Pass the Dutchy on the Left Hand Side: Brewery Loop Ride, Part 2

Insufficient, to say the least.

The written directions for the ride indicated, "the return trip to Knoxville includes an inviting canopy of trees shading the hard surface Volksweg Trail." 

Now, do you see Volksweg Trail on that map? No. Just "Clark" and "Keokuk." Hmm.

Oh, sorry, this is Part 2 of the Brewery Loop ride report. For Part 1, see yesterday's post. 

Where was I? So, Masinga and I found the Volksweg Trail and rode out of town. Turns out, this was the route we took into Pella on the ragby last year. Oh, memories of that stupid ice cream truck...and bloody marys. 

The trail was pretty cool, and at the top of one of the little hills was an awesome bike-windmill. If those kids were selling lemonade they would make a fortune! 

 Nice windmill.

We rode on, turning a bit east and headed down a long hill. Another cyclist passed us on the road, while we were on the trail, but he was almost hit by a sketchy looking van, so I was please for some bike trail options. 

As we rode down the hill, near the bottom, we passed an older couple that were walking their bikes up hill. "Are you guys okay?" is my standard question to distressed cyclists. 

"We're from Florida," the lady replied, "this is a mountain!"

"Welcome to Iowa!" I yelled back and let go of the brakes.

Soon we were at the bottom of the hill, and the trail crossed the road and headed into the woods. We came out at a campground at the bottom of the dam and spent some time enjoying the view from the railroad bridge turned pedestrian viewing spot. Then, we made our way to the pedestrian bridge and into the woods. We passed so many happy kids on bikes with dirt on their mouths; Masinga pointed them out, "they are just having so much fun they can't even wipe their mouths!" 

We found a map sign and did some quick guessing/hoping we were headed in the right direction, and turned east again towards another semi-hidden campground on the lake. At the entrance we asked the DNR guy if he could tell us the way to get to T17. "Just go up the hill and you'll get to it," he replied.

We rode 50 yards and discovered two hills, going in opposite directions. We weren't even sure which way we were facing. Another DNR lady stopped and tried to help. "Well, this way is better for biking," she replied. Hmm..that wasn't the point.

Masinga's initial thought was to head up the winding hill to our left. Mine was to go up the straight hill to the left. Then, after checking our phones, we swapped opinions. Then, Masinga, getting sick of mapping and guessing just started saying, "fine, fine, whatever, I don't care." 

My reply to this moment of sassiness was to slap her with the map around the shoulders and remind her that this was part of the fun. 

We took her initial idea, and my second thought hill, the one to the left, and wound uphill on a quiet road. At the top, we passed old burned out barns and horse pastures and then came to a T intersection. Also, not on the damn map. I thought we should go right. She thought we should go left. We went right, but I soon saw a cross road that was in the wrong direction, so we turned around. (Are we having fun yet?)

Then, we rode up and down hills and around curves until we finally discovered T17 again! Huzzah! We turned on to the road, knowing we only had to find 92 and that would be our last navigational issue of the day. 

T-17 turned out to follow part of the route out of Pella from ragby '13. And I soon remembered climbing these hills, passing this quarry once before. Backpocket Brewery had been at the top of one of these hills I seem to recall...

Soon, but probably not soon enough, we were on Highway 92, which the map promised had "a welcome paved shoulder."

Welcome yes. Smooth, uh, no. But, we could smell the barn, so we climbed up and down the long, rolling hills back west towards Knoxville. It was still a glorious day.

Soon I was facing down a bit of a beast of a hill. My new strategy for climbing is "just don't look up." I can climb and not even get too winded if I don't let my brain realize how much more I have to do, so instead, I put my head down and counted the compression gaps. One, two, thirteen, twenty-two. If I looked up, I had to start all over. Soon, I was at the top, and on the horizon, I could see more hills! And, where the highway divided into four lanes. I crossed a bridge and then pulled over to wait for Masinga. 

I kept waiting for her green jersey to come around to bend, but no. I rode back across the bridge, towards the top of the hill, still didn't see her. I check my phone.

"Flat back tire." 

Damnation! 

She sent that message a few minutes before I checked, so I headed back down the hill. As I got around the bend, though, I didn't see her on the upslope. I didn't see her on the previous downslope either. Where was she? Did she flat on the previous hill? Was I going to have to ride back over two of these bad boys?

I coasted down hill, thinking the worst. Then, I spotted her. With her green jersey, and sitting on the side of the road, she blended into the grass. By the time I reached her, she had already changed the tube and was putting the wheel back on. She just had to fill 'er up.

Cool as a cucumber. I am going to let Masinga change my tires from now on.

I was totally impressed. I can change a tire, but it takes me about 75 minutes. Masinga had done hers in just about 10! She used her CO2 to fill up the tire, but it she was out of gas and the tire was a bit low. I gave her an extra CO2, but we discovered that our pumps and cartridges were different sizes. (WTF?). We tried to use my CO2 pump, but it got jammed and started burning poor Masinga's hand with cold gas. She dropped it in surprise and pain and the top got jammed. We had only one CO2 left and the top was stuck on my pump, so we decided to just try to ride into Knoxville on a squishy tire. 

Masinga, understandably, was not in the happiest of moods at this point, so I rode a bit ahead, but keeping an eye on her. It wasn't long before we reached the turn towards Knoxville. 

"Is there anything I should be doing to be safe on a low tire?" She asked before we turned towards town.

"Uh, try not to hit any bumps," I replied.

"Thanks smart ass," she said. 

"And, I would take it easy going down hill." With a harumph, and knowing that beer was in our future, we turned back towards town. One last long down hill, and uphill and we turned onto Main Street. In no time flat, we had the bikes loaded and we were headed into the brewery.

There, Masinga, reveled in her amazing bike-fixing skills and Blonde Fatale. I got to eat my dumplings. We both pondered over how the ride that was supposed to be 29 miles, with an 8 mile edition ended up being 36 miles, and we finally decided we should drive over to Indianola to try the Outside Scoop. Good choice. 

There were some dark moments, but I tried to remember all that I have learned from the Smiths and pass it on to my new riding buddy. 

I text Steven a picture and a message about Masinga's triumphs of the day: "Don't let the face fool you. This beaver just rode a hilly 36 miles. Changed a tire in just 10 minutes and is now drinking a blonde fatale at Peace Tree." 

Masinga! Masinga! Masinga!

She replied, "the grasshopper has surpassed the master." 

I couldn't agree more.

Post Script

It wasn't until I was writing this blog, and look at Cycle Central Iowa.com, that I realized the climbing on this ride. Hot damn!

Ah-ha!

Now, if only they would include some turn-by-turn directions, that'd be great.

Pass the Dutchy on the Left Hand Side: Brewery Loop, Part 1

On May 20th, I got a text message from Masinga. The fact that I got a text message wasn't that noteworthy, because Masinga and I text a lot. Rather, it was the content of the text message. 

"I've got Sat and Mon off. Let's hang out. Ride bikes. Drink beer."

Jenga! 

Often, I have complained that I don't have anyone Smith-like to ride bikes with in DSM. No one that appreciates the shenanigans, the urge to go fast, but not always the ability, the friendliness, the snacks, and the reward of a beer after a ride. Until now. I wouldn't say I'm "grooming" Masinga to be my bike buddy here in DSM (because she reads that blog and she would hate that! Hi Masinga!), but rather that I am highly encouraging her to ride bikes and highly discouraging her running-habit.

(Goldie encourages her running habit, so it probably actually balances out.)

The reason I was so excited to ride bikes with Masinga over the Memorial Day holiday was the fact that I had a great bike ride in mind. I finally bought the Cycle Central Iowa map, with some new routes around DSM, and I wanted to try them out. I'd been thinking of doing the Brewery Loop by myself, but hadn't gotten the motivation. But, if Masinga was going, we would have safety in numbers and the joy of Peace Tree Brewing at the end. Huzzah. 

Masinga was down, so we made plans to head out of town between 9 and 10 after she finished up at the farmer's market. 

The Brewery Loop seemed like a great idea. Knoxville to Pella, Red Rock, shoulder-highways, and Peace Tree beer at the end. And, the description of the route made it sound fabulous. Especially the dumplings and Blonde Fatale. 

Oh, well if Another Dam Bike Club Rides this route...

We loaded the bikes up and headed to Knoxville. It was a glorious morning. Over cast, warm, but not hot. Just a bit of a breeze. We parked near the brewery and lickety split we were on our way. The route took us out out of Knoxville on the main street and through the industrial area. There were some impressive little hills on the way out of town, and not much of a shoulder. This was Masinga's first ride on country roads, she told me, which made her a bit nervous, but it was glorious riding. I kept my eye out for the ragby-route from '13, but things didn't look all that familiar until we hit the dam.

A couple of the hills heading towards the lake kind of got me, and Masinga swung around and passed me going up hill. I tried not to beat myself up for being slow on the hills, and I was proud of her! Go girl! I finally caught up with her as we crossed the dam and we stopped halfway for some pictures. 

I can't see my screen with my polarized lenses. So I have to drop my glasses, like a suspicious cop.

Here's a nicer one of Masinga.

The Mighty Des Moines, headed down stream.

Then, we continued on towards Pella. On a big hill heading towards town, a huge motorcycle gang came from the other direction. I tried to give them the motorcyclist peace sign, but they just ignored us, puffing up the hill in the other direction. After a few close calls with some speeding cars--I see you orange convertible--we turned right and headed into Pella.

This is where things got a bit confusing. The route was supposed to be 29 miles, with an optional 8 mile loop into Pella. The map, at least the one that I had, was pretty skimpy on the directions, but we figured we were headed in the right direction, overall, as we rode the busy highway into town. 

Gets a little sketchy with some of those details...

Soon, though, we were at the Pella town square, ready for a snack and a bit of a break. We parked the bikes outside of the Jaarsma Bakery and went in search of food. Me for stroopwafels and Masinga for something savory, as she had a sweet treat at the farmer's market. 

First, I went to the meat market, here I heard they had the "good" stroopwafels. Nope. Masinga found a beef stick and a mini Maytag blue cheese though. Then, I went to the Jaarsma bakery. They had the "okay" stroopwafels, but the line was INSANE. It was Saturday. Then, I went to the other bakery, but they didn't have stroopwafels at all. Finally I settled for a coffee, a mini carrot cake, and some unknown stroopwafels from the coffee shop, where there wasn't really a line at all. Masinga patiently waited while I shuffled between businesses.

Patient, because she had invented the best treat ever: beef stick dipped in blue cheese. Whoop whoop.

Innovator!

My carrot cake was intensely frosted, and my coffee was so-so, but I had beer in my future, so I didn't care. We relaxed in the shade, and then headed over to the bike shop to see if they had any tips on the route. 

Alas, the bike shop folks had never seen this route before, so they were nearly as baffled as we were. They did direct us to the Volkswag trail, so we grabbed our bikes and walked towards the library for a bathroom break. (We did see the orange convertible and gave the people in it dirty looks). 

Before long, we were embarking on the second half of our ride, back towards the lake, and some very indeterminate directions, and, of course, some adventure...but this blog post is already getting pretty long, so you'll have to come back next time for the stunning conclusion.

A Taste of Maine

Yesterday, I wrote about one of our adventures in the North East: Montreal. As we rambled around Montreal, I had a thought. As much as I appreciated the city--it was amazing--it was a city. And, at some point, all big cities are alike. They are crowded, busy, hectic, and overstimulating. I do enjoy them, but I think I enjoy the wilderness more. 

I was a bit disappointed that we didn't get to do more "outside" stuff in Maine, but I consoled myself with the thought that Bobby Panama and Rose are probably going to be living there for a long time, so this is just the first of many visits to come. In the future, there will be more camping/hiking/boating/cross-country-skiing, I hope.

We did get a taste, and I do mean taste, of Maine-living, though. We were spending the night at Rose's family farm outside the northern Maine town of Frankfort. We had to drop off her dog, Louie, so we could go to Montreal. While there, we planned to have a Maine-feast, which included lobster, of course, and fiddlehead ferns. 

On the drive up Highway 1, we stopped outside of Camden at a truck parked on the side of the road and bought 7 of the healthiest lobsters I have ever seen. We plunked them in a cooler and continued north. 

When we arrived at the farm, we enjoyed a beer, but then, we had to get to work. We had to "hunt," as Bobby Panama called it, our dinner. We were going into the marsh to collect the fiddlehead ferns. 

Tiger foraging.

Everyone in Maine owns at least two pairs of knee high rubber boots, so there were plenty to share. Me, the Tiger, Bobby Panama, and his friend Chrissy drove town to the bridge and hiked along Marsh Creek in search of the fiddleheads.

Fiddleheads!

A fiddlehead is the top of a particular kind of fern. Ferns, as you probably know, are fluffy and leafy, but before they come out of the ground, the tops are tightly wrapped in a coil. They kind of look like snails made of greens. At first, I had no idea what I was looking for, but Chrissy found a few and that helped.

Chrissy teaches kids how to sail boats!

What kind of flower is this?

We tromped around in the woods, and soon, Chrissy and I discovered (the boys had gone further afield) that the ferns were tucked under little hummocks of dried grass. You could tell where a fern was dreaming of summer under these little pockets of grass. If we unearthed those: jackpot. 

Bobby Panama tells us a story about a beaver.

More foraging.

The boys returned, and being less patient, had been less successful, but we had a dinner's worth of ferns to take back to the farm. The creek was full of ponds with frogs and clear water, and the light from the setting sun was just breathtaking. I would have stayed out there for a month if they would have let me. 

Glorious!

But, we had to head back. While the ladies were making dinner, the "kids" went out to the cow pasture to fly kites, obviously. 

Cleaning the fiddleheads.

Kiteflying.

Dinner was amazing. The lobster was the best I had ever had. And the fiddleheads, parboiled and then cooked in butter, tasted like a delicate asparagus and, well, ferns. We had a blueberry custard for dessert and a night cap of Bulleit Rye, before drifting off to sleep to the sound of peeper-frogs. 

Lobster square off.

P.S. The next day, we took a wrong turn that turned out to be right because we spotted two moose, munching in bogs on the side of the road. We drove past ski slopes, and crossed the Appalachian trail, and I considered making a break for it after lunch. Montreal, heck, I wanted to go hiking, or canoeing, or fiddle-head picking. Next time, I guess.

Lady moose!

Mont Royal, Oh La La!

We went on vacation early this year. The Tiger's brother, Bobby Panama, was on semester break and invited us to go on a trip to Montreal. He and his lovely lady, Rose, live in Portland, Maine. We flew into Boston, spent the night with Frank, then drove to Portland, then drove to Frankfort, Maine, then drove to Montreal. Then reversed the whole process. Needless to say, it was a lot of driving.

Now, I love vacation, but it wreaks havoc on my work out mojo. I always dutifully pack a sports bra and athletic shoes, but I never, ever use them. And, then when I get home, I feel like a slug: bloated, weak, and gross. 

The only thing that sort of kind of mitigates all the car-sitting, gas-station snacks, and, in this case, poutine and Molson Dry, is walking. Bobby Panama is a master of the endless, directionless, city-ramble. We don't go to a lot of attractions, but we do walk by a lot of attractions. (He other favorite what is what I call the "hunger hike," in which we buy take-out food, say pastry, and then walk endlessly to find the perfect spot to eat it. The alternative is the beer hike, in which we must walk for miles and miles until we find a bar that is shabby enough to be considered acceptable for a drink.)

So, we walked a lot in Montreal, which was great. The city is like Europe, but with space. It is beautiful, and old, and clean. Everyone speaks French, but also speaks English. There are exotic restaurants on every corner, piping good smells into the air, and it is very "bikey."

On the 20th, we walked from our Air BnB to the Viuex Port, then to the Viuex Montreal (old port and old town). Then we walked to McGill. Then we walked by the park. Then we walked back to our B&B. Then we walked back to the park and climbed the "mountain." 

Montreal!

Montreal is named for a "mountain" in the center of town. It's really a big hill, but it is impressive nonetheless. It was designed by Olmstead, who also designed City Park in New York and Audubon Park in New Orleans. He wanted to use special trees to make it seem even bigger, but thanks to a depression in 1817, the ran out of funds for trees. Still, it's impressive. It is covered in trees, and webbed with paved roads for bikes, hiking trails, and look outs. 

We walked up the north east side of the park. The boys both snuck into the woods to take a nature break. This was challenging because there were a lot of people in the park, running, hiking, riding bikes. We found the main road and headed uphill. The road was a gradual climb, through rocky forest. 

Bobby Panama and Rose, headed up hill.

Check out the size of that tree!

Near the "front" or St. Lawrence facing section of the park, was a stairwell, and lots of fit Montrealers were climbing up it in running clothes. We continued up the "casual way." I was impressed with how many people were out enjoying the park and climbing the mountain. 

We wound our way above Beaver Lake, or Lac du Castors, and hiked up some stairs that looked like they might be the summit. Alas, no, but we did see a ground hog. 

We continued climbing and eventually found our way to the main building at the top of the mountain, below it was a wide terrace for viewing Montreal, the St. Lawrence Seaway, and Quebec beyond. It was magnificent. 

This picture barely does it justice.

After lots of pictures and relaxing at the top of the mountain, we took the stairs down. Boy, I am glad we didn't take them up. There were so many! I got dizzy climbing down them. Then, we walked back out of the park, dreaming of sandwiches for dinner.

Here's what our park ramble looked like. The asterisks is the crazy stairs.

That evening we ate at Schwartz's deli and then walked a ways to a cool bar called Casa de Poppolo for beers and hanging out time. It was just the right level of shabby.

Everyone was a little footsore by the end of the day, but, as Othe and Marie used to say, a good time was had by all.

Summit picture!

#ohnofondo Ride Report Bonus!

Just when you thought the fondo-time was over... there's more! 

We left for vacation on May 8th, and came home on May 18th. In the massive pile of mail was a strange package, for me...it was from the Des Moines Gran Fondo. 

"How strange," I said to myself. 

Inside was this: 

A new Bike World water bottle (note: this is a stand-in Bike World water bottle. As the new Bike World water bottle has already been assimilated, aka, I don't know where it is). 

And, a $25 gift certificate to the "Des Moines Gran Fondo Winner."

Maybe I don't know enough about Gran Fondos. Perhaps in Gran Fondos DNF really is winning. Huzzah! I won! So, congratulations to me on my first Gran Fondo victory of the year. I'd like to thank all my blog-readers for their support and encouragement. 

#ohnofondo Ride Report Part 8: Finding My Way

Note: if you haven't read the first 7 parts of this blog, it might not make sense. Of course, it might not make sense if you have read those parts too. But, they are all there for you, so see the index on the right. 

As I rode into Dallas Center, I thought about more options. I didn't know how to get from the Waukee to the Valley View Aquatic Center. I did know how to get to Rookie's, a bar where the Tiger sometimes hangs out with his Waukee-friend. I could call the Tiger and see if he wanted to meet for a beer, and then take advantage of the bike ambulance. 

I stopped at the sitting-area at the DC trail head and gave him a call. He didn't answer, so I texted him the idea. He called me right back. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn't want to come to Waukee. He and Stew had been at the Coolest Bike in Town show and were "hanging out at Stew's house." I.E. they already had beer and a disinclination to drive. 

But, before he called me back, I queried Google Maps about the feasiblity of riding from this spot in DC to my car. It turned out, it wasn't that hard at all. There was even bike trail most of the way. Huzzah. I told the Tiger I'd be fine and I'd call him if there was an emergency, and I hopped back on the bike, a new spring in my quads. 

I whizzed down the trail and arrived at the corner of the Mulch Mart and University, my first direction. From there I had to hit the button on the north west corner of the intersection and then dive haphazardly into traffic to get to the south east corner. But I survived and then rode through pleasant bike trails through West Des Moines.

I turned on to the trail along University and rode nearly to my turn. They threatened that the trail was closed due to construction but I made it through and turned on to 98th street. What Google maps didn't tell me was this was gravel: little baby worn down gravel, more dirt than gravel, but gravel still. As I rode through the rutted road, storm clouds were chasing in from the west. 

I turned east again and rode up a bit of a hill towards the interstate. There, I made a wrong turn, heading back north, when I needed to be going south, before finding my way to the appropriate turn off. Also, we should note: gravel. Never mind. It took me through a neighborhood called "the Mansions" which were really condos before leading me right to the entrance of the Valley View Aquatic Center. Huzzah! 

There was my car, waiting for me. And, it turned out, I wasn't the only person still there. A could of jokers were hiding from the now-rain near the pool entrance, but all the trucks with all the Freds were gone, I noted. I loaded up my car, hopped in the driver's seat, and, noting the rain and my fatigue, decided I made the right decision. 

I felt pretty okay about the day. I rode enough to feel like I spent the day on my bike, but I didn't embarrass myself by creeping up the hill from Van Meter with the organizer and his wife behind me, in their truck, waiting for me to finish. It turned out like a fairy tale. The Norman-Locks and the three ride options: the 100-mile was too long. The 50 mile was too short. The 73-mile was just right. 

I did come to one important conclusion, though. And, I think it's a good one. I don't mind "training" rides solo, but I don't want to do any more "group" rides solo. It just felt too sad, too lonely to be riding by myself among all those groups of friends. So, I won't be doing the TOMROV this year. The "biking challenge" (to use the phrase of Easy-E) would be good, but the idea of riding all those miles lonely but not alone is too much.

fin

#ohnofondo Ride Report Part 7: Now What?

Dear Readers, I am always surprised when people read this blog, so you can imagine how surprised I was when three (of the four of you) mentioned that I "left you hanging." I apologize! I thought I was going to get them all written, but then we went on vacation. Here's the rest. 

So, there I was. Standing under a tent, mauling bananas and granola bars and semi-coherently chatting with the support-people. One of the bad-ass ladies, Joann, from Velo Rosa was wo-manning the granola bars. And, the guy with the Oakley banner arrived soon after I did. Also there was the guy who organized the whole event. He sat down to calculate the KOM awards. Needless to say, I didn't win one.

As I was standing there, I got the feeling, and I don't know how to describe it, but I got an antsy-feeling, from the supporters. Here I was. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. I was 50 miles into a 100 mile ride. They wanted everyone off the course by 5pm. You do the math, right? So, I weighed my options.

1) I could, f#ck em, and just keep riding. Damn the 5pm cut off, though, the idea of riding back up the Raccoon River Valley hill loomed in my mind. Also, the Van Meter hill...and I was already kind of bushed.

2) I would take a ride with the organizer guy. He hinted/offered a ride in his truck. Undignified, but fast.

3) I could ride the trail to Dallas Center and then hop back on the route, cutting out some hills and some miles.

4) Or I could just ride the trail back to my car and call it a day.

What to do?

I didn't want to be an asshole, but I didn't want to be pathetic either.

So, I went for option 4. That way, the ride organizers wouldn't have to wait for me to finish, but I would still be riding home of my own power.

As soon as I stepped out from under the tent, the dudes were bringing that Easy-Up back down. I could tell I made the right decision because they were eager. I thanked them, told them I had fun, and then hopped back on my bike.

I'd been to Mindburn on RAGBRAI. I remember being very hangry, but I insisted on riding the route to Dallas Center. I'd never been on the trail, so at least I'd see something new.

Joann had already taken off, but she was stopped on the trail ahead of me. I passed her and she yelled, "isn't this nice?" Referring, to the flatness and tailwindedness of the trail.

I tried not to beat myself up too much for wimping out on the 100. I rode 50, kind of out of no where, and that wasn't nothing. What would my friends think? Would Steven be disappointed in me? And, with those thoughts in my head, and Dallas Center looming on the horizon, I rode on, but, it turned out. This ride wasn't over just yet.

#ohnofondo Report Part 6: I do believe in tail winds. I do believe in tail winds.

Minburn, here I come!

I am a firm believer in "low expectations are the key to happiness." And, as such, I don't believe tail winds exist. I mean, sure, theoretically, they are a thing that could happen, but I have been on too many out and back rides into head winds, dreaming of my big pay off, only to have the wind shift, to plan on them. I just pretend that they don't exist. 

But, that eastward ride into Mindburn challenged my beliefs. Hot damn. What a tail wind. All of a sudden, I was flying! Past field and farm, glen and ale, up and down little swells. It was amazing. Occasionally, I get a little puff of cross breeze from the north, but mostly, this was living. All of a sudden, I didn't want to mow lawns or take a nap or die anymore and my heart attack mysteriously went away. "I'm healed!"

I even had to shift into the big ring. I was coasting. I mean, this was good, good stuff. 

Shortly, though, I came across a familiar scene. A big, brick school with a shady yard, at an intersection of highways. Wait a minute: this was the last stop on the way into Perry. Ragby redo! I fondly reminisced about getting my water bottles filled up with giardia ice melt and being mocked by a lady who "actually trains" while waiting in line for the kybo. Ah, memories. 

Then, I swooped through the intersection, and I was headed east on the route that took us from Perry to Des Moines. Yup, there's where we got a picture with the EMTs! Around the bend, I saw, in the distance one of those big Oakley promo flags and a dude with bikes on his car hanging out on the side of the road. He was playing music and smiled as I rode by. I was having so much fun, I even yelled out, "did I win anything yet?" 

He yelled back, "not yet. Keep on rolling." 

Soon, I was barreling down a hill towards where had once been the free whisky stop. Oh memories. And then, the memory of riding back up the river valley towards Minburn. Oh, this hill. Damn it. 

I was about 3/4 of the way of creeping up hill when the guy with the black car and the Oakley flag rolled by, hazards blinking. 

After what seemed like an eternity, I popped up on the top of the hill, and could see Minburn in the distance. 

"Wait a minute," I thought to myself. "The map showed a little dog leg into Mindburn. That means, I have to go back west, and back down and up that hill again. Hmmmm...Interesting." 

But, I didn't have time to think about that. I wanted to see if the aid station was still open. I figured they would have packed up hours again. But, no, there it was. An easy up, the Oakely guy, and Joann from Velo Rosa in the city park. 

Fifty miles. I'd made it half way. I put my bike down and dove into the bananas and granola bars, and I was about to have to important, dare I say it, fondo-changing, conversation.

#ohnofondo Report Part 5: Regroup and Re-regroup.

Miles 25-50ish

"Well, alright," I thought to myself, as I turned north on El Paso road. "A new kind of slightly less wind."

It didn't even feel that bad. I was going to be fine. Then, I past the grove of trees on the corner and the wind found me again.

"Okay," I thought, "but you don't really have to ride north after this either. Just get through this part." And, so I kept on riding.

The countryside was dotted with natural gas plants? Stations? I don't know. And a lot of farmers seemed to be mowing their lawns.

"You could be mowing a lawn," I thought to myself forlornly. "You could be a normal person who doesn't ride a bike and just mows lawns on the weekends. Instead of being out here so damn slow on a bike."

With that thought, and as the road curved back around to the west, I figured it was time for a regroup. Indicated by the star above. I pulled over in the gravel and got out my map. I located the curve on which I was regrouping and realized that no, in fact, I wasn't as far west as I would have to go, and I wasn't very far north either.

I started riding again. Along the way, I saw more farmers mowing, a tiny child on a tiny dirt bike (that looks fun! an engine!), an awesome tree house (good place for a nap), many motorcycles (why don't I start motorcycling?), and an old farm dog (geez, I don't have the energy to ride away from him. I guess I'll just get bitten. What would happened in American Flyers if Marcus and Dave hadn't ridden faster than Eddie?)

Soon, or not really that soon, I arrived at the westward turn, a slightly busier highway, and then north again. This really was my last north! And, this is where things started to get fuzzy.

I considered taking another regroup break, just a stretching break in the grass.

Then, I started talking myself into the idea that I was having a heart attack, because my left arm was hurting, and I was tired, and I was started to feel cross-eyed and shaky. Then, I reminded myself that these are also symptoms of not really training.

I had found the dark place.

Finally, at the top of a hill, near a grove of pine trees, I stopped again. Regroup #2. I ate my other half of my Larabar, drank some water, stretched, and considered how ironic it would be if my eastern turn was just over this last rise.

I climbed back on my bike, and just then, two motorcyclists came roaring up from the south. Ironic that I'd been alone all day, it seemed, only to be waiting for traffic on this empty highway.

Then, just yards ahead, I saw it. A sign. The turn towards the east, towards Minburn. I had made it. I had survived the headwind, the loneliness, myself, my heart attack.

Things started looking up.

#ohnofondo Ride Report Part 4: Westward, Hoes!

And then, I was alone.

I left Adel with some feeling of trepidation in my heart and pasta-salad indigestion in my gut. The route took us through the brick streets of Adel, past the fairgrounds, and out onto the country roads.

Westward.

And, it seemed fine. Windy, but fine. The route took us west, then north, then east. All I had to do, was get to the tailwind. No problem.

Well, it soon became a problem.

There I was, just riding along, through vast, open countryside, past farms and fields. And, it was nice. Windy, but nice. I tried not to think about how nice it would be to have someone to share the wind with, but it was cool.

Then, the negative thoughts started creeping in, and my shoe squeaked my pedal, alternatively.

"You're too slow." Squeak.

"You're not going to finish." Squeak.

"If you think this is hard, wait till the Copper Triangle." Squeak.

"Do you even like bicycling?" Squeak.

"Oh my god this f#cking wind! Where is the turn?" Squeak.

Then, I tried to redirect my thinking.

"Listen, Rice," I said to myself. "You love to ride your bike, and if you look around, you are riding it in a beautiful place. And, who cares if you are alone? I mean, you ride your bike alone all the time. And, you haven't even ridden forty miles, yet. You ride 40 miles all the time. You are fine."

"The wind isn't even that bad," I thought to myself, starting to feel better when WHOOOSH, a big gust blew me into the center of the lane.

Squeak.

I stopped to text my mom and let her know I'd be out all day, rather than being home after 50.

I tried to remember the map and where the turn might be.

I thought about the fact that once I turned, I'd still be headed into a head wind.

I gazed at the road ahead:

I tried to upload this three times, upright, and it didn't work, so sorry.

It went up, and on, and up, and on, into the wind.

At the top of that first hill, there was an adorable farm with baby goats. Then, on a level spot, I spotted two other cyclists, but they were going in the other direction, (and looked like they were enjoying it too), but even those we were in the middle of no where, they didn't wave. I wondered if they were 100 milers who gave up? Or if they were just folks out of a ride on this desolate country road. 

I started looking at the horizon for roads coming from the north on which cars were driving fast enough that they might be paved, and hence, the turn!

Finally, after 8 miles of creeping into the headwind, I saw the sign for the turn. North! Slightly less headwind. Huzzah. 

"Well," I told myself, "you have ridden as far westward as you are going to ride today. Good work, Rice."

The only problem was that statement was completely wrong.

#ohnofondo Race Report Part 3: In Which Rice Sees Folks KOMing, But Doesn't Not Care

And so, I left Van Meter. The climb out of Van Meter wasn't so bad. In fact, it was even a bit picturesque. The river to the left, country side to the right, and mostly empty roads ahead. I creeped over the interstate, but couldn't induce any truck drivers to honk, and then followed more scenic road to the north.

The road was so empty, though, I started to worry that I took a wrong turn. Maybe I should have stopped and listened to the race organizer as he chatted with that group at Casey's, rather than just riding away, joking, like a joker.

The route, complete with lostishness at the end.

Then, I saw a stake with some red plastic tape on it on the left side of the road. Perhaps this was a sign? And, it was, ahead, was a Scheel's Easy Up, complete with race bike hanging from one of the beams, on the left side the road. On the right side of the road, two of the raciest Freds, I'd seen back at the Valley View Aquatic Center, were running the KOM station.

KOMs worked like this: if you wanted to participate, you stop at the station, get a ribbon tied onto your bike. The guys at the bottom note the start, and the guy at the top note the end. That way, people can "race" without losing their friends. I had no interest in racing, nor did I have any aspirations for royalty, nor did I have any friends, so I decided to skip this part of the Fondo.

Just as I was riding up, a dude on a hybrid was getting a push start, so I followed him. The hill was long and sweeping and it didn't look very steep. But, with the wind out of the WNW it turned out to be a bit of a doozy. I was vaguely trying to catch the dude who was racing, and trying to focus on my spinning, when a gray car pulled up along side.

All I heard was a shout and all I saw was an arm out the window, then, without thinking, I flipped the car the bird. Like an asshole.

Why? Why did I do that? I think I thought, or heard, or just assumed they were yelling some insult about getting off the road. But, by the time they caught the hybrid-dude, I realized they were cheering us on. "Oh well," I thought, and kept on plugging.

The road finally flattened out, and I caught the hybrid guy, and kept riding into the wind. I glanced behind me and saw someone. Did I pass that slowly? Or maybe he really was racing?

No, it turns out, it was actually a different KOM-er, who came around me, and crossed the finish line of the climb a few minutes before me. He turned to wait for his group, and I continued on. Ahead, we were to cross Hickman, turn west on the bike trail, and ride into Adel, for lunch. This was a route I knew well.

When you get to the turn off to Dallas Center, the Raccoon River Valley Trail is a gentle, shaded, grade downhill. It is a lovely bit of trail, and a reward for having schlepped across mile after mile of open field along Hickman. I love riding west on this section, but dread riding east. "Just think," I thought, "you'll be back this way soon."

In Adel, I followed the signs into town. There was an easy up outside of a church near downtown, but there were no signs, no people, no bikes, so I rolled past, looking for the Fondo infrastructure. I rode past the square, into a neighborhood, and finally to the fairgrounds. Nada. How had I missed it?

I got out my map, and my phone-GPS, and a quick snack. Lunch was coming up, but I didn't want to try to navigate while hangry. I chewed half of a Coconut Creme Pie Larabar and reviewed my mistake. The stop was on the other side of the square. How had I missed it? So, I backtracked. At the square, I ran into another lady who made the same mistake, and we made our way back to that church with the easy-up.

Behind the church, and out of sight from the south, were bikes and people and pulled pork sandwiches, which I was relieved to see. I pulled over, removed my helmet, and parked my bike.

Note: on breezy, slightly chilly April days, the inverse rule of Ragby applies: bikes in the shade. People in the sun.

Sun, good!

I got my sandwich, and that weird pasta salad that is really just pasta and some vegetables, and cheap Italian dressing, and two bottles of water, and found a patch of sunshine. I made friends with the other lost lady, who was also a teacher, and watched as 50 milers came in, milled around, and departed.

It turns out, the other lost lady-teacher came from Creston with a group of friends who were dedicated cyclists. She had just taken it up after giving up on running because of all the injuries. Her husband had begged her to give up running. "Please," he said. "I want you to be able to walk when we are old." So, she bought a hybrid and was apparently kicking ass and taking names. Her friends had all given up and gotten a ride, so she was solo.

As we chatted, I noted the organizer-lady-wife-of-the-official-organizer milling around the yard. She was blonde and cute and seemed to have everything under control. She knew where everyone was and was giving full reports to all the guys with trucks who were supporting the ride.

I asked her if the 100 mile route out of town was well marked. She said yes, and gave me directions anyway. She looked at me dubiously, though, and I overheard her saying she had, "just one more 100 miler still in Adel." It was barely 11:00 am.

The ride had started at 9am, which seemed obscenely late to me. Who starts anything besides drinking beer at 9am? The Fondo information indicated that ride support would end at 5pm, which meant that this 100 mile ride would be like an average work day: 8 hours.

My breaks had been pretty short and efficient, but attempting the 100 mile would be pushing it. I'd be lucky to make it in by 5pm.

I had a big decision to make: tuck my tail and turn around? Or brave the next 75 miles?

What, all of you who don't have Twitter or talk to me in person, would I do? Stay tuned.

#ohnofondo Race Report Part 2: The Heater Going into Van Meter

And, we were off! The beginning of the first Des Moines (but not actually in Des Moines) Grand Fondo. 

One of the things people asked me when I sheepish and reluctantly told them I was randomly doing a 100-mile bike ride on Saturday was, "what is a Grand Fondo?"*

*Actually, no one asked me that. Most people just made a grimace-face and said something along the lines, "ooouch." 

But, I think we should discuss, what is a Grand Fondo, just to set the record straight. Fondo is Italian for "Fred." And, grand is Italian for "big." Together it means "big fred" or "big fred ride." They are pretty popular in Old Europe, and lately, they've been cropping up here in the U.S.of A. It's a long ride, like a century or more. It's not a race, but there is a time limit. It's supported, so that makes it different from a brevet. The way I've been describing is, "it's a race in the same way a marathon is a race. Yes, there are people who are racing and trying to win, but most people are just challenging themselves to an endurance challenge." 

Of course, if I would have described it that way to myself, I would have probably either a) trained or b) reconsidered, because there's no way I would attempt to dry heave a marathon. 

Anyway, Big Fred rides are the darling of one Bicycling magazine, so if you want to read more about them, check this out or this one about a guy for whom this was also probably a big idea.

I did manage to remember a tip from one of these articles, which was something like, "take it easy for the first ten miles and let the pack sort out their speeds, then find a group that you are comfortable with." 

So that's what I did. The ride cruised through suburban West Des Moines and wound its way towards the Raccoon River. I cruised and found myself about 75% of the way back, which was cool with me. Most of these jokers were only doing the 50. 

We passed DMACC West Campus and then turned smack dab into the wind. The route, it turns out, and I would discover throughout the day, had many similarities to the Perry-Des Moines day on Ragbrai '13. This was the route, between Booneville and Valley Junction, where Masinga was her most charmingly-singingly-done with Ragby and each bump of the compression gap sent her into a cute little fury. 

Little Ragbrai Redo

We were headed in the opposite direction, though, and into the headwind, which would be my companion, for well, a long, long time. 

We were pretty strung out. I passed the couple with the bandannas and another small group. Then found myself next to some gals from Jasper County. One of them was a cousin to one of my coworkers: small world. As we chatted, one asked, "so you are out here by yourself? Wow, that is brave to just come out here and do this alone." 

Was it? I would have preferred to have a buddy, but you can't just sit at home waiting for your friends to want to have stupid ideas too, right? 

Finally, I decided I didn't want to be the third person in a three-wide group as cars whizzed by, so I pulled ahead and kept my eyes focused on the dude in black in the distance. The trees sometimes blocked the wind a bit, and I was definitely above the 12.5 mph average I needed to keep if I wanted to be able to finish. I tried not to think about how nice it would be to share some of this wind with someone.

A small group was pulled over in Booneville, regouping with their group, so I was working my way up. We crossed the Raccoon and then the road started to climb, gradually. 

I made it up the first hill of the day, then pulled over to remove my primal arm warmers. A dude in baggies and tennis shoes pulled ahead of me, so I tried to catch up. I slowed down a bit as I hit the next uphill, when a nice medium-paced-pace-line passed me. The dude on the front said I could tag on if I wanted to. 

As the group of 5 passed, I tried to grab the wheel of the lady at the end, but I just couldn't hang on, and soon they were creeping out of reach. No big deal, I thought. I got this. Though, I did note that the lady fell off the back too on the next upward bit. 

I played a mental game, where I would look for interesting foliage on the side of the road, ride up to it, then find another bit of shrubbery, until I was at the top of the hill. Me and baggies took the right turn towards Van Meter and began that long descent into town. Fat Bike dude was spectating along the side of the road. How did he get there? 

Lots of Fondouers were regrouping at the Casey's, so I pulled in to have a comfort break and get some cash, just in case there was beer along the route anywhere. I came outside to find a cyclist, hefty like myself, filling bottles and what not near my bike. 

"Man," I said. "It really warmed up. I am glad I didn't wear a long sleeve jersey." Then I looked up and noticed he was wearing a long sleeve jersey. 

"Uh, er, sorry man," I tried to back track, then I just gave up and made a joke, "ha ha sucker!" We had a laugh and I rode off, feeling perky. "See you out there," I called over my shoulder. 

I even teased the group that were talking to the organizer at the corner, "Man, you guys have a support vehicle! That's awesome." They laughed, and I hopped back on the road north out of Van Meter, only kind of wishing I was spending the afternoon at Fat Randi's, instead of riding another 85 miles. 

I vaguely remembered a long, delicious, descent into Van Meter when we were on Ragbrai.... Only, that was in the opposite direction...and that's where we will pick it up next time. 

#ohnofondo Report Part 1: Freds and Fredliness

Saturday morning dawned fresh and chilly. I was nearly ready, thanks to my nervous preparations from the night before. My bike was already in my car, as I had taken it into Bike World to get a new battery for the computer sensor. (Turned out to be just a stuck button on the console). I showered, got dressed, and ate breakfast.

I am glad I took one last look at the start point because where I thought it was starting was not where we were really starting.

No matter. I arrived in good time to find a bunch of Freds roaming the parking lot like highlighter colored egrets. I mustered the courage to get out of the car and couldn't help but notice it was much colder and much windier than it had been in Des Moines.

Side note: this ride is called the Des Moines Grand Fondo, but at no point did it ever enter the city of Des Moines. Think about it. 

The very sweet and very kind Julie Hugo was (wo)manning the packet pick up and I asked her if it would be okay if I just did the 50-mile option, even though I was registered for the 100. 

"I might have bitten off more than I could chew," I told her. 

She said that was fine. If any of the volunteers tried to stop me, I should just let them know my plans. "I couldn't do the 100," she said, reassuring me. 

Then, I beat it back to my car to pin my "race number" and just generally be nervous and awkward. 

Needless to say, I called Steven for a pep talk. She was on her way to work (on a Saturday! What is wrong with that gal?!), and she was happy to give me standard pep-talk #12, the do-more-than-you-think-you-can-do edition. "Wouldn't it be great to have a century in before the Brewery 100?" she asked. 

The other highlight of our conversation was me asking if it was "too dorky" to wear my tattoo-sleeve Primal arm warmers.

Here is someone looking even dorkier than me.

To which Steven replied, "dude, once you are wearing Spandex, it doesn't really matter how much Spandex you add." Great point. I am sure there is an equation to show this formula. Something like: S + S = S?

She also suggested I tweet my adventures on the bike, which seemed like a good idea, since I could not get my blogs to upload from my phone. 

Soon, though, it was time to stop all the chit-chatting and actually get my bike out of the car. 

I made one last run to the potty, while I scoped out the other riders. There was a mix of the usual suspects, lithe-racer dudes with trucks talking about their plans for the KOMing, gals in skorts, a few hybrids, a couple wearing bandannas, the requisite due on a fat-bike, a few rando-looking-types. Most were wearing 2-digit numbers for the 50-mile ride, rather than 4-digit for the 100.

Everyone milled around awkwardly, waiting for the ride to start. Most people were in clumps of friends, happily chatting. Soon Scott Sumpter lead the group over to the starting cones, there was some scrabbling around in the group as people tried to figure out where they wanted to start. 

And, then, with a few parting instructions, we were off. 

Where would Rice find herself during the first stage of the ride? Find out tomorrow, or whenever I get a chance to blog about.