32 Prologue The First Beavers

Day 5: Rock Valley, rest day

I woke up on Saturday feeling what the Australians describe as "ordinary." I was exhausted, dehydrated, a little hung over and my ass hurt like the dickens. The combined efforts of the ride out, the drinking the night before, and Brooks saddle company kicked my ass. Bleh. 

I checked my text messages to see where the Mayor and Smitty were. They should be arriving early in the day, and to see if there were any updates from the rest of the team, who were leaving DSM that morning in the beaver arch. 

My battery was dieing, though, so I took my charger and phone up the bathhouse and plugged it in above the sink, with the phone in its case to keep it from getting splashed by other bathhouse users. Then, I went back to the tent, leaving the doors open, and dozed for another couple of hours. 

Feeling somewhat better, and worried about my phone, I grabbed my dop kit and headed towards the bathroom for a shower. I put on cleanish clothes, and then crawled back into the tent and read Pro Cycling for $10 a Day. 

After a few hours, I heard a car slowly driving up and that familiar shout, "Normie!" 

It was the Mayor!!! He and Smitty had drive through the night, camping in some horrible KOA when they were too exhausted to drive anymore, leaving early in the morning to make it to Rock Valley! Huzzah! My friends! I was so happy to see him. The Mayor is a bundle of ragbrai joy and it is impossible to not be enthusiastic when he is around. Literally impossible. He won't allow it. 

We shuffled around the campsite, playing with Smitty's dog, who had been cooped up in the back of the van (that Smitty bought for him--Man-Dog-Love) and unloaded the bikes and the gear. Then we sort of aimlessly hung out. Until Smitty finally had to leave. I made him take a Toblerone for the road, dark chocolate, because it was his favorite, and he has always been a beaver-caretaker in one way or another, enabling all our silly adventures. 

After we said goodbye to Smitty, the Mayor and I sat on the picnic table and chatted. I laid down the rules for what the day would entail. Under no circumstances would I be riding any bikes that day. Any transportation would be shuffling or shuttling. The Mayor agreed. 

As we were discussing what we should do with ourselves, an ATV roared up into the driveway. "Do you guys want a map?"

Paper boy

We got to chatting with him. He had a machine shop in town, and like everyone, had been recruited to help with the ragby. He was delivering "papers." We asked him about live in Rock Valley and he told us about the flooding. Then, he roared off again. 

Finally, the Mayor and I decided our plan. We would take the shuttle to town, check out the expo, see their friend who was shilling for some gear company because he's fast and all, and then get some drinking done. 

And, that's what we did. 

31 The Interim The Reason I Rode Up Early

Day 4: Cedar Rock Grill, Rock Valley, Iowa

Inside the Cedar Rock Grill was busy. There was sort of a tropical-ish theme, semi-Buffet decor purchased at a TJ Max in Sioux Falls, I would guess. I went to the hostess stand under a brightly colored umbrella and asked if I could eat at the bar. The harried middle-aged blonde said that would be fine, and I crept into a tall dark wooden bar stool and set my handlebar bag on the bar. 

I ordered a beer from the blond kid at  the bar and looked around. There were groups of folks hanging out, drinking. It looked like a mixture of ragbrai-ers and festive townsfolk. Just down the bar from me with at least two drinks in front of them were the two young studs who must have belonged to those Surlys outside. They were handsome, late-twenties, wearing cycling caps, and looking worn out and happy. 

The more outgoing one looked over at me and said, "Hey, nice Ortlieb." (Can I just say, that I am so excited to be part of a community/cult/sub-culture where people say that to me and I know what it means?) 

"Thanks," I said. "Are those your bikes outside?" 

We started talking about bikes, the route, RAGBRAI, where they were from, where I was from. They went out to look at my bike. They introduced me to Kyle at the bar. They ordered more drinks. They encouraged me to order more drinks. I ordered more drinks. I ordered a steak sandwich. We discussed their bad-ass grandpa who drove their RV. And, their wives. And their wives bikes. Suffice it to say I got to Cedar Rock Grill around 6:30 or so, and I didn't leave until 10:30? Or so. And, if I could remember all the things and the order of the things we discussed, I would, but it just wasn't that kind of night. I'll give you the highlights.

They were DJ and Reed. They were brothers in law. They had ridden up that day as well, not even bothering with showers before the hit the bar (though they had turned the bar-area of the Cedar Rock Grill into a bar more in spirit than it had ever intended in reality). They had ridden up from Des Moines in three days (bastards) with a long, gruesome 90-mile day yesterday. They were the Alan Jackson cycling club. They were a couple years younger than me and they were here to party.

"I mean," Reed said. "That's why you wrote up a day earlier, right? To get fucking wasted." 

Was that why I rode up a day early? I wasn't even sure I was going to make it a day early, but here I was, so when in Rome, er, Rock Valley.

I ordered more drinks. 

They introduced me to Kyle, the bartender. Who was sort of their friend and sort of their harried plaything. I don't think Rock Valley was ready for rowdy baggers. Kyle wasn't even actually a bar tender. He was just a friend they called in to help. DJ and Reed ran the bar out of Red Bull and someone had to be sent to gas station to buy more.

They introduced me to Kathy, who had been there earlier and come back. Kathy rode a neon green LHT. She had ridden from Guttenberg. She rode the entire route backwards and now she was headed in the other direction. She was a spacey mail carrier with neon green hair to match her bike. She named her steed the "horny toad." 

DJ and Reed didn't have a place to park their RV when their grandpa and wives arrived the next day, so they just chatted up everyone in the bar until eventually they round some Rock Valliers who were willing to let them park it in an empty lot they owned. DJ and Reed were very pleased to have a place to crash that night, without even really trying.

We traded goodies--coozies for stickers. They teased me about having all sorts of things (I mean, I was very prepared) in my bag. DJ said he was going to call me the bag lady.

Oh my lord, was I having a good time. My people! Drinks a plenty! I was tired, and drunk, and oh-so-happy. I had done the ride out and here I was relaxing and eating and making friends. I had found ragbrai! And I got to understand a bit more about why people do the ride out at all. This! 

Finally, exhausted and financially depleted, I paid my bill and said goodbye to all my new friends. And tried to sit on my trucker.

Uh, no go. 

I just could not sit on that bastard. My ass hurt way too bad. Sitting was the most painful thing in the world. But I wasn't going to walk back to the campground, so I rode the entire way, including a couple block lost-detour standing up. I parked the trucker outside my little tent, peed in the middle of the campground darkness, and crawled into my tent. I fell asleep passed out that night to the echoes of the downtown dj spinning all the ragbrai hits. 

I had arrived. 

30 The Interim: Basic Needs and New Friends

Day 4: Rock Valley

Around Rock Valley

 All of this #rideout and arriving early was new to me. So, I just did what I had been doing the last few nights. I set up camp, got my gear organized, and thought about the two basic needs: shower and food/beer.

I put my tent up under the little tree. My intention was to spend the entire Saturday, at least until the beavers arrived, horizontal, so I wanted a place where I could relax with out being in the blistering sun. And, I wandered up to the shower house and got cleaned up and put on my cleanish civilian clothes. 

I tried to get my gear organized so I could make the transition from the #rideout to ragbrai relatively easy when my gear arrived with the Beaver Arc. I also packed up all the presents I had acquired over the course of the week to give to the beavers. An impressive stash if you ask me. Not only did I ride 260 miles to Rock Valley, but I brought gifts! Like slow motion Santa.

All the things beavers need.

Then, I looked around and faced a tough decision. I needed to eat. And I needed some beer. I had neither, with the exception of some Larabars. I could go downtown but there was only, really, two ways to get there. I could walk. Or, I could ride. Both presented problems.

For one, I was so tired. For two, I did not want to ride that bike anymore. I mentioned in an earlier blog, but my ass was in bad shape. It turns out, the extra junk I have in my trunk rubs against the side of the Brooks saddle. TMI WARNING: In the shower, I felt the crease of my bottom and found it scabby and calloused and it hurt.

But I needed to eat! I was so hungry. And, the teenagers at the gate gave me some recommendations for where I should go. Cedar Rock Grille was supposed to be good, they told me.

So, with much reluctance, and an empty saddle bag (just in case) and my handlebar bag purse, I gently got back on the saddle and found the bike trail into town. The bike trail took me through the trees and over the river and then past an open meadow with scratchy mowed grass. A German shepherd came out of no where and ran along the fence, chasing me, silently. I realized, this was the other place RVs could go. Oh, hell no. And I thanked my stars I found the spot we were in.

The trail ended in a neighborhood, but I could see downtown and found my way into the middle of the busy preparations of the day before the day of RAGBRAI. I poked around, mostly standing on the pedals, not wanting to rest on the seat, until I turned a corner and spotted the Cedar Rock Grille.

Google Maps picture.

There was a tent in the parking lot, and a beer garden. I went to lean my MoTro against some bushes and what should I see, but other bagger bikes. Two Surlys. A Troll bagged out and a Cross Check bagged out. My people!

I grabbed my handlebar bag-purse and entered the cool dark of the restaurant. And, that's when the fun started. 

29 The Interim: Beaver Sanctuary

Day 4: Establishing Beaver Den

So, I rode towards the Riverbend Campground. I had read about it during all the beaver logistics, but I hadn't been able to book a campsite because of all the flooding. Here was hoping. I crossed the river, noticing all the damage, and passed the dip site (technically, we aren't on the Missouri River here, it's the Little Sioux, but people like to dip, I guess). I turned onto a residential street. On the corner a kid was selling Kool-Aid.

I was so parched and windblown and out of it, all I could think of was, "pull over. Banana's thirsty." I dumped the MoTro and bought a Kool-Aid. The kid handed me a cup of the blue stuff. Damn!

"Is blue the only color you have?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Hmm..." I mumbled. Sip.

"Have you been doing a pretty good business?"

The kid shrugged. Sip.

"You ready for all this?" I asked.

Shrug. Sip.

"Okay, well, good luck," I said and handed him the cup to throw away. Then, I got back on my bike and continued on. Note: kids are terrible entrepreneurs.

The road to the campground wound along the river, past a "coffee cabin" or some sort of establishment. Then I found my self at a mostly empty RV campground. It had that washed out look of a place that had been washed out, but it seemed open, so I went into the office. Three teenagers were working the booth.

After I explained my situation, that it would just be me tonight, but I needed space for a camper the next time, they took my money and directed me to a site. The whole transaction was very awkward. Again, kids. Terrible at doing business.

I rode my bike to the campsite and surveyed our property.

Perfect. It would make my folks happy because there was plenty of parking and hook ups etc. And there was lots of room for all the tents for all the beavers. It was a bit of a hike to the bathroom, but there was a bathroom.

Okay, I thought. Mission accomplished.

Now what?

28 The In-Between Time: Building the Beaver Dam

Day 4: Arrive Rock Valley

Mission: Find a Beaver Den

Rock Valley, USA

I rolled into Rock Valley like a rocket sled on rails. (I don't know what that means, but its from the song Convoy so it seems appropriate.)

Rock Valley was a rock we could not crack. We could not find a place to stay there. A lot of the problem was the massive flooding that had wrecked havoc on the town, closing a lot of locations, and changing the course of ragby for everyone. We couldn't get a homestay and we had no connections. My mission was to find a place for us, RV and all.

First, I stopped at a kooky looking little hotel on the outskirts of town. It was one of those house-hotels, with a row of rooms, a covered up pool, and lots of barking dogs, but they had an RV in the yard, so I thought, maybe? The old dude who lived there came out and explained that it had used to be a hotel, but then they had 8 kids, so they just converted the hotel rooms into bedrooms.

"The kids loved it," he told me, over the noise of barking dogs. "They all had their own bathrooms." We chatted a bit longer about RAGBY, and I headed down the road. Still on the look out for the beaver den.

Why didn't  I think of street view earlier?!

Down the highway I found the old Knights Inn, now the Super 8. Or was that the other way around? Anyway, I went inside and inquired about rooms, just on the crazy off chance that they might have space. Uh, nope. This is where the RAGBY people were staying. The gal at the counter was very helpful. Rock Valley worked really hard to make sure everyone was helpful. So, I got a map and directions to where the action was happening. 

I rode towards the action, with the vague notion of finding the hay market. That's where RVs would be camped. I found it. Lots of hustle and bustle was going down, but the hay market was just a huge, dusty parking lot. That wouldn't work. 

A traffic cop called out and asked if I needed some help. I explained my dilemma, and he make some suggestions. The city park would be nice and shady, but he wasn't sure about the RV. Or I could try the campground on the north side of town, Riverbend. They might have spots. 

I thanked him and then gushed that I had just finished a 260 mile ride to the start of ragbrai, and asked if he would take my picture. He very happily agreed. 

Nailed it.

Then, I took off down the street. Asking ladies along the way if they knew of anyone or anywhere the beavers could crash until I found myself headed north and along the river. 

Rivers, of course, are great places for beavers.

27 #RideOut The End

Day 4: Cherokee to Rock Valley 

Just a hop, skip, and a hair-raising jump...

I left Hull, fueled with European chocolate and dreams. I had almost done it! I'd almost completed the #rideout all by myself. I was elated.

The road that took me out of Hull was quiet, past the cemetery and over Highway 75, where a large, blinking sign announced that there would be "heavy bike traffic" and "please consider an alternate route." 

Oh, how I wish more people had heeded that sign. Highway 18 was one of those roads marked with a four-foot paved shoulder on my map, yes, okay, but it was also one of those four-foot shoulders that had rumbles on the left and gravel on the right. Deep tire eating gravel. So the four-foot shoulder was effectively 2 foot. 

Did I mention that it was still windy? Full on southern wind blasting me over towards the gravel. Then, the erratic compensation to the left which nearly drug me into traffic.

Oh, and the traffic. It was busy. Probably because 50,000 people were descending on this recently flooded town with only one functioning road in and out. Huh. I will admit, there was some cursing carried off into the wind. 

But, then again, looking back, it didn't seem that long before I saw the sign. The one I'd been looking for for 4 days: Welcome to Rock Valley. 

Nailed it.

Boom! 

Hold on, I need to take a selfie.

Of course, it still was a few miles down the hill into town in order to actually get to Rock Valley, but that sign was the emotional end. After I hit that, and survived the traffic into town, it was time to switch gears, from getting there-gear to establishing the beaver-dam and beaver-prep.

I've thought a lot about the #rideout and what it means to me emotionally. And, I really don't mean for this to be a humble brag or anything, but a lot of people seem very impressed with the fact that I did the rideout, and that I did it alone. To me, though, it doesn't seem like that great of a feat. 

Sure, it took time, and effort, and there were some tears and laughs, but it really was just deciding to do something and then pushing one pedal down after the next. I wish I had some grand conclusion about what it means to me, but I haven't figured it out yet, and perhaps I won't. Or maybe I will but I will save it for the memoir that Goldie keeps pestering me to write.

There is something to note though: 

Here's me before the #rideout.

Serious. Nervous. Full of doubt.

And here's me after:

Boom!

If a bike ride can do that to a person, well, we should all be riding more bikes.

26 #RideOut Merry Christmas! And with Christmas Comes Candy!

Merry Christmas little beavers! Can you believe I've already written 26 blogs and we haven't even gotten to the actual start of RAGBRAI yet? Just imagine how many adventures are still before us! 

On this Christmas morning, I want to say, that your friendship is the best gift a little beaver could get. Team Beaver started as a silly lark but it has coalesced into an ever-growing, expanding, and supportive family of like minded individuals who love adventure. Thank you for being a beaver!

Day 4: Cherokee to Rock Valley

Something Like This...I don't Remember

So, I wended my way towards the little town of Hull, the penultimate town on my #rideout. Wind still intense. Traffic still intense. Route, not ideal, but, after a quick lay down in a yard to get the old spirits back up in a town that wasn't even on the map, I found my way into the tiny town of Hull. 

This was exciting for two reasons. First, I would be back here on Sunday for the first town on the RAGBRAI! And, second, there's the foreign candy store! "What's that?" you ask. 

Well, I didn't know, but I would find out. 

I darted across Highway 18 like I was playing frogger and followed instinct until I found the downtown area. I was cruising down the main street, which was busy preparing for the ragby, when I noticed a smart looking blond just stepping out of the chamber building. 

I paused in the middle of the street (I love small towns!) and asked for directions to the candy store. She told me how to get there, and then I asked for directions out of town and to Rock Valley. She gave me directions for that too. Easy-peasey. 

Then, she asked me the questions: where are you coming from, where did you start today, etc. etc. And, I asked her the questions: where will be best food be on Sunday, what kind of food will you have, what's the beer garden sitch, etc. It was nice. 

Then, I cruised over to the Foreign Candy Store. Now, back to our question before, what is the foreign candy store. Well, it is a candy company that imports candy from Europe and sells it. Mostly, I think, they ship it around America, but you can also go in the shop and check things out. I washed up there, stinky and weary, and hungry. Me. Want. Candy.

I tried to make polite conversation with the lady. In fact, I think I even asked for an explanation for why there was this store to begin with--I mean this is deep in Un-fun Dutch Calvinist Country--mind you. And, I got an answer, but I'll be damned if I can remember what the answer was....something about something and gummies. 

Mmmmm candy.

I hate most gummies. So, I focused on attention on the chocolate. One for me. One for beavers. One for me. One for beavers. One for me. One for me. 

Good chocolate sitch--Lindt and Toblerone, etc. Then, I paid, and had a yummy picnic in the front yard of the candy store. Just 9 miles to go to Rock Valley and the ride out would be done. 

Just 9 more miles...

Note: Rice is leaving for a Mexican holiday. I imagine it being something like Carrie Bradshaw and her friends in Sex and the City the Movie #1. While I am away, blogs should be publishing themselves automatically, but they are not live. If something goes haywire, I'll be back January 5th. 

25 #RideOut It's Lonely Out There

Day 4: Cherokee to Rock Valley

I left Hospers in a bit of a huff because I was looking forward to a big ole breakfast and I didn't get it. I rode on to the tiny town of Newkirk, and because I've learned a tiny bit of Dutch, I know that means New Church. 

Conditions were not good. First, it was windy. No more fun tail wind for me. Just a bitch of a cross wind. And, the road was a lot busier. I guess this was how folks got from Hospers to Sioux Center (neither being places I would want to be I had a hard time understanding this, but I could relate to wanting to leave both). And, so I was grumping along down the highway.

But, lo, what is this? A bicycle! And a big one! Parked in the parking lot of the church in New Church! I pulled over and said hello. I hadn't seen the Recumbant Mafia since the night before, and I knew they were planning on spending Friday night in Sioux Center anyway, but here was another one my kind! 

I can't remember his name. He was middle-aged, dark haired, and from the town of Madrid. We quickly commenced to the part where we look over each other's bikes and compare notes on route, conditions, etc. He admired the MoTro and then told me about this fancy doo-dad on his bike, a thump-buster, that gives a bit of cushion to the seat post. 

It quickly became clear that he was having a bit of a rough go of it. First, he told me that he had ridden between Jefferson and Carroll on Highway 30, in the gravel. Trucks were flying by, etc. but he had wanted to ride the trail to Lake View. Yikes. Then, he told me he had just come from camping at Hospers the night before. It was 11 am and Hospers was like 4 miles behind us, and he was shattered. The #rideout had gotten to him. He had that lost face of someone whose been to war or something.

Finally, after I realized there wasn't much I could do for him, I hopped back on the MoTro and wished him luck. I continued west into the wind and the traffic and sent positive vibes to my bagger friend. I mean, I had been there. I had been in that pit of #rideout darkness. And, I had come to realize, you just have to keep on trucking. 

Which is what I did.

24 #RideOut The Best Part of the Day

Apologies for the delays beavers. I went to Arkansas to celebrate the holidays with my parents and I must have had too much possum pie because I contracted a case of the Christmas Cholera. I am on the mend today, and with luck, there will be enough blogs ready to go to get you through my Mexican vacation. 

Day 4: Cherokee to Rock Valley 

Out of the Wind!

I continued on, steadily west, into the morning. The countryside cleared out and it was just long, rolling fields, birds flying about, and empty highways. Eventually, I spotted my turn. The big turn. The one I'd been waiting for all morning. It was about halfway up a low hill. 

As I turned, I held out my arm in a signal. Not that there were any cars. I hadn't really seen anyone for a good hour, but the turn signal felt symbolic, and it made me giggle. It took me four days, but I was really starting to remember how much fun I have hanging out with me. 

And then, tailwind. Glorious, glorious tailwind. I have often said that tailwinds don't exist. And, in some ways they don't. Getting into the perfect tail wind is rare. Usually, it's quartering, and more often, headwinding. Once you get into a tailwind, you can't really feel it. Often, it's kind of hot and stifling because you no longer get a cooling breeze. It is a rare, rare illusive creature: the tail wind. 

This is what tailwind looks like! 

But there it was. I turned north and tailwind. Tail. Wind! I was pushed on a cloud up the gentle slopes towards the charming little town of Granville. Those were the happiest, smiliest, most ridiculously good miles of my life. I even did the trucker-honk arm motion and got a happy toot in response.

On the outskirts of Granville I parked it in a beautifully manicured baseball field and had a lovely picnic lunch. Then, I found an open bathroom and helped myself. After that I had a quick dash down the highway before I got back on lovely, perfect L-22. A road of legends. And, with that, I found myself in the town of Hospers.

I crossed Highway 60, which was an intense event, it being the nearest thing to an interstate in that part of the state, and I rode into the downtown, following signs for a cafe. I arrived downtown, vaguely remembering this town from the death-brai, and parked out in front of the building with the cafe sign. Inside, it was a bit like Hazel's, tables covered in junk. No one was eating. Not very promising. A man was in the back, washing dishes. I finally got his attention and asked if they were open, though, the door was technically open and the lights were on. He told me that they weren't. He'd moved the restaurant to a location on the highway and this was just his office/catering headquarters. Unwilling to back track, and disappointed without a hot lunch, I pressed on.

Turning west again, and back into the side-wind, my mood and conditions diminished significantly.

23 #RideOut The Rub

Day 4: Cherokee to Rock Valley, Part 2

I stopped at the corner of C-16 and Highway 143 and had a picnic of a sludge of Starbucks Via mixed with water bottle water and some cheese crackers. I was feeling good. Spirits were high. But there was a problem. A growing problem.

My ass.

Live Tweeting: Apparently my twitterability was not so good that day.

For some reason, my Brooks saddle was killing me. I have a lot of theories as to why this was happening, but it was heart breakingly painful. There just wasn't a place to get comfortable on that saddle. I could feel every little rivet, as if there were six bruises along my ass. Ugh.

I had never had a problem with the saddle. I'd ridden it all over Belgium, though, with shorter miles and rest days every other day, so this was a tragic situation. I just hoped I would survive to Rock Valley where I could give it a bit of R&R before switching to my Mad One.

With much reluctance, I climbed back into the saddle and got ready to cross 143 and continue west, when I heard a shout. I turned back, and in the right hand turn area was a guy in a truck. I was awkwardly hanging in the middle of the road, and he was about to turn right, but in true Iowa style, we proceeded to have a long conversation.

He was a contractor that lived in Sheldon. He loved bikes and always wanted to do RAGBRAI, but he never had time off in the summer. He asked me all about my adventures, which I happily relayed to him. I was pleasantly surprised because we were getting into Dutchy territory, and not the funny Dutchies, but the Dutchies that left the Netherlands because it was getting too wild. These were the no-laundry on Sunday Dutches, not the bicycle Dutchies, but everyone I had passed so far that day had been really nice and fun to talk with.

Finally, we said goodbye and I crossed 143 and continued west. The wind was picking up and I was gagging for the northward turn. I knew it would be amazing.

And, it was.

22 #RideOut The Dawn of the Last Day

Day 4: Cherokee to Rock Valley

From one corner to the other

I was up before the sun on Day 4 of the #RideOut. I could not believe it. I had done it. Or almost. Tonight, I would be at RAGBRAI, and if everything went according to plan, I'd have a rest day on Saturday to regroup before turning back East. 

Loading everything into the MoTro, I rolled through the lobby and out the door. My bike was blinking with every bit of lighting I had. The idea of being on a highway in the pre-dawn hours made me nervous, and I wanted to look like a Christmas tree. 

I crossed the highway and went into the HyVee gas station, which was busy at this early hour, and bought tons of snacks. The route I had planned didn't take me through a town for many, many miles. And, then, I cross the overpass over busy Highway 3 and headed north towards Larrabee. 

Section 1

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and it was chilly out with some patches of fogs in the valleys between the hills. I got buzzed by a big semi-truck, but for the most part, the recon was good, and there was virtually no traffic out there. In fact, the only living thing I saw was a couple who were up early to cross the road and check the mail and chat with their neighbor on the other side. They watched me ride by, like I was a parade of one. "Are you headed to RAGBRAI?" one yelled with a smile.

"Yes!"

"Have fun!" they hollered back. I was grinned like I'd won the lottery. I knew it was going to be a great day.

I crested a hill and had to pull over to take a picture. It was just so stupidly beautiful, the fields stretching out forever, the farm houses, the mist and the sunrise. I was on my bike. Having a blast. And I knew I was the luckiest girl in the world.

Iowa-Core

I arrived in Larrabee and couldn't help but be charmed by its teeny-tinyness. There was virtually nothing happening there, with the exception of a grain mill. I did happen to see a tiny shack next to where the trucks were filling up with fuel and spotted a Coke machine. Bonus!

Here's what I thought when I thought it.

Cokes were only 50 cents! And, they  had Vanilla Coke. It was like the nineties all over again! Huzzah.

From Larrabee, I had a long, long ride west. My plan was to take C-16 west all the way to Sioux County, and then work my way jaggedly north and west until I got to Rock Valley, but first I had a long stretch of road ahead of me.

In the distance, I could see the towns that lined Highway 3, and I followed along on my map as I rode, keeping track of where I was based on which grain elevator I must be passing. Cleghorn. Marcus. Remsen.

At one point, I crested a hill and headed down towards a slough. In front of me ran a back of mink? Musk rats? Cute little rodent creatures--four of them--one after the next. I was still grinning.

I passed random churches, farm houses, fields. There was a stiff breeze coming out of the south and I couldn't wait to turn north. It was going to be amazing.

I knew I wanted to stop when I hit 200 miles and take a picture, but I was mid-down hill at that point, so I didn't stop till I got to 200.33.

Boom!

 

My 200 miles selfie face.

 At one point, I rode past a barn yard, full of cattle, in cow-houses and barns and in the yard. The farm was right next to the road and up a hill, so I was slowly slugging up the hill when I heard a shout.

"Are you headed to RAGBRAI?" It was the farmer.

"Yes!" I panted.

"Where are you coming from?" he asked.

"Des Moines," I replied.

"You are crazy!" He said with a smile.

"I am starting to think that myself!" I yelled back with a smile. I don't know if I could smell the barn, or I was finally settling in, but I was having myself a blast. Just riding and smiling and loving life.

21 #Ride Out: Of Recon and Regrets

Day 3: Still in Cherokee.

Half drunk and stuffed to the gills with tacos, I walked into the lobby of the hotel. I thought I would run my route options past a local. The gal at the counter was dealing with her friend, who was having her wedding at the hotel this weekend. Dear Lord, please may it have been cowboy themed.

When she finished with her friend, I busted out my maps and asked for her opinion. Do I take Main Street/C-38 towards the Mental Hospital and the dreaded Cemetery Hill? Or do I head north towards Larrabee on highway 59. I wasn't so worried about the hills as the traffic.

She didn't hesitate. Highway 59. She lived in Larrabee and came into town early every morning. The only thing I'd have to look out for are deer, maybe. C-38 was busy with traffic and narrow.

Well, score! I thought. No cemetery hill and someone who knows what she is talking about. I thanked her and headed to my room for what I hoped would be a blissful night sleep.

I turned on the TV to listen to the soothing sounds of Phil Liggett. I think Vincenzo Nibali was in the lead at this point, which, I didn't care about, but I love the sights and sounds of professional bike racing on television. Watching it is sort of a combination of arm chair travel and being in a coma.

Finally, I settled down into the bed, tucked into the stiff bleached sheets and shut my eyes. And, that's when I remembered the chorizo.

Hot tip. When you need to get a good night's sleep, don't eat chorizo. Just don't. Someone once told me that it takes like 6 months to digest chorizo. I haven't fact checked that information, but it will most certainly keep you up, especially combined with nerves.

I was nervous. Tomorrow was my last day on the road and a big one at that. Not only did I have to get to Rock Valley, but I had to find a place to park the RV for the beavers who would be arriving on Saturday.

I tossed and turned and totally wasted that hotel bed. I checked my phone all through the night, hoping more hours had passed between restless laying about. Finally, I turned on the light and read Professional Cycling on $10 a Day until I was tired enough to let a thin veil of sleep over take me.

And, then, it was 4:30am. Time to go.

20 #Ride Out Eyes Bigger Than My Stomach

Day 3: Still in Cherokee!

Now, back to me!

It was time to eat. And, luckily, there was a Mexican restaurant next door to the hotel. Boom. The restaurant was busy, but I got a booth near the window and settled in with my journal. My waiter, whose name was Jose, came over and brought chips. I ordered a margarita.

"You want it special?" he asked.

"What makes it special?" I asked.

"More tequila," he replied.

"Yes," I replied.

Then, he brought me a margarita the size of my handlebar bag, with a golden float of tequila on top. Gracias, Jose.

I ordered tacos. I have since learned that all I really want to eat at a Mexican restaurant is tacos with cilantro and lime and chips with cheese dip. It's not that I don't like other things, it's just that you can't replicate those tacos elsewhere.

When I ordered Jose asked if I wanted chorizo.

"Uh, sure," I thought. At this point, the stomach had taken over all decisions, assisted by the tequila. I was feeling pretty good.

I wrote in my journal. Did some texting and tweeting, and hemmed and hawed about leaving Cherokee in the morning. Which way to go?! I needed recon.

Tweeting.

My tacos arrived. I finished my margarita. "More tequlia?" Jose asked.

"No," I said. Not thinking I could handle another 2.7 pounds of pure sugar. "I'll have a beer. Dos Equis Amber."

"You want large?" Damn, this man can upsell.

"Uh, sure." I replied, and he returned with I can only describe as a pitcher of beer, but in the shape of  glass. Oh dear. Good thing I didn't have to ride my bike anywhere.

In the end, I wasn't any kind of match for that beer. I think I drank about three quarters and had to abandon the rest. I knew the Mayor would be disappointed, but there just wasn't anything I could do. My eyes were bigger than my stomach and my tolerance. 

Between all the beer, and tequila, and chorizo, my bill was like $40. Sigh. Jose, I salute you! 

I paid, and sloshed back across the parking lot to my bed. Tomorrow was a big day. 

19 #TBT Guest Blog from Jennie K!

Our first guest blog! And, thank goodness. Steven called me the other day and said, "I can't believe it's already mid-December and we are still on the ride out." I need a blog-break, and Jennie is saving the day.

Here's her prelude:
So, I have a guest blog post for you, but I’m not sure if it meets the rules: It’s a 2 parter, and this is part one, which is my first RAGBRAI, 2013.  Maybe it could be a Throwback Thursday entry.  Also, I have a couple of pictures I could give you if you’d like.  If it doesn’t fit the mold of what you’re looking for, let me know. 

Isn't she cute? Rules. Ha! We don't need no stinking rules.

So, without further delay, here's Part 1 of Jennie's Guest Blog.

“2013 Virgins” or “The Importance of a Great Rack”

I rode my first RAGBRAI in 2013 with my friends Moe and Justin.  We only did two days, coming into and going out of Des Moines, but it was enough to get me hooked.**  I knew I would love it, but I had no idea how much I would gain.  That ride not only resulted in the creation of our own RAGBRAI team, but also I also made a new and dear friend, Sarah Copple. 

It’s a story I’ve told many, many times.  The lady that lived behind me (she has moved, sadly) is about the coolest chick ever. Her name was Moe Petit, and is now Moe Martin (damn you, Marty!).  Over six years of being neighbors, we became great friends.  I so admired her biking prowess. She had ridden RAGBRAI umpteen million times, starting in the 70s.  She knew exactly what to bring and what to expect.  She got hypothermia on RAGBRAI’s infamous Soggy Monday. She is a boss.

My goal was to ride before my 40^th birthday, and since I had just turned 39 in June of 2013, that coming ride was my last chance.  (Let me note here that I know that some will say it doesn’t count since I haven’t done the whole week.  Whatevs.) A longtime friend and biking buddy, Justin Hurt, was interested in going as well, especially since the ride was basically going right through our own backyard, from Perry to Des Moines and then on to Knoxville.  The three of us worked to figure out how to get ourselves and our three bikes to Perry early that morning for the ride.  It sounds like a small endeavor, but it became a problem: each of us had a rack that fit two bikes. After concocting an elaborate scheme that included my husband taking time off work and grabbing the pickup of a friend so he could cart us over to Perry with all of us crammed in the cab, we thought we were set. It was a pain, but it was going to work.

But then, Moe received a call.  The friend of a friend’s daughter (yes, that’s convoluted, I know, but I crave accuracy) was interested in riding those same two days: could she tag along?  “Of course,” Moe said immediately because she’s that kinda gal. “You can come along with us, but it’s going to be a very tight fit.”

“Oh, I can bring you guys out,” Sarah said. “I have an SUV with a rack that fits five bikes!”

And the rest is history.  We met at Moe’s house that morning after Justin rode over to my house.  We all introduced ourselves. Sarah was decked out in her biking gear and completely looked the part, which was a little intimidating to me.  (I’d only ridden 20+ miles once before and that had been just two weeks prior.)

When we arrived in Perry we met up with Team Sprint, some of Moe’s old biking buddies.  One of my first defining RAGBRAI memories came as we waited to leave the camp site, which was located behind a nursing home. When I went to enter a PortaPotty, the door swung open and I was greeted by a smiling man of about 60 who was working on what may or may not have been his first Coors Light of the day. He had amazing calves. “Careful in there,” he advised. “It was a long night around here.”

Soon we were on the road.  Being in that swarm of spandex-clad, slightly hung over humanity rolling out in the morning air was an experience I will never forget.  We even picked up a random chick from California who had no one to ride with that day. The weather was gorgeous and the route was short (about 50 miles) and flat: conditions were perfect to hook me for good. Moe left us virgins in the dust rather quickly and the group spread out, but Sarah and I settled in at a similar pace.  And we were great friends, as I like to tell everyone, within two towns. 

I had brought headphones to listen to, but Sarah had a small speaker on her bike, so we switched out our iPods as we rode, just as the batteries on each were about to die.  This let us chat and get to know each other.  The connections were extraordinary, particularly the fact that each of us had dropped about 100 pounds within that previous year.  It was an uncanny connection with this random stranger, and though I resist magical thinking, it had the flavor of fate.  Our kids were of similar ages and our husbands were almost interchangeable in personality.  Sarah has become of my very best friends in the world. There have been countless Family Fun Nights since that day.

By the end of the day, we were beat.  While there had been lots of big talk (particularly from me) about completely throwing down at the big RAGBRAI party downtown,  instead Justin and my husband (Jeremy) and I were satisfied to spend about an hour walking around Court Avenue, seeing the sights, and listening to the band. (We’d all wanted to see Live perform.)

Day two was rougher. The hills between Des Moines and Knoxville were brutal.  It didn’t help that I was still riding my old hybrid Trek that sometimes switched gears and sometimes didn’t.  I walked a hill. Or two.  But it was still so incredibly worth it.  I vividly remember rolling into one of the towns and then splitting up to find our lunches.  Justin, Sarah, and I met back by our bikes and found some shade in the doorway of a tiny brick church.  It was hotter that second day, so the cold beer and shade were a welcome respite.  Ice cream and apple pie had never seemed so heavenly. That moment was so perfect: finally I was embarking on a new passion with a very old friend and a very new friend.  But that was kind of where I was at the time as well.  I had changed so much in the year leading up to that first ride—the fact that I was willing and physically able to do it attested to those changes—that I was kind of on that ride with both the old and new versions of myself.

Okay, no more sap.  At least for now.

At the end of the day, after many beers in Knoxville, we loaded our bikes onto Sarah’s rack, and that’s when it hit us: none of this would have been possible if it wasn’t for Sarah’s great rack, her Fantastic Rack.  And Team Fantastic Rack was born. 

To Be Continued. . . In our next installment, 2014 Team Fantastic Rack meets Team Beaver, and Lauren teaches me one of the most simple yet brilliantly logical rules of RAGBRAI: “Bikes in the sun, people in the shade.” 

**I remember seeing Jennie this day in Booneville. She had just started working at my college and I had the thought, "oh, shit. This doesn't look very professional." (I was dancing with Goldie to Blurred Lines). Isn't that a funny one? Professionalism.

18 #RideOut Inventory and Being Inside

Ride Out: Day 3 Sac City to Cherokee

My tiny area for the evening

I'd made a decision. A radical decision. In Cherokee, I would get a hotel room. The recumbent mafia was doing it. Why shouldn't I? Wasn't that a part of the ride out experience? Wasn't I smelly and tired? Wasn't I going to be sleeping on the ground for the next 9 days anyway? Hotel it is.

So, I zoomed into Cherokee on Highway 59, and rode past the rodeo grounds by the river where there was a camp ground much like the one in Sac City. It looked pretty tore up from the flooding, so I congratulated myself on skipping it. Cherokee was busy and I was on the highway. I figured that the hotels would be near highway 3 on the north side of town so I headed in that direction.

Soon, though, I got through town and found myself at the bottom of a huge hill, on a busy two-lane city street, that curved upward and around a bend. I did not want to be chugging up that hill, around a bend, when some cracked out farm kid careened around the corner and took me out. Nope. So I pulled over and did a bit of mapping. I found a back road just a couple blocks to the east, back tracked through a gas station parking lot, and toodled at low speeds up that hill, then worked my way through the back parking lots of K-Marts and hardware stores until I emerged back on 59 at the top of the hill, which featured, here, a bike-ish trail along the road. Score.

On the top of the hill were two hotels. A cheap looking one on the east side, and the Best Western Chapparall on the west side. The RM told me they were staying at the Best Western, and I am a sucker for fakey-western stuff, so I decided to start there. If it was stupidly expensive, I'd go across the highway. As I was checking in, the dudes from the RM rode up! "Hello," I said with some surprise. "Are you guys just getting in? I thought you would have been here a long time ago."

The RM dudes didn't seem to like that comment, or want to talk, so I piped down and went inside. I got a quote for a room at 90 dollars. A bit steep, but then the guy corrected himself. Because it was Thursday, it was only 80. "Eh, fuck it." I rode around the back and brought the MoTro inside and parked it near the queen bed.

MoTro's spot for the night

And then I enjoyed all the bliss of inside time. I cranked the AC down. I took a ridiculous shower, "washing" my cycling clothes with the tiny shampoo. I hung my tent up to dry out a bit and scattered sand and corn kernels all over. I turned on the Tour. And, I did some organizing using the big, flat expanse of the plastic bed spread.

One of the things I like to do when I go backpacking, to improve my packing, is take stock of things that I don't use the whole trip. Sometimes, it's good that you are not using things--the emergency food, or the first aid kit, but other things, if you bring them along and don't use them, well, you are not doing the best packing job. So I did a little inventory.

All extra.

Not including all the presents Charlie had given me in Sac City the night before, I took stock of all the things I had that I probably didn't need. I had tons of pens, Sharpies, and pencils. Why? Yes, you need A Sharpie and perhaps a back up Sharpie, but do you need 5 Sharpies? What about sunscreen. I had tons of it. A small bottle, a large bottle, all in addition to another bottle. I had three varieties of chamois creme and enough bobby pins to do prom hair. 

Considering, though, it wasn't too bad. 

I repacked as much as I could, laid out my stuff for the next day, and proceeded to the next part of my evening: the Mexican part. 

17 #RideOut Bad Roads Big Skies

Ride Out: Day 3 Sac City to Cherokee

Just add thumping.

Leaving Storm Lake, I rounded the State Park on the west side of the city and turned on to C-63. Much like leaving Jefferson to go to Carroll, there was a shorter route between Storm Lake and Cherokee, but it would involve a busy stretch of highway that I wasn't ballsy enough to try.

The afternoon was glorious. Warm, but not hot. Big fluffy clouds. I mean, it was really nice. What was not nice, though, were the compression gaps on this stretch of highway. Huge, gaping, bastards that gave the MoTro a huge thump every time I rode over one, which was about, oh, every 10 seconds. On a road bike, compression gaps suck. On a loaded touring bike it is even worse. The bags, zippers, gear all jumps when you hit a bump. The noise it makes compounds the hit making it seem worse than it really is.

Mid-afternoon is always a rough time emotionally for me. It is when the grumpiness comes out and the negative self talk starts. Mornings I am fresh and happy. Late afternoons, I am looking forward to being done, but mid-afternoon with some 30 miles left to ride, or whatever, is just not my happy place. Combine that with compression gaps and all the joy of Storm Lake vanished.

And, so I rode straight west. Eventually, the road started climbing, and the farms emptied out a bit, and I was on some big, rolling hills, that reminded me of when I drove through western Oklahoma this summer, just massive, rolling expanses of grass. I'd climb to the top of a long hill and coast down the other side fast and happy, relishing the emptiness.

That's what I did for a while. Eventually, though, the grumpiness was getting to me, so I pulled over in  the yard of a cute little farm house and had a picnic, drinking the Pepsi I bought at Hazel's earlier in the day and eating my Snickers and watching the cars go by. I didn't have far to go until I turned north and headed into Cherokee.

I was about to test out the 4-foot shoulder marking on my map. Highway 59 it said, which went straight into Cherokee, was supposed to have a four foot shoulder to ride on, so even though it is busy, it is okay for cyclists. Now, sometimes there is a four foot shoulder, but they put a huge stretch of rumble strips right in the middle, so the effective riding space is like 1 foot. I was hoping that wouldn't be the case.

And, huzzah!, it wasn't. The highway was busy, and more long rolling hills, but it was brand spanking new, with a huge shoulder, protected, rather than ruined by rumble strips. It was great riding, probably some of the nicest pavement I'd seen the whole trip. And, the road featured, weirdly enough, numbers, embedded into the pavement. 171. 172. etc. I couldn't figure out what they were there for, but I liked watching them as I rode up long hills, waiting for visions of Cherokee on the horizon.

Outside of Cherokee is a park that features a big rock. A boulder, actually. A glacier erratic that was dumped there. Now, in theory, you could go out there and have a picnic, but I don't think anyone does. But if you are in the neighborhood, and you like geology (which I do), you might #checkitout.

As I rode into Cherokee, I had a big decision to make. Would I leave Cherokee on the little county road that went west, or would I try the highway north. The problem with the highway was that it was a highway, and busier. The problem with the county road was a little thing called "cemetery hill," a bastard of a hill that rose out of the west in Cherokee. We'd climbed up the other side on our way into Cherokee during "deathbrai" and I wasn't keen to do it again with my fully loaded MoTro.

I kept my eye out for it as I rode into town, hemming and hawing the whole time.

Soon, the side of the road got busier, with businesses and traffic, and the town started to develop like a polaroid picture. I didn't know which hill was cemetery hill, but I figured I would figure it out. I had other things on my mind as I rode into town: namely, a bed.

16 #RideOut A Strangers Just a Friend You Haven't Met

Day 3: Sac City to Cherokee. 

I don't know how many miles. I can't keep track anymore....

Leaving Storm Lake

I set about leaving Storm Lake with a slightly bruised ego (bike topple) and very little water. "No worries," I thought to myself. "I am going to ride through the tree museum. Surely there is a public fountain."

For those of you who don't know what a tree museum is, well, it is awesome. They have trees that are related to famous trees. "Famous trees," you are thinking. "What's a famous tree?"

How about a tree that is related to one of Johnny Appleseed's trees, beotch? Or a descendant of the tree that knock Sir Isaac Newton on the head with an apple. Yeah. Famous. And the Storm Lake tree museum is like one of the largest tree museums in the world!

I know.

The best part about the tree museum, though, is that they are just trees. Which are cool in their own right, but they have little placards indicating their famous history. It sort of reminds me of this gal I worked with at Mother Jones (#humblebrag) who was related to Abraham Lincoln. She was just a regular, hipster girl, but it made you feel more connected to old honest Abe anyway.

So, I rode on the bike path around the lake, through the tree museum, and into Buena Vista College. There the trail sort of petered out. Crap. Still no water. I rode through a cute little neighborhood of brick houses and then spotted a house that said Buena Vista College Recreation and Inter-mural Department. Surely, they would give me some water.

I knocked on the door and an Asian kid answered. "This is going to sound weird, but can I have some water?" He shrugged and filled up my bottles from the cooler.

A girl was sitting on a couch in the living area of this office/house. "Do you guys know the best way out of town?" They did not. College kids. Go figure.

I thanked them and headed out the door. I did a couple laps around the neighborhood, still lost, until a guy in a kidnapper van pulled up and asked if I needed help. "There's a trail just over that way. I'll lead you there." I swung the bike around just as he peeled out at high residential speed. Geez, mister. And, I put the hammer down to catch him. I swept wide around a corner and saw him pointing a little path between the houses. I waved and followed it.

Soon, I was back on the trail, but also kind of lost. I knew the road I needed to be on was to my right, but I couldn't quite find a street to get me there. Then the trail ended and I was on the streets. Finally, though, I caught a glimpse of the tthoroughfarethat would take me out of town, and I turned right and paused to cross the street.

I was just about to head west out of Storm Lake when I heard a voice shout, "hey! How are you!? Do you need anything? Water? or Fruit?" It was a lady in her fifties, out for a walk by the looks of it. I pulled up by the curb to have a chat.

"Are you headed to RAGBRAI?" she asked. I told her I was, and she told me that she had done RAGBRAI like 86 times, with her small children in tow, and her son was a Trek rep in Kansas City and he had a really nice Mad One, and did I need a Tour update?

She then proceeded to give me completely false Tour updates. (I've got the app, yo.). But, she was super nice. I wish I had met her earlier, when I did need water or fruit. She was so sweet, so bike-core, and so enthusiastic. I loved it. Meeting other bikey people just puts a huge grin on my face.

I said good bye, swung back out onto the road, and made tracks for Cherokee. Little did I know my grin wouldn't last long. 

15 #RideOut "That's the Way to Approach Your Repair"

Storm City!

Well, crap. I wasn't going to find my way into Storm City this way. I turned around and pulled into a driveway with a middle aged dude working in the garage.

"Excuse me," I called. He came out, tagged by two grandchildren, excited for the excitement of something out of the ordinary. Big pink bike lady! "Can you tell me the best way to get down town?"

I had to ride back out to the black top* turn right, then go about a mile, and take the next paved left. That would take me towards town until I hit the trail and I could ride that around the lake.

I backtracked and followed his instructions, though it seemed a lot more than a mile....but eventually, I found myself on the cool, shaded neighborhood roads of Storm Lake and eventually the bike trail. It was quaint to be riding along the bike trail, after so many miles on the lonely highway. I liked passing ladies with no helmets and Dasani water bottles out for the cool mid-morning ride.

Pulling into town, I saw the bike shop, Lakeside Cyclery, and found a place on the highway to make a mad dash across the busy traffic. I parked the MoTro outside and wandered in, in search of gloves and guidance and "my people."

The shop was huge, like Bike World West, but with lower ceilings. But there was only one employee, a handsome guy in his forties talking about gloves with a gal at the counter. I putzed around, eyeing the gloves, but really wanting to hear his professional thoughts on my growing blisters.

After he'd sent the lady out the door, he came over and asked if I needed help. I showed him my gloves, and my hands, and asked if he could suggest a new pair of gloves.

"Hmm," he said, staring at my hands. "Let's go take a look at your bike." We went outside to where the MoTro was parked, and he asked me to show him where my hands hit.

"See, if we angled the handlebars up a bit, we could give you a shorter reach. And, we could put some really cushy handlebar tape on here too."

"Oh, but I don't want you guys to have to do all that. I just waltzed in here," I replied.

"Well, my mechanics are both at the shop, but when they come back, we can probably get it done. Are you in a rush?"

I told him I was riding to Cherokee, but not really in a rush. I was planning to eat lunch in Storm Lake. He suggested I go across the street to the resort, have some lunch, and he would see what he could do.

So, I got my essentials out of my bag and took my grubby, spandexed, bike-shoed self to the resort restaurant. Is there anything worse in the world that to be wearing spandex when more than 12 feet from one's bike? No. There is not. But I got a table on the deck, ordered a BLT on flat bread and a Stella and watched the dredging machine do it's work on the lovely lake.

Here's my tweet from lunch!

Lunch over, I walked to the Casey's to buy the mechanics a six-pack. The gal at the counter carded me, which was so sweet, and she told me about being carded. She looked not a day younger than sixty-six. Awesome.

I walked up the busy road back to the bike shop, hoping I wouldn't have to wait too long. I still had a good bit of road to cover before Cherokee.

Inside, I walked up to the mechanics counter and saw the MoTro was all ready to go. I left the beer on the counter, and the nice hispanic mechanic rang me up. Out of the back room I heard a shout, "what is this? Beer?" For a second I was worried I had over stepped my bounds, bringing beer. What if this was one of those Christiany bike shops, with no beer allowed?

"Oh, my god," the guy said. "I knew I liked you!"

I laughed. "I can't believe you guys got this done me. I didn't want to be one of those jerks who waltzes in and demands immediate service."

"See, that's the way to approach your repair," he told me as he showed me the modifications on the MoTro. The bar tape was a thick and plush as a mattress and the bars were tilted up just enough to make it easier to reach the hoods, without looking 100% nerdy.

Filled with bike shop love and beer, I walked the MoTro down the stairs to the parking top, put down the kick stand, so I could put on my gloves, and watched as the whole machine promptly fell over. In front of God and everyone. Scuffing my new tape, just a bit.

No one said I was cool and/or smooth.

So far, Storm Lake was turning out great! But it wouldn't be my last encounter with kindness before rolling West.

*can I just say, I hate it when people give me directions using the kind of pavement. It's one thing to distinguish between gravel and paved, but "blacktop"? There was a little park at the entrance to the subdivision that had actual blacktop. Was that where I should turn? Or back out to the sharrow highway? I was too embarrassed to ask for clarification.

14 #RideOut On a Long and Lonesome Highway, East of Nemaha

Day 3 July 17th: Sac City to Cherokee

Miles: 50ish

Total Miles: 160some?

Still Day 3 Part 1--how long can I drag this blog out, honestly?

I literally was about to hop on my bike, when who should arrive but the Recumbent Mafia, all silly and reclined and covered in neon, their flags a-waving!

"Good morning!" I hollered. They hollered the same. Big smiles all around. They told me about their big breakfast at Hutch's. Apparently, the night before, at dinner (you remember the Swede, right?), the cook had not shown up, so the gal cooking was the owner and the Swede was brand new--hence the severe lack of professionalism. 

They got off their bikes and stripped off gloves and helmets. I gave them the run-down on Hazel's and Hazel. And, the gals went inside to try and use the bathroom. We chatted about their plans for the day. They were going to ride into Schaller because there was a good restaurant there. I was trying to decide if I should go to Schaller or head into Storm Lake. 

They opened their panniers and pulled out a bag of bing cherries and the dude from Florida gave me a nectarine. Ah, fruit, sweet fruit. So absent from my diet. We chatted about my awesome Schwalbe tires, and I took their group picture--the first of their adventure, but I was being pulled by the "ready to go" feeling, while they were still in the "just got here feeling." So, I mounted up and rolled out of Nemaha. 

Here's the route I eventually decided on.

Leaving Nemaha was a bit of a bummer. I don't know why. I just felt a bit bummed out. I kind of wished I had a big posse of reclined friends to ride with, though, I was relishing my aloneness, and I was getting used to it. Being so alone made me appreciate my human encounters even more! And, I was starting to really enjoy hanging out with me.

I can't express how alone I was. I mean, cars were rare out here. Because farms are so big, you don't see a lot of people out working, and it was the middle of the season, so it's not like there was a lot to do anyway. The hills started rolling a bit and I crossed the highway and appreciated its busyness. Go people! Go!

I crossed a series of creeks and then turned north towards Storm Lake. I have a special fondness for Storm Lake. It's sort of a college town, sort of a resort town, sort of like Clear Lake, and sort of not. It is also the first overnight town from my first ever ragbrai. And, they have a good pizza place. They have a tree museum.

But I had another reason for wanting to stop in Clear Lake. My hands. The middle part of my hand, where the thumb folds over was raw and becoming blistered. Unlike my road bike, the hoods on my MoTro were just a bit too out of reach, so I rode mainly on this part of my hands, and they were getting sore. Probably, I needed a shorter stem, but I would survive with a more cushy pair of gloves, and I knew there was a bike shop in Storm Lake.

I stopped about halfway through my northward section at an old farm house and cemetery and ate my nectarine in the shade and watched the cars drive by. I felt a little sad, but a little not. 

As I rode into Storm Lake I passed a round barn. I thought about a book I saw one time about all the round barns in Iowa. How many were there again? What was the thinking behind the design? I thought about the time in college when I volunteered for a day of hard labor in a round barn, shoveling and hauling dirt all day, leaving feeling achy and dusty and very happy. I got terribly sick the next day, the day we visited the lawn art farm outside of Anamosa, so my roommate could make a documentary about the lawn art farm. I'd never really been that sick. It kind of surprised me. 

Wait, huh, what? Oh, sorry, I was day dreaming. 

Soon, I arrived at the cross roads that would take me to Storm Lake. Left or right? Right, I thought. The highway had sharrrows! And bike signs! Go Storm Lake! I turned left, towards the lake at my first chance, and rode into a neighborhood, past big houses with lake views. I was looking for that road. That road we took out of Storm Lake that one time...

Nope. Dead end. Now what?