RAGBRAI 2011 Stage 7: Coralville to Davenport

Oh cruel RAGBRAI-planners, putting a 65 mile day on Saturday, when the Bike World buses leave Davenport at 1?  2?  No time for sleeping in or leisurely beer garden stops, it's all work work work at the end, when, Saturday should be the most fun day.  As it was, it seemed like a whole lot of RAGBRAIers gave up the ghost and headed home from Coralville.

Cruel, cruel Saturday.

As it was, Saturday had problems.  Moving at the glacial pace of me and the Mayor, we knew we were going to have to get up and get moving in the pre-dawn hours.

Getting up early wasn't a problem, as I had fallen asleep in my chair the day before.  Getting packed up in the dark?  That was a problem.  Somewhere along the line, I lost my cell phone, though I was pretty sure it was buried with my gear.

We rode through Iowa City at dawn, which was gorgeous, and in all my days at Iowa, I had never ridden a bike up the Old Capital hill.  On this Saturday, I did it with gusto.  At the top of the hill, at a stop light, I started singing the Iowa Fight Song.  A guy on a tandem told his stoker to "don't ride with the crazy lady," but I didn't care.

We rode through Iowa City, up the long hill on Dubuque, passing E who had stopped for a snack, and out of town for a hilly, though charming ride to West Branch, boyhood home of President Herbert Hoover, where we stopped for a bit of coffee and breakfast.

We mowed through both Springdale and Moscow, through rolling hills and scenic eastern Iowa countryside, over and back over I-80.

There are a couple mandatory stops on RAGBRAI: free beer is one of them.  Free bananas and post cards is another.  The mandatory stop I am trying to institutionalize is the petting zoo stop.  Outside of Wilton, we found a petting zone, where they let you hold a baby goat.

Goat face.

I was in heaven.

I don't know why there are petting zoos on RAGBRAI, but I am so glad they are there.

We wanted to get to Wilton to stop at the famous ice cream store.  After a long wait in line, we got our ice cream, which was good, limited choices but topped with a fresh raspberry sauce.

Beaver none, Beaver One, Let's all Have Some Beaver Fun!

We also got an opportunity to show our Beaver-love with the Heart Breaker.

We cruised into Durant for ribeye sandwich and a beer garden stop.  We chatted up a couple who were on a tandem.  She hadn't really ridden a bike before this RAGBRAI.  That gave E ammunition for her 2012 plan to ride a tandem with her friend Megan, dressed as Lady Gaga.  I kept saying, "riding a tandem isn't as easy as it looks.  Maybe you guys should try it first," but after meeting this couple, she was convinced.

Then, we rode into Walcott, the last stop, second to last town of the day.  Sad beaver.

We enjoyed some beer in the beer garden.  The Mayor complained about his shoes.  E figured out an alternative plan for getting home, again, involving me in the transport of her luggage.  And, we were off again, headed to Davenport and then end or 2011.

He's thinking, "I wish I would just buy some new shoes."

There was still some fun in store, though.

On this particular Saturday, the Saturday when thousands of cyclists, family members and friends of cyclist, along with charters and charter workers, and spectators were streaming into Davenport for the conclusion of RAGBRAI, an even larger number of folks of the running persuasion, along with their entourages, were streaming into Davenport for the Bix 7.  A famous long distance race in honor of Davenport native son Bix Beiderbecke.  Another large contengency of folks were also in town for the annual summer jazz festival.

While it probably seemed like an amazing weekend in the Quad Cities, with 25,000 "atheltes" and their friends flooding (eh? eh?) the city, the result for RAGBRAI was a dicey and less than savory conclusion.

My first ride into the end town, Dubuque, had felt like riding through Paris as a conquering hero.  We ducked and swooped down huge hills, past screaming crowds, rode down main street, and dipped our tires along the recently redone waterfront.

Riding into Davenport was nothing like that.  Because of the traffic, RAGBRAI had to take a detour into Davenport, through what looked like Appalachia.  We rode in on narrow blacktop road, that were so hot the blacktop was melting and sucking our tires.  Up and down hills we meandered until finally we got to the "last big hill."

Mount Something-Or-Other.  Well, it had been an educational RAGBRAI for me.  Though I had more miles under my belt, I was not in as good of shape as I had been the previous year, and the countless rolling hills and my added poundage had take their toll.  My resolve, though, was set.

I was going to ride up this damn hill.

I was going to buy a case of Coors for the bus ride home.

And, that was it.

So, we start slugging up this hill, and there's nothing like a big steep hill, after 65 miles on a Saturday morning.  As we got maybe 10 yards from the top, I noticed this lady with a little kid, maybe 8 or 10, riding along the right curb.  She looked like the kind of person who had never seen RAGBRAI and thought it might be cute to join in with her small child for a mile or two.

Then, out of no where, the kid, wobbles left and right in front of all of this people slogging up this steep little hill, and because I am an evil person, with no great love for children (especially children who do not contain the genetic materials of people that I love), I yelled something that I am slightly ashamed of, but blame it on desperation, dehydration, my own moral failings, but as the kid rode in front of me and nearly stopped, I hollered out, "oh hell no!"

I veered around him and made it to the top.

You know it's going to be terrifying when there are assigned people who are there to warn you about going down a hill.  And, I for sure, love going up hill way more than going down, but thankfully, I didn't have time to think about this one.  I grabbed the brakes, pointed the bike towards hell, and bounced over the rutted blacktop at the bottom.  It was only providence that kept me alive on that one.

The Mayor and I swooped right and then left and what should we behold, but E, standing outside of a divey-looking bar, one finger in the air, the other hand stuffing a hot dog into her face.

Apparently, she hadn't braked going down this hill. The way she tells it, as she was rocked down, images of herself, as a child, frolicking through a field of wild flowers, flashed before her eyes.  She was so shaken up when she reached the bottom, she had to pull over.

As she rattled up to the hot dog grill, one of the regulars out smoking, saw that she was shaking and white as a ghost.  He came up to her, and asked, "are you okay?  Let me buy you a beer."  So she drank the beer.

Remember, E doesn't really drink.  She certainly doesn't drink when she has to do anything.  Beer is like coffee for her, but with the opposite effect.

By the time we arrived, she was on her second hot dog and she needed to buy her new friend a beer in return.  I grumbled a bit about this lackluster ride to glory, but as soon as I was set up with an Old Style I stopped complaining.

Then, we drank ourselves out of cash (the bar didn't have an ATM), and watched the other shakey riders sneak in.  One guy and his team came into clean him up after a crash on the death hill.  I thanked my lucky stars.  And, when we were out of money, we finally  had to move on.

But, here is where the Mayor and I learned something important.  Beer seems to have the reverse affect on E that it does on me.  Instead of giving her go-go juice power, it slows her down.  And, she had a few beers.  This will be important in 179 days.

I am pretty sure the last mile into Davenport, through its unsung districts of warehouses, shanties, and refineries, was the only mile on the ride I was ahead of my sister.

We found Bike World, who were literally set up in the parking lot of an abandoned gas station. 

Notice what E is holding. 

When E showed up we had one last group picture.

For lease, one ghetto gas station.

Okay, maybe two last group pictures.

We were a small but mighty little team.  I was proud that we kept RAGBRAI alive, if not thriving in the absence of Steven.  I was proud that E finally embraced the spirit of RAGBRAI, and I was proud to have cemented my friendship with the Mayor.

We said good-bye to Easy-E, who wobbled up the road to find Nasty Nick's team to get a ride home.  Then, the Mayor and I brow beat a few Bike World employees into telling us where there was a gas station.  Though it was but two blocks away, they didn't want to tell us.  Fair enough.  I wouldn't want to be waiting with a bus load of sweaty, tired people for a couple boozey old drunks, who are lost in the wilds of Davenport's lesser-loved districts.

Suffice it to say, we found a gas station.  I learned that my Ibex jersey can hold six cans of Coors.  We returned to the gas station.  Then, we squirreled our stash into a cooler.  Then, we went to change clothes.  I ended up changing in what was clearly a bum camp: there were pint-size bottles of whiskey, a moldy old sleeping bag, and piles of trash: classy.

Then, we milled around in the parking lot waiting for the buses to leave.  At one point, I looked up and noticed some joker pocketing a bunch of our Coors.  He sneaked off before I could stop him, but then another guy tried to take our Coors.  Apparently, he thought it was Bike World's beer and he could just have it.  Oh, hell no son.

We stood sentinel over our cooler until it made it on the bus. 

Nom, nom, nom.

We settled into the back seat of the bus, armed with beer and snacks.

So tan, so sleepy.

It had been a long and trying RAGBRAI, even for the Mayor.

They don't call him the Mayor for nothing.

Then, we drank a bunch of beer, and I did what I do best: bad influence.

In 2011, we had made plans to separate at Bike World, then meet back up for some good beer at El Bait Shop.  But, as I know from the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, if you go home to shower, you won't come back out.

In my rocky-mountain water filled haze, I convinced the Mayor that he shouldn't go home!  Instead, Smitty could take his bags (sorry Smitty!), and the Tiger and I could take him to El Bait Shop.  There we could rendezvous with Steven and have a jolly good Saturday night.

Well, my plan worked only to a point.  The Mayor and I had fun until it was abundantly clear that everyone else wasn't having fun, and if there is one thing that is not that much fun, it is hanging out with a bunch of booze hounds when you are sober and responsible.

The evening ended on what I felt was a dark and somber note, and I felt bad about my bad influencing.

And, so there you have it, only days before they announce the route for the 40th running of the RAGBRAI, I conclude my bloviated, extended, and nasal-gaving travelogue of the 39th RAGBRAI.

I am, though, looking forward to the coming year, getting Steven back and the inaugural ride of the Tiger.  The Thunda has threatened to come back and my sister is down for sure.  Maybe Ma-sing-gaa if we are lucky, though no Lexi for sure.  If I get my act together, jerseys will happen, and perhaps a bus of our own for Team Beaver: tomorrow is the future of today.

(I found my cell phone: it had been wrapped up in my dew-damp tent.  It was my major RAGBRAI casualty.)