow-chow about it all day.

Of course, as one RAGBRAI-er put it, the only hill worthy of comparison, is Potter's Hill.  That will be the hill that lives in RAGBRAI-Infamy. 

As the few of you know, in 2011, I was still grappling with the shame of being a complete and total BEE-Occh on Potter's Hill.  Having not yet reclaimed my cajones, both the fact of the "big hill" and all the speculation about the "big hill" were whirling around in my heat-melted noggin.  Easy-E and the Mayor plied me with their patented brand of pep-talk/mockery and that helped.

But, before we get to the hill, I have to say, that morale was already particularly diminished on Tuesday.  Though we had slept in beds, enjoyed showers, home-cooked meals, and a pool, we had a few hiccups.

First, the Mayor was bedded down in the living room of my aunt and uncle's house.  My uncle forgot to turn off the coo-coo clock, so it chimed every 15 minutes until dawn.  (Sorry Mayor!).

Second, I had my second incredibly shameful mishap on RAGBRAI.  The shame and horror haunt me to this day.  The night before, thinking I was crafty, I left my unnecessary for pool/shower/home-cook-eatin/sleeping-in-a-bed stuff in my second bag, which I left on the lawn where I had found it that afternoon.  Into that bag, I stuffed my cycling shoes.

You can imagine my horror, when, despite the fact that I did not bring my bad to the truck, I found that it had ALREADY BEEN LOADED!!!  Some energetic Bike World employee had assumed the bag was meant to go on the truck.  Therefore, my cycling shoes were IN THE BAG, under a MOUNTAIN of other bags.

I had to inform, poor, long suffering Kristi of the situation, and her reaction, well, it is understandable that she became a teacher.  With only the slightest grimace, she asked me what the bag looked like and started unloading bags.  I climbed inside the truck along with another camper to help move one mountain of luggage into another mountain of luggage.

After much groaning and angst, and an attempted smack-down by Thomas, we did locate the bag.  Kristi had the ultimate sympathy-inducing story, and I had my cycling shoes and an important lesson: never separate from the critical elements needed for RAGBRAI: shoes, helmet, shorts, Coors Light.  I now sleep with all of those items at the bottom of my sleeping bag.

(Note: when I returned from RAGBRAI, I sent Kristi a note and some chocolates.  She said she forgave me.  This fall, when I saw her and Biff and Mark West at a cyclocross race, I also bequeathed a large amount of Busch onto them.  She is a very good woman.  A beaver maiden of the highest order.)

Much frazzled, though be-shoed, we embarked.  The road out of Carroll was mercifully flat and we actually picked up some speed.  At one point, I followed the Mayor into a little pace line and started to leave Easy-E behind, but I felt bad so I slowed to wait for her and the Mayor followed suit.  Then, we explained how a pace line works.  Easy-E was intrigued.

After our first town stop, a crew of old dudes with a loud stereo and a double pace line pulled past us on the left.  E saw her opportunity and hopped on.  We didn't see her again until lunch.  Though, I feared we wouldn't see her again, ever.

The famous Mables.

We stopped in Lidderdale for breakfast.  There we sat down next to the Mables, Des Moines-fitness spandexeratti, who publish Momentum magazine.  They were super nice, and they look good in pink.  Nice mustache Dave.

Our stop in Lanesboro was slightly more exciting.  Lanesboro had a green, shady park filled with food and drink stands and a small donkey corral.  I never pass an opportunity to pet a donkey.  (Reminder: investigate the donkey-RAGBRAI connection, what gives?).

Friendship.

Here's the Mayor posing for the required "donkey-shot."  (Which means something very different in a non-RAGBRAI context.)

Why and I wearing a lei?

Here's a completely gratuitous shot of the donkey's neck. 

E said I didn't look like I was having fun.

The park also had a small playground which we took advantage of.  See how green and shady! 

I tried again.

If you look carefully, just to the left and behind the lion, you can see a bagger camp.

We found a nice spigot in the park, the old school kind that comes out of the ground and filled up our water bottles.  Then, we relaxed in the shade and drank our water.

Easy-E and I got up to use the potty.  As we stood in line, we watched the baggers who were camped out in the park finally wake up.  And, renegade male cyclists peed into the weeds, though in complete view of our line for the ladies room.

While we were standing there, I ideally noticed another cyclist filling up his water bottle at the old school spigot.  I had plans to fill up my water bottle again, and I was feeling self-righteous for drinking my water, when a 12-year-old townie approached the cyclist.

"You can't drink that water," the kid said matter of factly.  "It's not safe."

What???

A. How not safe?

B. Why is the only method of informing of said harm an indifferent 12-year-old?

Already feeling my insights roil from hypothetical diphtheria, I cursed Lanesboro!  Like a Siren, she beckoned us in with a shady park and free water, then she turned on us.  Is there any thing more terrifying than gastro-intestinal distress on RAGBRAI?

On the way out of town, I saw an EMT and asked him what I was in for: death?  Complete debilitation?  Blood oozing from every pore?  (I am just a bit of a hypochondriac).  No, he said.  It was fine.  They'd had some flooding, so it was more of a precaution.

And, so, with even less dignity, we were on the road.  Soon, E was off with her old-man team, and the Mayor was chatting up his constituency, and in that fashion we made our way into Churdan.

In Churdan, E and I spotted a novelty, rarely seen on the RAGBRAI: a BLT stand.  A BLT, really?  Bacon!  Cold tomatoes!  Creamy mayo!  Maybe even wheat bread?  It was too good to be true.  We stashed the bikes near the bank and stationed the Mayor in a lawn chair in front of the Post Office and proceeded to wait in a massive line.

The Mayor needed sustenance while E and I waited in line.

Now, lines don't bother me.  I sort of zone out and do mental laundry.  This is when I contemplate things like why are there so many donkeys to pet on RAGBRAI and how much chamois cream would it take to inundate a chamois?

My sister, though, is not this way.  Impatient might be the understatement.  E is like a Hurricane.  She is incredibly powerful.  She cannot be resisted.  And, there's no stopping her.  Instead of thinking about donkeys, I had to talk her down from the idea of jumping the table and making her own sandwich. 

While we waited, we realized that the reason why the line was so slow was because the family making the sandwiches, all perky and sweet, were a) not using the assembly line system every American has been using since Henry Ford, and b) one of the daughters was a sandbagger.

She was 15 and rather than cow to the line of Spandex-Hunger-Zombies starring her down, she refused to be rushed.  She schlumped over to the bacon station to ask a question, then she hobbled back to the sandwich line.  There she took an order, but on finding an ingredient to be gone, she simply stopped operating and waited for someone else to realize that her tomato bowl was empty. 

When she finally managed to smear together enough energy to make a sandwich, she shorted E on bacon.  Bad move.  E huffed and puffed and gave the stink-eye, but the 15-year-old had already retreated to the back of the tent to answer a text message.  After a blistering hour in the sun, though, we had our sandwiches: a jalapeno-bacon variety with fresh jalapenos.

The reign of the Mayor.

I have to say here, Mayor, you are a patient man.  Thank you.

It wasn't until we were several miles out of Churdan did I realize why so few eating options on the RAGBRAI include jalapenos--they stay with you.

In Paton, we found a lively fire station.  One one side were tents with tables: this was where the boring people hung out.  On the other side was a patio with dancing and a hose: this was where the cool people were hanging out.  In the middle, old ladies were selling cookies and whathaveyou.  E seeing that her people were on the patio skipped the cookies and put on a full-on Lady Gaga concert, complete with Team Oinkers as back-up dancers.  The Mayor and I retired to the tent, and then a shade tree for a bit of a nap.  E was not impressed with our lack of liveliness.

After an hour or so, we rallied, allowed an "adorable" small one with a hose fill our water bottles.  The joke of spraying a cyclist who. just. wants. some. water. never got old.

At this point, I recall, two important developments were born.

First, E coined the phrase "biker dance."  Trust me, you've seen it.  It's the dance that involves putting one's hands slightly above one's head and then pumping or gyrating one's hips either back and forth or side to side.  This dance, obviously, is done in a number of situations, weddings, grocery stores, day cares, but I think it is lends itself to cyclists because it a) plays to the wearing of Spandex pants and b) it's hard to do fancy foot work in SPD cleats.  I had never noticed it before, but E, being somewhat of an outsider, was able to appreciate it and define it in an almost anthropological way.

Second, I noticed something about the Mayor.  Usually, especially when it comes to the weather, I try not to complain.  I'll offer an "it's hot as balls" or "I am freezing my balls" off occasionally, but I don't find complaining about weather as satisfying as complaining about cuisine or my sister.  With the weather on RAGBRAI, I try to keep my spirits up.

The Mayor also is good at keeping his spirits up.  He's the mother-f-ing-mayor for a reason, right?

So, I'll be trying to keep my morale up, not complaining.  Then, the Mayor will ride up beside me as say, "damn Normie, it's hot." 

Then, when I concede, that yes, it is hot.  The Mayor responds almost immediately with, "It's not hot!  It's perfect!  It's like air conditioning out here!"  Then he laughs.  Then, I feel chastised.

I am not sure how this plays out in the day-to-day life of living with the Mayor.  Steven, do you want to weigh in on this one?  But, on RAGBRAI it kind of messes with your mind.  Therefore, I think the Mayor has RAGBRAI-specific-weather-ADHD.

Outside of Pilot Mound we stopped to get some water from one of my favorite hoses.  I think the house was like a minister's house.  I think it was next to a church, it had a 6-foot wood privacy fence, and the hose was strung over the top of the fence, but the homeowner was gone.  The gate and the front door was locked.  If any unsuspecting cyclist dropped the hose, it would zing to the other side of the fence and not help anyone.  Needless to say, we were all very careful.

Then, we relaxed in a park.

Level 1 Relaxation

Here's the Mayor looking relaxed.

Sassy relax.

And E looking relaxed.

Level 2 relaxation.

And the mayor looking even more relaxed.

But, because this was the second to last town and "the hill" was looming, we rallied and headed towards the beer garden.  Pilot Mound's "beer garden" might have been the most "beer ghetto" of them all.  Baking sun.  Lots of pavement.  The only place to sit was the world's hottest curb.  The buildings with food that were advertised as air conditioned were about as crowded and sweaty as a D-cup bra on an August afternoon.  

This, I think, perhaps, was the moment when E really "arrived" at RAGBRAI.  Before, she had been a person doing RAGBRAI, but this is the moment when I think it clicked.

Here's a short series of videos in which E eats a walking taco whilst performing.  Evidence perhaps of the being touched by the spirit of the RAGBRAI?  (Apologies for the side-ways-ness). 

Then, it was on to "the big hill."  Because the "big hill" was looming, we were a little more cautious than we might have been in the second to last town.

Tension rising, we mounted up.

I'd like to describe my emotions as grim, determined, and stoic.  I realized I could survive the shame of hill-walking, but I didn't want to have to.

Twister Hill is not really a hill.  It's a valley.  At the bottom is the Des Moines River and this particular road goes through a deep and steep part of the valley.  To get a sense of what this valley looks like, the world's highest train bridge crosses the valley.  It's deep.

Down the hill we went, me braking and silently praying.  E and the Mayor zinging to the bottom like pelicans diving for a meal.

Then, we started to climb.  The Mayor told me there was a false summit, as as I was chugging up hill in my lowest, granniest gear, I took a moment to glance above me.  Big mistake.  So, because I thought there was a false summit and because it was pointless to look towards the top, I just huffed and puffed and glanced at the folks walking up on the right side, poor bastards.  When I am inching up hills like this I like to stare at my computer.  I believe it was Steven who told me you can go as slow as 3.5 miles an hour before you topple over and I like to test that theory.

Then, we were at the top.  Hurray!  Encouragement!

The best part of the day on RAGBRAI is the last stretch, when the Mayor is feeling jovial and mayoral and he laughs, and yells, "but Norm, it's RAGBRAI" or "I love you RAGBRAI" and chats up folks along the way.  Watching him in action is inspiring and highly entertaining.  It makes the miles fly by.

We rejoined with E every so briefly on the outskirts of Boone.  As we were headed down Main Street, the train lights were flashing and the cross bars were coming down.  Now, anyone who has seen what a rail road track looks like and what a bike tire looks like could probably guess that tracks should be crossed with caution, rather than gusto.

E does not agree, just as when she drives, she gunned it across the tracks, sending my heart into my gut and my head spinning.  All of those movies from drivers ed flashed before my eyes.  How was I going to explain to our mother than I had let E, her favorite daughter, get creamed on RAGBRAI?  Plus, if E didn't get a chance for "the last outfit" in her casket, I knew she would haunt us forever.

The Mayor and I both stopped, but E was gone.  She made it across the tracks, just as a huge train, full of immense, heavy windmill propellers came barreling through. 

Barrelling.

More barrelling.

The rest of RAGBRAI waiting for the train.

Finally, the train passed and we proceeded.  Idly, I mentioned that there was a fun bar on the left side of the street, thinking maybe we could come down town after we set up camp and showered.

"What? Where?" The Mayor yelled, then made a hard, erratic left across traffic.  I followed, barely skidding to a stop before crashing into him. He barely stopped just before crashing into a pedestrian.

We had arrived at The Gigging Goat, our home for the next many hours.

Rather than go inside, we decamped to the multi-story parking garage where there was a make shift bar and tables.  We acquired some beer and made the first of many friends for the evening.

I texted E to let her know we had made an unscheduled stop.  She was not happy.  She was at Bike World, and going to camp first was our usual modus operandi, but I could tell from the smile on the Mayor's face, we were not going anywhere soon.  I told E to shower and come meet us.  She told me I was an a$$hole.  I told her she was an a$$hole for scaring me so much at the tracks.

In the real world, we sat with a man and woman from Indiana? Illinois?  They had driven the team bus that day, so they were fresh.  She had a cool battery pack charger thing.  They left.

Blurry Iron Doctors.

Then, a group of Iron-People from Ottumwa sat down.  They told us about how after they get done with RAGBRAI, they go for runs/swims at the local pool.  They were also all doctors and nurses.  They drank ultra-light beer, obviously.  They left. 

Old Guys.

Then, a group of old guys from North Carolina and Florida sat down.  They were semi-retired from the used medical equipment sales industry.  They do adventures like this every year.  Then, they left. 

Old Guys leaving.

Meanwhile, E is calling me and yelling at me.  And I am yelling at her.  "Just take the shuttle down" I say.

By Mayoral Order, I decree, Emily, get your ass down here.

Then, the Mayor stepped in.  You can imagine how well that went over.

Then, E eventually did arrive, though, a little ruffled at me.

Then, Nick, the Tiger's new lawyer arrived.

Then, Steven called and we pretended to be talking about her fake plans when really we were talking about her real plans to surprise us in the morning in Boone.

Then, I needed to use the kybo, so I went to the next level of the parking garage, only to find that the awesome music was my ironic-favorite band, The $nacks, whoo-hoo. 

Then, Jenny and her boyfriend who looked just like Jason Segel arrived and sat with us.  They had also driven that day.  Jenny was actually from Glenwood.  Jenny and Jason Segal are incredibly hip.

Then, it became clear, we had to leave.  The Mayor and I needed to eat, needed to shower, and needed to go to bed.  Also, it was getting dark, and our bikes had no lights.

Turns out, the Heartbreaker had also been having some adult beverages at the Giggling Goat.

We mauled a few burgers from the stand on the top level of the parking garage (why a parking garage in Boone???), then had a wobbly and mad-cap ride to the Bike World campground convinced we would get tickets for riding after dark.  We found our tents.  Then, headed to the showers.  I have never waited so long for a shower in my life.  Then, because our tents were on a central corridor through the campground, I spent the night listening to people trip over the guy-line. 

It didn't matter.  The day had started out dark, but had blossomed due to the magic of RAGBRAI, and Steven would be joining us the next day, and with that, I drifted (passed out) off to sleep.