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| cheesehead helmets, sore knees, & Iowa hills |
Eight times I’ve been on all or part of the
forty annual bike rides across Iowa (Ragbrai), and that’s enough saddle-sore
miles to know that a trip through the Midwest’s breadbasket state can offer
plenty of contrasts. Most of the time, it is a peaceful, spandex-clad army cruising
the back roads, savoring local farm food, and soaking up the remaining vestiges
of small-town life. The Des Moines
Register organizes ten or fifteen thousand riders who spend seven days
pedaling from the Missouri River to the Mississippi River. They chomp on sweet
corn, inhale slices of blueberry pie, and invade towns with no stoplights but
plenty of hospitality.
The 450- or 500-mile trek is a great way to
see agriculture at ground level, and there is no denying, it’s grown into a
monster success. But enough of the happy talk. As with anything worthwhile, a
few warts can show up under those padded bicycle shorts, and this year, the
conditions reminded us all that a ride through Pleasantville might have some
bumps and bruises. A few examples:
#1 The Inferno: Earlier this week, the
temperature reached the century mark for several days—news reports claimed the
mid-afternoon pavement under our tires simmered at 130 degrees. On Tuesday, when
we turned east, past the Lehigh Hill and into a stiff headwind, Dante whispered
in my ear, “This is Level Five. You only have yourself to blame.”
#2 Hell Froze Over: Contrast this year to my
first ride in 1981. On the second day, an 80-miler to Lake City, the
temperature never climbed out of the 50s. A cold, slanting rain drove most from
their bikes and eventually flooded our campsite. Citizens became angels of
mercy and took shivering riders into their homes, garages, and barns.
#3 Healthfood: The term can be an oxymoron at
times. Roadside stalls, church suppers, and tent breakfasts provide amazing
food along the way. But the constant pedaling can be an excuse to carb-load,
and not everyone eats salads, fruit, and lean meat. Pie for breakfast? With a bacon-flavored Bloody Mary on the
side? Or maybe pancake-on-a-stick, infused with sausage of course. The numerous fruit smoothies balance out the subsequent
cold beers.
#4 That Fresh Country Air: And it is. Fog hugging the creeks in the
pastures as bikers roll along just after sunrise—pure Grant Wood. But a
confinement farm might change the mood if it’s upwind, and I remember following
a loaded hog truck for a mile or so during one ride. Nothing like the smell of bacon
when it’s still on the hoof.
#5 Physical Fitness:
Yes, it’s aerobic, Yes, prepping for the ride gets you working out. But let’s
be honest. The back? Quasimodo could sympathize. The legs? They burn fire going
up some of the hills. Sunburn, helmet head, bugs in teeth, bike chain tattoos
on leg calves—but the worst is still the old Dead End. No spandex girdle can
keep the ride from being a pain in the padded bike shorts.
# 6 Alone Together:
Those looking for a quiet ride in the park may instead choose New York City’s
Central Park. Ragbrai is morning crowds swarming to the first town in a hunt
for coffee and breakfast burritos, or a tire-to-tire companionship at
30-miles-an-hour downhill with someone from Germany chatting about farming.
Those who don’t like the ambience of kybos or the wait for a warm shower should
attend boot camp instead.
# 7 Green Fades to
Brown: The biggest negative this year was the drought—we had an eye-level view
of a once verdant garden state. Corn and soybean fields that are usually green
and lush were brown and shriveled. Lawns were steel wool, and streams were bone
dry. You don’t fry an egg on the pavement this year—you barbecue ribs.
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| farmyard slip & slide cool down |
But the optimism
remains. The townspeople come out in force. The ride includes every type of
person, every type of bike, and every type of story woven into the fabric of a
one-week parade. Traditionalists on three-speeds coast by, a ten-year-old
drafts behind friends like he’s in the Tour-de-France, a 64-year-old Englishman
wears French clothes and rides an ancient bike. Riders might meet politicians,
celebrities, Australians, Air Force members, or the 88-year-old mayor from
McCallsburg.
Riders get hurt; riders get married; riders
pedal along through the heart of the country wondering why they put themselves
through it. Then they finish like my friend Don did this year. We load our
bikes onto the car rack, and he says, “So, about January should we start
planning the trip again? Some overseas friends wanna come for the next one, so
maybe we could rent a camper. All tailwinds and 80-degree days next year.” Did I mention that riding also affects the
brain? by dan gogerty (search the desmoinesregister for Ragbrai stories and photos)
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