RAGBRAI '13 Stage 1: Sioux Center to Cherokee

Sioux Center to Cherokee: 54.4

Oh Sunday of RAGBRAI.  The day that lets you know just how much pain and suffering you are going to have to pay for a week's worth of fun.  It turns out: a hot lot.  

The Ham-a-Lam-A-Tandem Breaks Camp

We broke camp in Sioux Center after a rocky night's sleep.

Hammie and Emily actually arrived after driving across both Wisconsin and Iowa after an Australian Rules Football tournament in Madison, so they were sleepy.

We had several new folks and a new camp system, so it was a little rockier than normal, but soon we were all on the road headed for the breakfast town: Orange City.

As we rolled into Orange City, we heard the sound of music blaring from a trailer.  Then, over the microphone, came, "Good morning RAGBRAI!  Who is ready to rock Orange City?"  Everyone hooted as what would become known as the RAGBRAI DJ rolled past: a fella on a bike, with a huge Hawkeye speaker trailer.  He had rigged it up so that he could cut the music and speak into a microphone: genius!

We saw him several more times, and usually, he was playing pretty dope music, so even Steven and the Mayor had to forgive him his Hawkeye-love.

Northwest Iowa is Dutch country, and the Dutch are a conservative bunch.  So there would be no fun or shenanigans until we were further east.  I was particularly excited about Orange City, "like Pella only more conservative," because I knew it was a cute town and I had read they were serving "fudge babies"--a waffle on a stick dipped in chocolate and sprinkles.

We quickly found those.  And devoured them.

Then, I got in the coffee line and the Tiger went on his first prowl.  As I sipped hot coffee in the increasingly steaming sunshine, the Tiger returned with a magical treat: the pofterjy--tiny round pancakes in a buttery, orange Brandy sauce.  They were so good, we sent him back for more.

But, as there was no beer in Orange City, and it looked to be a hot one, we headed on a quick 4 miles to Alton.

Of Alton, I remember nothing.  I am pretty sure I had heat stroke.

Alton?

Same goes for Granville.  Nada.  Definitely heat stroke.

Grafton?

The next town was Marcus, the meeting town.  I am pretty sure that this was the day that Kelly met us.  He found a shady yard off the main street, and popped open the trailer and we drank icy cold beer, sat in chairs, and used the bathroom at the nearby bowling alley.  It was glorious.

The only problem was that we had to ride 17 miles still to Cherokee.  There is nothing worse than the longest stretch of the day being at the end.

Did I mention it was hotter than Hades out there?  Blazing, disgusting hot.  I think this was the day that the Tiger filled his panniers with beer for us to drink midway between Marcus and Cherokee and we stopped in the "shade" of a farm house and pondered the strange cruelty that made us choose this vacation with some poor virgin.

Marcus?

In Cherokee, we stayed in the basemen of some nice folks who lived at the top of the hill.  No one really wanted to go downtown, except for me and the Tiger, so we headed down to the main drag where we found some sandwiches, and some ice cream, and some beer.  We bumped into my workout buddy, Bruce, and his wife, who had ridden out to Cherokee.  Bruce is the nicest guy, but I don't think his wife was charmed.

At one point in the conversation, she turns to Bruce and says, "let's get something to eat."

He responds, "are you hungry?"

She says, "No."

And, they left.  We spent the night on the floor, which was cool, but I think the valve is broken on my Therm-a-rest, so I was pretty uncomfortable and I was paranoid that the Tiger's snores would wake the rest of the team like they were waking me.