2006 Big Ride Across America
Part 4: Billings, MT, to Rapid City, SD
July 9-14
5 days, 403 miles (1,319 total thus far)
Summary:
There are many factors that can make a bicycle ride tough: riding too long a distance (beyond one’s comfort zone), excessive heat, strong contrary winds, steep hills, rough road surfaces, and so on. From Billings to Rapid City, heat and wind were constant concerns. But it was on day 16, from Sheridan and Gillette, that all of these factors came together: we rode 109 miles, several of them on gravel through a construction zone, and, beginning around mile 60, we spent the rest of the day climbing tough hills in 100+ degree heat, fighting headwinds and crosswinds that slowed our speed in half. I left before 6:00 a.m. and finished just before 4:00 p.m., a ten-hour effort in which I spent more than eight hours in the saddle. The last people made it to camp two hours later.
Overview: Riding for a Cause:
Despite the extreme difficulties of that day, our group’s morale remains very high. Only one rider has dropped out: Patty Lovell from Canton, Ohio, left the ride in Missoula because she wasn’t enjoying it. She was riding with her husband, John, and was really doing it for his sake; but she was having trouble sleeping, especially when tenting, and decided that the Big Ride’s daily deprivations – the long mileage and the heat as well as all the camping – overshadowed her desire to stay with John and the group. Otherwise, everyone seems fully on board, relishing the experience and accepting hardships in stride. The pace of the ride is extremely challenging, but as the days go by, we’ve all been getting stronger. As veteran cyclists, no one’s been fazed by the adverse conditions we’ve faced, accepting them as part of the experience. We have great faith that our seasoned support team is doing what it can to facilitate our journey. And perhaps most importantly, the fact that we’re on a charity ride benefiting the American Lung Association has helped us accept difficulties without complaint.
Contrastingly, there is another cross-country ride we have been shadowing since we left Seattle. That ride, which is being run by Adventure Cycling, a nonprofit organization, is strictly meant as a great bicycling adventure, and yet where our group has been cohesive and consistently upbeat, the Adventure Cycling group, we’ve learned, has been dispirited and fractious. I bring this up especially since I’d tried to sign up for the Adventure Cycling ride but was too late (last November!) and relegated to the waiting list. In the months that followed, I learned about the Big Ride, which seemed remarkably similar – also limited to 40 riders, traveling from the same beginning and end points, and covering the same number of miles in the same number of days. My understanding at that time was that the routes were the same; the Adventure Cycling ride would purportedly be cushier, but I liked the idea of riding for charity. In fact, as I’ve learned subsequently, the Adventure Cycling ride is not more luxurious; really (except for snacks offered at rest stops; we just get fluids) the two rides are identical. This is the 10th year that the American Lung Association has run a cross-country bike trip, and Adventure Cycling, in organizing a supported cross-country ride for the first time, chose to use not only the Big Ride’s route but also all of its nightly accommodations and food vendors.
A number of factors have contributed to the difference in morale. First, and undoubtedly foremost, the other group’s journey became mired in tragedy when on the fourth day one of its riders was struck by a car and killed. As we learned soon afterward, the victim was Phillip Smith, 56, of Banner, Wyoming, a small business owner and real estate agent who had traveled more than 10,000 miles by bicycle. The accident happened on Highway 28, seven miles south of Davenport, Washington. Riding on the same road three days later, our group was shocked that such a tragedy could have occurred where traffic was so light and sight distances so vast. Reportedly the driver was a mother with an infant, and she’d been reaching down for the baby’s bottle, taking her eyes off the road. To me the message was that accidents are unavoidable: anything can happen to anyone at anytime. But the effect on the Adventure Cycling group had to be terrible, and it purportedly shook their confidence in their leadership.
There is a significant difference in the quality of our support teams. Paula Graham, our ride’s director, is leading the Big Ride for the third time; thus she knows not only the route, but also the maintenance people and food vendors at our overnight stops. She and her husband, Dennis, who is also with us, have both worked as ride supporters for the past 17 years, including Odyssey 2000, a year-long round-the-world bicycle trip that traveled 20,000 miles through 45 countries. Dennis and Paula drive the gear truck, and Mark Webert, who drives one of the three support vans, rode the Big Ride in 2000. Among the Adventure Cycling group, none of the support staff has any experience with the Big Ride.
But the fact that our group is riding for charity is another major factor in our group’s higher morale. Weather-related hardships are to be expected on any bicycle trip, but on multi-day supported rides it is the responsibility of ride organizers to keep riders on good roads, see that they’re fed and hydrated, and to provide overnight accommodations. Any deficiencies in these areas are potential causes for complaint; and certainly there have been problems. As far as I’m concerned, bicycle rides should avoid high-volume traffic as much as possible, and yet our ride left Seattle during a weekday rush hour, and we’ll be passing directly through Cleveland, Ohio. The road into Missoula was particularly harrowing, as was the stretch on Interstate 90 after crossing over the Snoqualmie Pass on day 1, where at one point the shoulder narrowed to only a few feet and at another, a gap in the pavement amid a steep downhill, three riders fell, one injuring herself badly, needing hospitalization and several days off from riding. In both of these cases, taking an alternative route would have added an extra day to the trip; and since we’re riding for charity, we can understand and accept that the route at times sacrifices aesthetics for expedience. None of the riders who fell blamed the trip’s organizers, and two days later they posed proudly together, showing off their bruises. (See my photo entitled “Day 3 Big Riders Flaunt Their Road Rash.”) Similarly there have been few complaints about the food or the places we’ve stayed, even when the dinner yet again has been overcooked spaghetti, or 26 men have access to two toilets without stall doors. Meanwhile the Adventure Cycling group has been complaining bitterly, so much so that, fearing mutiny, their support staff asked for our help. Paula responded by sending Mark to join their group, trading places for two days with one of their staffers, in order to provide them with more knowledge about the route. Mark reported that their group has been affected by four or five people’s constant complaints. I can sympathize with the complainers because, as devised, Adventure Cycling’s ride is generating a substantial profit. Big Riders were required to contribute $5,500, 50 percent of which benefits the American Lung Association. The cost of the ride, then, is $2,750 per person, yet the cost of the Adventure Cycling trip was $5,000. Thus, whereas we know that all monies saved are going to a good cause, giving us a sense of altruism when conditions are difficult, the Adventure Cycling riders, not knowing what the profits benefit, have a right to feel that they’re being cheated.
As Big Riders, we are not only sharing in a journey that we have longed to take; we know that our efforts have been benefiting others. We generated more than a quarter of a million dollars in contributions, and any deprivations we experience on our journey that save the ALA money reduces expenses. We’re working together and having fun together, and we quickly developed into a harmonious team. In his after-dinner speech in Townsend, Montana, Norm Boice, our eldest rider, said we’d become a family. The Adventure Cycling group may be a family also, but lacking our cause, they’re a lot more dysfunctional.
Okay, so, that said, back to the daily details:
Day 14: Sunday, July 9 - Billings day off. Miles: 0.
Just as in Missoula on the 4th of July, downtown Billings on a Sunday was nearly shut down. I walked a half-mile for my morning coffee, then worked on my journal until 11:30 a.m., finishing just in time to watch the World Cup soccer final, hanging out in the common room with a dozen other riders. Boring as it was, that proved the big event of the day. Afterward I ventured out for a run in 95-degree heat, and later I walked to dinner with three other riders – John Lovell of Canton, Ohio, Roberta Taffee of Hastings, Michigan, and Liz Gragnolati of Hartford, Connecticut. We went to Perkins Family Restaurant. The only other choice was Denny’s.
Day 15: Monday, July 10 - Billings to Hardin, MT – 55 miles.
An easy, relaxing day, allowing us, after our off-day, to ease ourselves back into the journey. The most difficult part was the ride out of town, facing rush-hour traffic for the first five and a half miles until we passed over Interstate 90. We then faced a nine-mile climb out of Billings, but it was still early and the temperature in the 70s. The rest of the day we rode through rolling plains that proved surprisingly scenic. After the ride into Billings, which had been arid and flat, I’d imagined a whole lot more of the same. In fact, though, the ride was lovely, the traffic volume very light, and the green grassland and amber wheat fields punctuated by outcroppings. I rode most of the way with Steve Rubenstein, the reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle; we talked of literature and Steve recited large chunks of Shakespeare. Despite our dawdling, we reached Hardin by noon, before the temperature peaked. In the afternoon it reached the mid-90s . We stayed at Hardin High School, camping on the football field, and had access to the indoor, Olympic-sized pool next door in the Community Center. Meanwhile the irrepressible Carol Tremble arranged transportation for us to the Little Bighorn Battlefield. At 2:00 p.m., 20 of us crowded into a bus owned and operated by the local senior center. The driver, who had grown up on the Crow Reservation, drove us through Crow Agency, pointing out the town’s poverty, bars protecting the windows of nearly all of the buildings. Touring the battlefield also struck me as depressing. As with the Civil War battlefields I’ve visited, it’s interesting to see the contours of the land, but I had a hard time sympathizing with Custer, whose mission had been to wipe out as many Indians as he could and, instigating an attack, simply was outnumbered. To me the most moving part was the Indian Memorial, erected slightly downhill from the site of Custer’s Last Stand. The memorial contained Indian drawings and writings about the battle, including these:
“They attacked our village and we killed them all. What would you do if your home was attacked? You would stand up like a brave man and defend it.”
- Sitting Bull
“Since the Sioux first fought with the men (white men) who are our friends now, they had not won a great battle … so it was that the Sioux defeated Long Hair and his soldiers in the valley of he Greasy Grass River, which my people remember with regret, but without shame.”
- Mrs. Spotted Horn Bull
Day 16: Tuesday, July 11 – Hardin, MT, to Sheridan, WY – 84 miles.
This was a harder day as our route took us south, into the prevailing southerly wind. The terrain was relatively flat grassland, some cultivated, some not, gradually rising 1,000 feet in elevation over the first 50 miles. There were sections of trees – pines up on the hills, and cottonwoods as we rode parallel to the Little Bighorn River. Meanwhile just to the west the rugged Bighorn Mountains, some peaks with snow patches, were visible all day. I rode hard and made good time throughout the morning, while the headwind was lighter and the temperature cool. Approaching the Wyoming border, though, the riding grew more difficult as the winds became stronger, the hills longer and steeper, and the heat rising once again into the 90s. Still, I kept riding hard, feeling energized this day. Climbing is my greatest strength, and I attacked the hills with gusto; and – out of character for me – I also joined in some pace lines during some of the flatter stretches. Pace lines, for those who don’t know, are groups of riders pedaling single-file, close together – about a wheel length from each other. The disadvantage of being in one is that you can’t concentrate on the scenery; your eyes are focused on the rider in front of you. But the advantage is that the line lessens the wind resistance for all but the lead rider, so pedaling is much easier. The lead rider strains to go as fast as possible, “pulling” for the others, and then someone else takes over; so together, through teamwork, a pace line is able to go faster more efficiently. Normally I resist, preferring aesthetics over speed, but on this day I enjoyed trying to keep up with the hammerheads. The end result, though, was that the effort exhausted me. By the very end – the final 10 miles into Sheridan – the temperature had soared to over 100. The wind was no relief – just blasts of hot air – and the terrain had turned from green to a raw, grayish desert. I fell off a pace line and limped to the finish, arriving at the Sheridan KOA a little before 1:00 p.m. After setting up my tent, washing my biking clothes and showering, I spent the entire afternoon recovering beside the KOA pool – taking frequent dips, lounging in the shade, and nodding off while trying to finish The Aeneid.
Day 17: Wednesday, July 12 – Sheridan to Gillette, WY – 109 miles.
This was the day we’d been warned about from the very beginning, before any of us signed up for the Big Ride – our longest day, with very limited services over hilly terrain with the chance of extreme heat and high winds. Breakfast was moved up to 5:30 a.m., so most of us began stirring at 4:30, before dawn. We were on the road by 6:00 a.m., trying to make good time while conditions were favorable and bracing ourselves for what would likely happen later.
After riding through Sheridan, we began a long, steep climb, rising more than 1,000 feet over 15 miles. Then from mile 20 to mile 60, the ride was all gradual downhill. The road turned east, away from the Bighorn Mountains and through a narrow valley surrounded by low hills. We stopped at a small store in Clearmont, the only town we passed all day, and then pressed on, still making good time until reaching the Powder River. Then the conditions all changed at once: the southern crosswind stiffened, we started a steep climb, and the heat became palpable. To top it off, there was 11 miles of road construction beginning a mile short of a place called the Spotted Horse Café (really a bar-restaurant). At our group meeting the night before, Paula had insisted we all stop there to tank up on fluids since there’d be no services of any kind for the final 40 miles. As a result, our support team struck an agreement with the construction crew to let us ride through the construction zone to reach the Spotted Horse. From there we had to wait to be shuttled five miles before resuming our ride. I downed two bottles of Gatorade during the 20-minute wait before loading my bicycle onto the back of a pickup truck. The pilot car drove four of us approximately five miles to a spot deemed safe enough for us to ride. We then set off, still on gravel road for several more miles. By then it was 1:00 p.m., the road had turned south, and the southwesterly crosswind was gusting against us. The saving grace, however, was the cloud cover that had formed, lowering the temperature and shielding us from the sun. At that point I relaxed a bit, knowing at least that I could make it. I’ve faced many strong winds before, and while they are maddening, they only make you uncomfortable; it’s sun and heat that can kill you. So I pressed on, riding mostly with the irrepressible Carol Tremble, who once again hitched her own ride to hurry through the construction zone. Carol’s a 55-year-old “Hippie Chick,” as the sticker on her bike reads, and I’ve decided that when the going’s tough, sticking with her is good karma. At one point, when the wind died for a moment, Carol said, “Could this be a tailwind I’m feeling?” I answered, “I don’t know, but if I’m with you, at least there’s a chance.”
The final 35 miles were a series of long climbs, their steepness seeming much worse because of the wind. The terrain turned to broad, open grassland, the wind whipping across it, and we tooled along, at times at less than 10 miles an hour, chatting about Robert Frost and keeping our eyes peeled for antelope. The final miles into Gillette were the worst of all: the sun came back out in full force, raising the temperature into the 100s, and it was one long uphill; the road simply kept climbing. Passing the “Welcome to Gillette” sign, I found it difficult not to curse, and of all the towns we’ve stayed in thus far, it’s the one that I most hope never to revisit.
To top off the day, we stayed next to the Community Center, the parking lot of which proved to be a teen hangout. All evening kids loitered, revving their car engines, until 10:00 p.m. when, mercifully, the police chased them away. Meanwhile to the west the sky had blackened, and since we couldn’t sleep anyway with all the noise they were making, a number of us crawled out of our tents and watched the fierce lightning storm in the distance. We retired a little after 10:00 p.m., amid the first raindrops, but most of the storm passed by us, and I fell quickly to sleep.
Day 18: Thursday, July 13 – Gillette to Newcastle, WY – 74 miles.
A mercifully easy day, allowing everyone to recover. We rode downhill all morning with an easterly tailwind, and the tailwind strengthened throughout the day, blowing us along. The terrain rolled but, thanks to the wind, the climbs never felt steep, and the air felt much cooler, seemingly staying in the 80s. Except for a stretch of Ponderosa pine forest east of the town of Upton, the land was broad, open grassland. In the distance we caught a glimpse of Devil’s Tower National Monument, and all day there were sightings of mule deer and antelope. We reached Newcastle by 12:30 p.m., then spent a long, relaxing afternoon inside the Weston County Senior Center, where we were staying. I pitched my tent in the shade, and even considered taking a nap, but instead I found a table inside and worked on this journal. I worked until dinner, which was served in the same area, and then continued working until 9:00 p.m.
Two problems occurred overnight, affecting people’s sleep. First, security floodlights doused the whole tenting area; second, as per usual on this trip, our sleeping area was located near railroad tracks, which run through every town and often parallel the highways. This night, however, the freight train whistles were far worse than usual, seeming louder and occurring throughout the night, at least one per hour. The worst occurred at about 11:30 p.m., when two trains approached in opposite directions and for five minutes whistled at each other. Nobody slept well outside (indoor campers faired better), and one camper compared the experience with the torture tactics employed at Guantanamo Bay.
Day 19: Friday, July 14 – Newcastle, WY, to Rapid City, SD – 81 miles.
A difficult day for the first 30 miles that then proved the nicest and most scenic thus far. We began by climbing amid contrary winds, rising 1,500 feet while entering South Dakota, where the landscape abruptly changed to Ponderosa pine forest. We were entering the Black Hills, and I rode toward them wondering whether they were really blackish or whether the name was making me think so via the power of suggestion. Maybe the hills look as black as they do in contrast to the more arid land that surrounds them. Really, as I drew closer, the hills were a deep green, covered with thick forest, and the grass in the foreground was a lush, bright green as opposed to the milky green and amber grasses of the plains.
After 22 miles, we’d climbed to more than 5,500 feet and entered the Black Hills National Forest. The rugged terrain reminded me strongly of Yellowstone, particularly because of the evidence of wildfires – steep slopes with blackened tree trunks and freshly grown meadows. Then after descending into the town of Custer, the riding turned truly spectacular. We rode through the Custer State Forest, downhill nearly all the way, the hills now featuring the dark, lumpy granite that distinguishes the Black Hills more than any other feature. Still, the rich greens of the forest and cloudless blue sky were what stood out to me more than the rock face.
The road swerved through deep woodland, amid constantly shifting winds, seeming to change direction every 100 yards. But when we finally exited the forest, dropping down onto plains, the wind was blowing steadily up from the south, giving us a massive tailwind all the way north to Rapid City. The afternoon temperature reached 103 degrees, but thanks to our tailwind, we reached our end point unscathed, riding the final 17 miles in less than an hour and then checking into our first air conditioned dorm rooms, in the South Dakota School of Mines and Technology.
Tomorrow is a well-deserved rest day in which most of us plan to visit Mt. Rushmore by car. Then we head east across the Great Plains. The first day should be difficult but exciting – 100 miles in high heat, passing through Badlands National Park. We’ll ride six days until our next day off, July 22 in New Ulm, Minnesota. And despite any and all weather conditions and sleep deprivation – no matter which way the wind blows – we’ll be having fun together.
Part 5: Rapid City, SD, to New Ulm, MN
July 15-22
8 days, 518 miles (1,837 total thus far)
Summary:
As many of you are aware (thank you for your notes of concern), the Big Ride traveled through South Dakota amid dangerous heat that at least tied local records. Actually we were lucky because during the hottest day – Saturday, July 15th – we had an off-day in Rapid City when the temperature in our next two overnight stops – Kadoka and Pierre, South Dakota – reached 117 degrees. As it was, we were safely ensconced in an air-conditioned dorm. In Rapid City I went running in the morning, and it reached 95 degrees by 10:00 a.m. Later, though, I went to a local indoor community pool, where I read a book, swam some laps, played on the water slide, and at times felt downright chilly. Biking back to the dorm, though, I was aware of how hot it was when I nearly burned my hands on the metal of my handlebars. The next day, though – Sunday the 16th – we had 102 miles to ride through Badlands National Park, and the forecast predicted temperatures in the same range. In fact, because of the low humidity, the heat felt tolerable through most of the ride, and the stark beauty of the Badlands had me dawdling through the early afternoon, as I stopped to take pictures and walk down a few of the short overlook trails. But in the end I paid for my complacency, as the final 20 miles to Kadoka were hellishly hot. Reaching the finish took all of my strength, and I staggered into town feeling drained and exhausted. The temperature, we learned later, was 111 degrees. That afternoon a hiker died in the Badlands, where the temperature reached 114.
Our wickedly hot century ride tired all of us, but the days that followed offered little chance to recover. Many felt that the next day – 96 miles from Kadoka to Pierre – was the harder of the two, as we were forced to battle a stiff northeasterly wind all the way, slowing progress to a crawl, especially through the hilly sections. This one-two punch – nearly 200 miles in two days, both in crippling conditions – was, to me, uniquely difficult. Yet still there was no respite as the wind has remained contrary, and at times even stronger, all the way across the Plains. We’ve now been fighting the wind for the five straight days, the longest such stretch that I’ve ever experienced.
Overview: Comparing this Experience – i.e., on a Supported Group Ride -- Versus Those I’ve Had When Riding Self-Contained.
As I struggled across South Dakota, “These are the times that try men’s souls” became my mantra of perseverance. From the beginning of the ride, when the going has gotten tough, I’ve switched into survival mode. “Keep going,” I tell myself. “I don’t have to like it all, but I do want to do it all.” Other riders (in fact, most of them) are faster than me, but since I’m part of the Big Ride, the goal I hope to reach is to be among the group that manages to do the whole ride. Among cyclists, the term for this is EFI, meaning (excuse the language) “every frigging inch.” During the Big Ride’s orientation, Charlie Vanderburg, the ride’s coordinator, mentioned the term, warning us not to adhere to it stubbornly if we’re sick or injured, insisting on a motto of “Safety first.” But the further into the ride we go, the more we endure, completing the ride EFI seems, to me, a significant achievement.
Many riders don’t care about doing EFI and have been happy to SAG for all or parts of some riding days. The term SAG, which stands for “Support and Gear,” has a number of uses in the lingo of bike touring. Most often it is used as an adjective. Any supported ride, where vehicles patrolling the roads can pick up riders and their bicycles, is referred to as a SAG ride. But it also can be used as a verb. When a rider is picked up, whether because of injury, equipment failure, or fatigue, this is referred to as “sagging,” as in “I sagged to the finish.”
On both the days from Rapid City to Kadoka and from Kadoka to Pierre, a number of people sagged because of fatigue. Some were disappointed that they ran out of gas; others were philosophical about it, accepting their limitations and choosing to live to ride another day. And there are those for whom riding EFI was not a concern or a priority. On the third straight day of contrary winds this week, one very strong rider took a nap at the halfway point, and when he woke still feeling tired, he opted to quit early, sagging the last 33 miles from Huron to De Smet. Meanwhile, other riders have also been forced to SAG, either because of injury or equipment problems (several have suffered broken spokes, another person a broken chain and derailleur, etc.). The Big Ride has a mechanic, Alan Fitton, driving one of the support vans, but because the daily route is prescribed, if your bike breaks down and can’t be fixed on the spot, sagging becomes your only option.
On multi-day rides, supported rides also include a gear truck that carries riders’ luggage from the start of each day to the finish. In the morning, riders pack up their extra clothing and equipment (tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, etc), thus relieving them of the need to carry it. This arrangement makes supported rides much easier (and to most bikers, vastly preferable) than riding self-contained. Lugging all that gear on a bicycle takes strength; it also changes the way the bicycle feels while riding, and, of course, it also makes for slower going.
That said, as much as I’m enjoying the challenges of the Big Ride, I’ve found myself concluding, especially this week, that I prefer self-contained over supported rides for a number of reasons. First, I don’t mind carrying the extra weight. Of one my goals, always, when bicycle touring is the conditioning that I achieve. I want to be working hard both to shed pounds and gain strength, and so I like that the heavier bike makes riding more strenuous.
Second, I don’t mind going slower. When I’ve traveled self-contained, I’ve either ridden alone or with a few other people who are equally saddled with weight. Thus, either I’m simply going at my own speed or at the speed of similarly slow riders, the pace becomes irrelevant: I simply do the best I can, and at the end of the day I’ve gone as far as I was able. Supported rides make me conscious of pace, as I can’t help but measure myself against the other riders whizzing by me. I try not to be bothered by my relative slowness. “It’s not a race,” I tell myself. I’m protecting myself against injury (getting older, after all …). And I’ve handicapped myself by choosing to ride my touring bike (it’s heavier and slower but less likely to break down) and equipping myself with a handlebar pack and panniers, allowing me to carry along my swim shorts, for instance. The worst part of being slow has been the awkwardness I’ve felt when arriving at rest stops or at the finish and being greeted by the cheers of our well-meaning support staff. Our ride director, Paula Graham, reacts with genuine enthusiasm, clapping and yelling “Woo-hoo!” “Great job!” and “Awesome!” for all the riders, regardless of when they finish. At times when I’ve ridden hard I can accept it more easily; but at others, when I’ve been dragging and bringing up the rear, her cheers make me feel like I’m in the Special Olympics.
Third, I prefer the freedom of traveling without the prescribed distances of supported tours. I’ve found it intimidating to wake up in, say, Rapid City knowing that I have to ride 100 miles that day regardless of how hot it gets or which way the wind blows. On self-contained tours, I’ve ridden up to 140 miles in a day, but the decision to ride that far always happened more or less spontaneously, because conditions were right and while I was riding I decided that I had the energy to do it. Generally on self-contained tours decisions about how far to go are made during the course of the day. You’ve looked at the map and may have a goal in mind, but you’ve also noted the options for where you can stop that night, and while you’re riding, you keep weighing your choices.
There’s also the freedom of being able to spontaneously change your route if either weather (especially wind) conditions or your mood dictates. One afternoon while crossing Kansas from east to west, I was being battered by a powerful southern crosswind, slowing my progress that day to a crawl. To make matters worse, I was in a desolate area, riding through the Quivira National Wildlife Refuge. The nearest town on my route west, Larned, was still nearly thirty miles away; it was after 4:00 p.m., I was nearly out of water, and at 8-10 mph, I was facing at least three more hours of riding. Suddenly I realized, by looking at my state map, that the larger town of Great Bend was directly to the north. It was 15 miles off-route, but what the heck? By turning north I had a tailwind, and I zipped up to Great Bend in 45 minutes. There I treated myself to a stay at a Best Western to help me recover from the debilitating day; and the next morning, when I woke up, the wind direction had changed and was blowing due west, giving me a tailwind all the way to Colorado.
On the Big Ride we’re locked in: each day you have two choices, either ride the route and reach the finish or SAG. If the weather conditions make the route tortuous, you can curse your fate, but you still have to get there. I prefer having my fate in my own hands. If I overextend myself and ride too far in a day, I have the comfort of knowing I did it to myself. And I like rewarding myself for hard days by splurging for motels as I did upon reaching Great Bend, Kansas, and especially on days when it’s raining. Riding in the rain is inevitable on a multi-day bike tour, but I find that I can enjoy it much more when telling myself as I’m riding that I’ll be in a motel that night. In contrast, on day 10 of the Big Ride, 99 miles from Missoula to Avon, Montana, while I was riding through a drenching rainstorm, amid lightning and gusting winds, one of the thoughts that most sunk my spirits was that afterward I’d be outdoors in my tent.
The whole pace of the Big Ride has been very intense, and the riding part of our day is extremely regimented. We’re up early, and there’s pressure to get dressed, packed, fully prepared for the day, and have your luggage loaded on the gear truck before it’s time for breakfast. That means, for instance, that at 5:45 a.m. I’ve been covering myself in sun block in order to stow the bottle with my luggage; otherwise I’d have to carry it with me all day. People then eat breakfast quickly, hurry onto the road, and many never slow down until the ride’s over. On yesterday’s 90-mile ride to New Ulm, fighting a crosswind all the way, riders finished as early as 12:00 p.m. and then of course have the rest of the day to recover. The difference reminds me of “The Tortoise and the Hare.” It’s not that the distances we’ve been covering each day are much greater than if I were riding self-contained, but the rhythm of the day would be very different. When self-contained, I wake perhaps even earlier, rising at first light either to beat the heat or to try to ride some easier miles before the wind grows stronger. Breakfast is necessarily more leisurely, sitting in a café and ordering off the menu rather than standing around the breakfast table near the gear truck or, when our breakfasts are catered, wolfing down a prepared meal. I make slower progress on the road and, when reaching towns, stop longer and more frequently, but I also travel for most of the day, not generally quitting until around 4:00 p.m. If the day becomes so hot that riding is dangerous or unbearable, I have the option of holing up for a few hours and then reaching my destination in the early evening. In contrast Big Riders must press on in deference to the support staff, whose job it is to keep tabs on us. A rest stop doesn’t close up until the last rider has passed. So given the heat we’ve been regularly facing, without the option of taking long breaks and dealing with it in increments, we’ve all felt pressured to ride all the harder and finish before the hottest part of the day.
* * *
Here are the blow-by-blow details of the week:
Day 21: Sunday, July 16 – Rapid City to Kadoka, SD – 102 miles.
The morning wind was from the northeast but light, and the road was sloping downhill, so we made good progress. At 40 miles we reached a first stretch of Badlands while passing through Buffalo Gap National Grassland. The land was extremely dry and wide open, and the grazing cattle created an interesting counterpoint to the bleached sections of raw, eroded rock and the bare, jagged peaks in the distance. At times the Badlands looked otherworldly, like the surface of the moon, devoid of all vegetation. But then the grassland resumed, and we continued eastward, passing only two nearly deserted towns, Scenic and Interior, in the first 70 miles. All of this was prelude to the most dramatic section of Badlands – the Cedar Pass area, which we reached around noon. Stopping at the Visitor’s Center, I drank two bottles of Gatorade, the temperature having climbed well into the 100s. Over the next ten miles, though, despite the steep climb up Cedar Pass, I felt fantastic and actually enjoyed the heat. The air was exceedingly dry, without a trace of humidity, and it felt crisp and clean to me, reminding me, on the other side of the spectrum, of the crispness of the air when it’s 20 below zero. I took the time to walk along several short trails to see overlooks of the Badlands, which stretched for miles south and east, then reluctantly continued north, out of the park. By then it was 1:00 p.m. and the temperature was still climbing, but I continued to find compelling reasons to dawdle. I stopped at an old prairie homestead featuring a sod and log house built in 1909, a souvenir shop with a statue outside proclaimed to be the World’s Largest Prairie Dog, and also at a newly created national historic site, open since May 2004 – a Minuteman missile silo and underground control center. Unfortunately the site was closed for the weekend, but even had it been open, the tour requires reservations, given that only six people can go down at a time to see a place where Americans could have launched World War III.
That’s when my own desperate battle began. With 20 miles to go, I turned east onto a frontage road along Interstate 90. Immediately I could feel a change in the heat. The pleasantness was gone; now it was just oppressive. I felt waves of heat, like the inside of an oven, blowing against me from the northeast wind, also serving to slow my progress. The road itself was part of the problem. Where up to then the surface had been a whitish concrete slabs, it now was pitch black asphalt, adding to the surface temperature. Meanwhile the terrain became a long series of rolling hills. None of them were particularly steep, yet because of the extreme heat, climbing became tortuous. I tried looking at them objectively. Each rise was only a hundred feet or so; why then did it feel like climbing Mt. Everest? Clearly the heat was adding to the difficulty. I found myself weak-legged and short of breath. Toward the end I had a hard time lifting my head, keeping my eyes on my odometer and the pavement just beyond my wheel. But finally I reached the town park where we would be camping. I got off my bike, lay down on my back, showered myself with the power nozzle of a hose, then crawled into shade and rested for several minutes. When I felt ready to try standing again, I headed for the town pool, perhaps thirty yards away, where I spent the next several hours recovering. I wasn’t alone, of course; everyone had suffered. Before dinner time, about a dozen of us took over the kiddie pool, lazing in the shallow water, casually flipping a ball around, and laughing idiotically, happy to have survived.
Day 22: Monday, July 17 –Kadoka to Pierre, SD – 96 miles.
For many of us, this day felt a lot harder. The heat of the day before, which had reached 111 degrees, while certainly debilitating, had only spoiled the afternoon. Overnight in Kadoka, though, the wind started blowing, and by morning it was stiff and gusting from the northeast, the direction we were heading. As we set off due east, again on the interstate service road, the wind hit us at an angle, slowing us considerably. Even worse, though, was after 20 miles, when we turned north on Route 63 and started riding even slower, facing more of a headwind. In all, the entire ride was a battle. Fighting the wind is hard work – very physically tiring, as you expend a lot more effort to keep up your pedal speed. It’s also mentally frustrating, and an uncomfortable feeling as the wind presses against you, buffeting your skin. After the difficulties of the heat the day before, the effort of this second straight very long day was extremely fatiguing, and several riders had to SAG. The hardest part, most thought, was between Midland and Hayes, miles 33 to 60, when the route became hilly, adding to the difficulty of the headwind. The riding did become somewhat easier over the last 35 miles, from Hayes to Pierre, when we turned onto Route 14 East and the wind, angling from the northeast, felt lighter than in the morning.
As for the scenery, it was hard to enjoy it, but during our morning route we traveled through rolling prairie that had been the setting for the movie Dances with Wolves. The grass was green, and I could see where scenes could have been filmed – long-angled camera shots that, if properly chosen, could avoid all the telephone and electrical wires. Certainly houses were few and far between, and much of the land was uncultivated range. Most of the time while riding, however, the grim effort to keep pedaling above 10 mph had me focusing inward, my eyes mostly on the highway. I rode along thankful for the cloud cover, which made the sky a dull gray but kept the sun off me and the temperature, mercifully, in the high 80s.
I reached Pierre after 4:00 p.m., having crossed into Central time, and had neither the time nor energy for sightseeing. The park where we camped, however, was grassy and shaded, and it sat alongside the broad Missouri River. After dinner I sat on a park bench and read, watching the sun set over the river and keeping an eye especially on a small island fifty yards off the near bank. The edges looked sandy, and it was grassy, with low trees – exactly the kind of towhead Huckleberry Finn describes as a place where he and Jim would tie their raft to for the night. Wrong river, of course: they rode down the Mississippi. But still I imagined how nice it would be to raft down the Missouri – a much easier kind of traveling.
Day 23: Tuesday, July 18 –Pierre to Miller, SD – 73 miles.
Another grim day, with gray skies and cool temperatures, but the wind we faced was even worse than Monday. Again it was stiff from the time we began, which seemed unusually harsh. Generally in my experience, the wind is lighter in the morning and gains velocity sometime after 10:00 a.m. Here, for the second straight day, it had risen before dawn and was lying in wait for us, though it had changed direction. Today the wind was coming out of the south, which would have helped us yesterday but today did no good as our route took us due east, remaining on Route 14. When the wind is strong enough, a crosswind can be as debilitating as a headwind, and such was the case today with wind speeds at 20-25 mph, gusting to 30-35. For the first 20 miles, this made for harrowing riding. The shoulder was narrow and cut with rumble strips, leaving little room for us, there was a lot of truck traffic, and the gusts threatened to push us further out onto the road. The gusts also made it difficult to ever gain momentum. Whenever I tried riding harder, increasing my speed, a gust would then pummel me, breaking my rhythm, and then I’d have to downshift and rebuild my energy. The effort of gripping the handlebars and riding straight also further decreased my peripheral vision, so I was absorbing less and less of the landscape. Not that there was all that much to enjoy. Again the day was gray and overcast. The land had flattened and was more cultivated, but the fields looked sere and the crops undersized, showing evidence of drought. Approaching Miller, I noticed a fire in one of the fields, and at dinner a farmer explained that fires had been breaking out frequently. The drought in the area was so severe he said, that when cultivators or winnowing machines rode through the fields, the metal, hitting against a rock, would ignite the crops.
The afternoon we spend in Miller was particularly grim. Though the daily mileage was shorter and I finished around 2:00 p.m., I felt too tired to do much, merely getting my laundry done. The town library inexplicably chose Tuesdays to be closed, and no one investigated whether there was a town pool. In fact there was one, with a large water slide, but I found out about it too late and after dinner felt unmotivated. Dinner was similarly botched. Miller was a “$10” night, meaning that since no arrangements had been made for a catered dinner, we were given $10 and free to go anywhere in town. But we were all so tired that few investigated the options. As a result, 30 of us descended on the nearest place, The Ranch Café, overwhelming the staff (one cook and one waitress) to the point that we helped out, taking our own orders, serving beverages, etc. It proved to be a basic burger joint, the kind where the house salad is a small bowl of iceberg lettuce. Had we investigated, there was another restaurant, Taylor’s, which had a salad bar and a much broader menu. After dinner, too tired to pitch my tent, I laid out my sleeping bag in a hallway of the high school and went to bed before dark, hoping to recover.
Day 24: Wednesday, July 19 –Miller to De Smet, SD – 77 miles.
Winds were contrary for the third straight day. Again they had turned: they were blowing this time from the east, and after feeling strong while we rode out of Miller, they lightened and we made good time for nearly 30 miles. After passing through the town of Wolsey, however, the road turned due east (we’d been angling south) and I suddenly met with a very strong headwind. It felt as if someone had flicked on a switch. My speed slowed to 8 mph over flat terrain, and the day turned once again into an endurance test – grim, grueling, and overcast all the way to De Smet. Meanwhile the surrounding landscape was changing. We’d passed through the drought area to where fields were greener, and for the first time we were riding in high humidity. The gray skies kept the temperature relatively cool, but each time I stopped riding, I found that I was soaking both from the strain of riding and the dampness of the air.
Since the Badlands I’d been stopping less and taking fewer photos, but all of us, it seems, our moods having turned grim, have had our eyes peeled for ironies while making wry jokes about the horrors of South Dakota. I took a picture of a sign on a small grocery store that read “Thanks for Scraping Your Boots” with two Big Riders on either side of it, pretending to comply. Larry Sullivan of Hauser, Idaho, took a picture of a sewer and septic tank cleaning truck that referred to the company as “Turdologist Specialtists” and had the slogan “Nobody Sticks their Noses in our Business.” Eric Knudson of Seattle said that while he was riding on the prairie, “I was hoping for an Indian attack just to relieve the boredom.” And as we approached De Smet, the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote many of her books, the sarcasm increased. Eric claimed that she’d originally titled one of her books Little House in the Wind Tunnel before her publisher made her change it. He also disparaged the notion that pioneer life was difficult. “She rode out on a horse and wagon, so she had it easy.”
We camped in the town park, and having learned my lesson from the night in Miller, I rode off to find the town pool, where I had a nice swim. Later, the park was across the street from a baseball field, and a bunch of us watched a Little League doubleheader, rooting for De Smet over a better team from Brookings. I wandered off to take pictures of the beautiful sunset over a field, then watched the end of the second game under the floodlights.
Day 25: Thursday, July 20 –De Smet, SD, to Tyler, MN – 80 miles.
More contrary wind – the fourth straight day of it – and our third straight full day on U.S. 14. The road at times was busy, especially with truck traffic, and the shoulder width varied, becoming narrow and having rumble strips. All in all, it seemed too main an artery, less than ideal for bicycling but chosen for expedience.
As we rode east, the landscape grew prettier. We passed lakes for the first time since western Montana, the fields were greener and the farmland clearly richer, growing mostly either soybeans or corn in dense rows, the corn stalks tassled and standing six- to eight-feet high. Then when we reach the Minnesota border, suddenly we saw modern windmills, the first of those since Wyoming. In a way it’s a shame that Big Riders formed such a poor impression of South Dakota. Had the wind been blowing in the opposite direction, we undoubtedly would have much nicer things to say, focusing more on how friendly the people were, and how courteous the drivers were on the road. We would have noticed more of the nuances of the landscape – the wildflowers and the colors of the grasses on the plains, which varied in their shades of green and at times were yellow or russet. But as it was, we couldn’t escape the state quickly enough, and we did notice the problems such as the absence of windmills, making the state seem unprogressive, mired in conservatism. Minnesota, in contrast, was like a breath of fresh air. A large wind farm, run by General Electric, clung to the border – an area called Buffalo Ridge. But I also saw a private farm with its own windmill, and I was struck by the greater signs of affluence and care – tended lawns, freshly painted farmhouses, white-washed fences, etc. – that I saw with greater and greater frequency.
Overall it was a much nicer day. The sun was shining, the sky blue, the wind had lost some of its fierceness, and the greater number of trees provided more wind break. Still, the cumulative effect of this week had taken its toll on me. I felt rundown while riding and had a hard time maintaining a positive outlook. What I needed was a day off, which I’d finally get in New Ulm. In the meantime, I slogged along, enjoying the better scenery. In Tyler we stayed at a private facility called Danebod, owned and operated by the Lutheran Church, that gave us a flavor of the town’s history as a Danish settlement. The grounds were elegant, with well-kept hundred-year-old buildings and an area for us to camp that was grassy and well-shaded. Again I found the town pool and relaxed my aching muscles, then went back and began The Grapes of Wrath sitting on a bench facing a babbling fountain both before and after dinner.
Day 26: Friday, July 21 –Tyler to New Ulm, MN – 90 miles.
Still not recovered from the rigors of the week, I once again lagged in the back of the pack. It began raining before dawn but stopped as we were rising, allowing us to break down our tents without getting wet. Because of the rain, though, and the chill of the morning, I decided to ride with my panniers, which I’d kept off my bicycle for the past several days because they increase wind resistance. The panniers allowed me to carry a short-sleeved jersey, which I hoped to change into later in the day. As it turned out, though, I was being optimistic. After riding a few miles, I was able to take off my rain jacket and wear only my long-sleeved shirt, but the day remained cool. And for the fifth straight day, the wind was against us, blowing yet again from the northeast, so the panniers were a liability. Within the first ten miles, nearly everyone passed me, and I tried my best to not care, just relax and stay positive. The morning, I noticed, had an almost mystical beauty. A thick layer of puffy dark clouds hung above the green landscape – the damp, fertile fields that stretched to the horizon, just below the gray ceiling. I enjoyed the cool temperature and the slight downhill grade. Despite the wind, I was still making pretty good time, riding along at 12-14 mph, which was significantly better than previous days. The day remained cool and gray and the rain held off for the most part. For one 15-mile stretch, I rode through a steady drizzle. The rain stopped in Springfield, the temperature 63 degrees climbing to 68 ten miles later in Sleepy Eye.
In New Ulm we’re atop a hill at Martin Luther College, a training center for the Lutheran priesthood. New Ulm is a German settlement, and this weekend there’s a festival called the Bavarian Blast featuring beer and polka music. My focus, though, is on this journal, doing my laundry again, and resting. The past week was an ordeal and I’m looking forward to an easier one: our four-day ride through the Midwest to Madison, Wisconsin.
Part 6: New Ulm, MN, to Madison, WI
July 23-26
4 days, 329 miles (2,166 total thus far)
Summary:
Two disappointing days crossing Minnesota followed by two much better days in Wisconsin as the route escaped U.S. 14 for 60 miles, traveling through scenic farmland on quiet county roads – exactly the type of roads I’d hoped to be on all along. My unhappiness with U.S. 14 sent my mood plummeting both on Sunday and Monday, and I dragged along on my bicycle feeling low on energy, in need of a second wind. With the subsequent two days in Wisconsin, I hope I’ve achieved it; and I’ve also tried to make the mental adjustments necessary to enjoy the rest of the ride.
“Is it just me, or does the ride feel like it’s winding down already?” Steve Rubenstein asked me as we were riding on U.S. 14 nearing Rochester, Minnesota. “I don’t want it to feel that way,” he added. “There’s a long way to go yet. But I’m getting that feeling.”
So was I. We’d been traveling east on U.S. 14 virtually nonstop for the past six riding days – 480 miles – beginning 60 miles east of Pierre, South Dakota. The fact that we were on a red road (i.e., a primary highway) was not much of a problem in South Dakota, where traffic overall had been considerably lighter. Over those first 60 miles into Pierre, for instance, any road across the prairie would have felt the same. There were hardly any cars, and hardly any services, just two empty, paved lanes across the vast grassland. The next morning, however, riding east of Pierre, the road had felt too busy: we rode amid a lot of truck traffic on a narrow shoulder – only a foot or two wide – while battling a stiff, gusting crosswind that had threatened to push us into the lane. Similarly, two days later, east of Brookings, SD, the amount of traffic had increased, creating uncomfortable moments as vehicles whizzed past. On both of these occasions, the problem was that we were traveling on the main road through a more populated area. Riding on U.S. 14 wasn’t a problem when the largest town in 50 miles was De Smet, SD, or Tyler, MN, with populations of about 1,500; but it became less comfortable around Pierre and Brookings, SD, and New Ulm, MN, where the population is ten times larger (all approx. 15,000). And as we continued east from New Ulm, heading into ever-more densely populated areas, the whole feel of the road changed: it widened into a major highway, at times becoming as big as an interstate – four divided lanes with lane-wide shoulders. Riding a bike on such a road, you lose touch with the land; there’s a greater sense of disconnection, and the effect is anesthetizing, a step closer to staring out of a car window. And you also lose touch with the towns’ local color, as the highway cuts through their outskirts rather than becoming Main Street. Thus you wind up passing by the towns instead of through them, and you see convenience stores and strip malls rather than mom and pop shops.
I’ve always preferred riding in the West than the East. I like the West for its mountain scenery, the dryness of the air, and the cooler temperatures of its higher elevations. Now here I was, sticky in the humidity and bee-lining across the Midwest on much too large a road, seemingly hustling toward the finish. What was left to look forward to?
Making matters worse was my feeling that what was happening was avoidable: we didn’t have to be on U.S. 14; and if we were taking another route on smaller, less traveled roads, crossing Minnesota could be lovely and scenic, where as it was, it was boring me to tears – flatter and even more monotonous than South Dakota. That Minnesota was greener was little consolation; too much of anything becomes dull and insipid. All I saw were broad green fields: corn and soybeans, corn and soybeans. A clump of grain elevators or some cattle grazing in the distance. And in the foreground, as we neared a town, billboards – some promoting motels, restaurants, etc.; others extolling Jesus or demonizing abortion.
In New Ulm, several Big Riders had talked to local bikers, all of whom expressed shock that we were taking U.S. 14. Instead, they insisted, we should be on Minnesota Route 30, a much smaller, less traveled road (a/k/a a blue highway) running south of U.S. 14 and adding no extra mileage. I kept thinking that were we on that road, our experience would be different; Minnesota would look more as it had further west – rural, quaint, and rustic, not so homogenous, antiseptic. And I further depressed myself by unfavorably comparing the route we were taking with my other cross-country rides, which had scrupulously avoided major highways. My friend Peter Jacobs and I had crossed Minnesota in 1990 when traveling east to west and had enjoyed every minute. Our route was well to the north – nearly 200 miles. We’d entered the state in Duluth and crossed through nothing but small towns, choosing to ride on Route 200 instead of the primary highway, U.S. 2. Across the eastern two-thirds of our route, we were in forested areas dotted with lakes. We crossed the Mississippi River outside Jacobson, MN, where the river was only six or eight feet wide. It was a hot day and in Jacobson, the only place that was open was a dark, dingy bar called Don’s, but stopping there proved memorable. A few locals were clustered at the bar nursing beers while Pete and I ordered Cokes and then sat at a table. For a few minutes there was no contact between us and them, but then the ice was broken when Pete and I started laughing at the T-shirts for sale behind the bar. In large, jittery lettering, the shirts proclaimed “Alcoholism is a Disease!” then below it, in block print, “Get Your Shots at Don’s!” The next day we passed through Itasca State Park and took a swim in Lake Itasca, the Mississippi’s source, just before entering the White Earth Indian Reservation, trees suddenly disappearing at the edge of the Great Plains. In our two overnight stays, Hill City and Zerkel, the one motel in town let us shower and then camp in the back. Of the three towns – Jacobson, Hill City, and Zerkel – the largest population was 533. Now here were Steve and I, about to ride through Rochester, MN, population 95,000, on our way to Winona, population 27,000. Tomorrow we’d pass through La Crosse, Wisconsin (pop. 50,000) and the day after we’d reach Madison (pop. 200,000), the second-largest city in the state, following U.S. 14 all the way …
I was depressing myself and had to try to snap out of it. “Don’t think ahead,” I told myself. “Stop making comparisons and stop projecting what the rest of the ride will be like. You have to stay in the moment and experience this ride for what it is. Enjoy the good parts: you’re in lake country; stop and take a swim. And focus on the positives: you’re getting in great shape, losing weight; you’re in a part of the country that you’ve never been before; you’re with a great bunch of people, and you’re all in this together. They need your support, not negativity.”
Honestly, however, as much as I tried to stay upbeat, the two-day ride to Winona offered few highlights.
Day 28: Sunday, July 23 – New Ulm to Owatonna, MN – 72 miles.
The wind was against us, coming from the southeast, but at 5-10 mph it was light enough not to be much of a factor. Instead what most bothered me was the morning humidity. Within the first ten miles, I felt sticky and uncomfortable, particularly wearing my Camelback, the water container that I’ve had strapped around me, wearing it as a backpack, for the whole ride. I’d bought the Camelback in 2004 in preparation for a solo tour where I’d be crossing Nevada and Southern Utah in July; I’d needed to carry a lot of extra fluids given that water stops were as much as 60 miles apart. Much to my surprise, I’d really enjoyed wearing it. I didn’t feel weighed down, and drinking from the hose draped over my shoulder was much easier than reaching down for a water bottle. As a result I found that I drank more, and staying hydrated increased my energy. But my 2004 tour – a 4,500-mile loop – was spent entirely in the drier air of the West. I’d never worn it in humidity, and suddenly I couldn’t stand it. I took it off, stuffed it into one of my panniers, and swore I wouldn’t wear it for the rest of the trip. Without it I felt more of a breeze while riding, a little lighter in the saddle, and a lot less confined.
The first miles out of New Ulm were attractive enough, passing green, fertile fields along the Minnesota River; but after fifteen miles, U.S. 14 widened into a four-lane, divided highway. We were approaching Mankato, population 35,000. Our route cut off the highway and took us through town – down a steep bluff, past some old, attractive houses, then across the river, back up a steep embankment, and through a few miles of strip mall after strip mall. Five miles later, we reentered the highway and then stayed on U.S. 14 all the way to Owatonna. At the 55-mile mark I stopped for a swim when the highway skirted Loon Lake in Waseca, MN. I changed in the men’s room in the town park, then dove in off the boat dock, but the water was shallow – only up to my waist – and a little too warm to be truly refreshing. In Owatonna, we camped at the county fairgrounds. A bunch of people rode a few miles to the swimming spot in town, but I stayed put for the afternoon and read more of The Grapes of Wrath. It’s a great book, but it did little to elevate my mood.
Day 29: Monday, July 24 –Owatonna to Winona, MN – 90 miles.
We woke to our first tailwind since riding into Rapid City, a southeasterly wind that helped us all day. Between the wind and the flat terrain, it was an easy 90 miles, but another day of little scenery, riding on the major highway. We rode on U.S. 14 nearly all the way, cutting off only as we approached Rochester. There, for a few miles, we actually enjoyed a country road. Suddenly there were hills, and at times the road was shaded as the branches of trees stretched close to the asphalt. We passed houses and small farms, one of which was raising a herd of buffalo. I tried wading through high grass and taking a picture, but a big male kept snorting at me and the shot was marred by wire fencing. Soon afterward, however, we entered the city limits and started weaving our way through the thick morning traffic.
A few miles east of Rochester, the divided highway ended and U.S. 14 shrank back to two lanes. The shoulder was wide and smooth until we reached Lewiston, then narrowed and grew choppy, adding stress to the steep descent into the Mississippi Valley. The landscape changed from broad farmland into narrower fields surrounded by thickly wooded hills of mostly deciduous trees. Again I stopped for a swim, this time in the town of Goodview – a local beach where once there had been sand pits, flood waters having created an oddly proportioned lake. The town built a pavilion on the side of a hill where there was a narrow, grassy area and a strip of brownish sand. There was a steep drop-off: I was instantly over my head; whereas across the lake, two people were seemingly walking on water, twenty yards offshore and only ankle deep.
We spent the night in a dormitory in Winona State University, and I spent the afternoon reading in the air conditioned student center. The day had grown hot and sticky, reaching 91 degrees with 40 percent humidity, creating a heat index of 93. The dorm wasn’t air-conditioned, making sleeping uncomfortable, but at least we missed the violent thunderstorm and downpour overnight.
The Good Parts: Wisconsin, and my fellow Big Riders.
Day 30: Tuesday, July 25 –Winona, MN, to Viroqua, WS – 67 miles.
Riding out of Winona felt like more of the same. We were still on U.S. 14, which was now heading south, having merged with U.S. 61 – a/k/a Highway 61, as in the Bob Dylan song. The road ran alongside the Mississippi River, but it was hard to enjoy it, or get much of a look, as the river lay across four lanes with a concrete divider in the middle. After 18 miles, however, we exited the highway and got a better view while passing through the small town of Dakota, MN. There we were feted by the Myers family, an extended group of home-schooled children, including seven girls – five sisters and their two cousins ranging in age from 5 to 22 – all of whom are devotees of the Big Ride. One of the girls had actually emailed me in advance, telling me to be sure to stop when passing by their house and not to eat too much breakfast so I’d arrive with an appetite. We were treated to food and drink and generally treated like celebrities, asked to write in a scrapbook and autograph pictures of ourselves which the girls had gathered from the Internet. One of the girls even conducted audio-taped interviews, asking questions such as “Who is your best friend on the ride?” I didn’t linger long; the route was still poisoning my mood, but most of my fellow riders enjoyed the attention.
My spirits picked up a bit when we crossed the Mississippi and then rode south along the flood plains, the river visible in the distance. I stopped to take some pictures and to read a sign at a turnoff, learning that the land along the river was a national wildlife sanctuary. Then suddenly, after 40 miles, all my gloom ended, as the route turned off the main highway onto Wisconsin S.R. 162 and the road began twisting its way eastward, slowly climbing out of the Mississippi Valley. The road was narrow and shoulder-less, with just a white line along the edge, but there was virtually no traffic and the scenery was lovely, much as it had been west of Rochester the day before. The tranquility was briefly shattered a few miles later, when three of the faster, rowdier Big Riders dashed out from a cornfield, where they’d been lurking, and streaked toward me, yelling war whoops, wearing only shoes and helmets. It’s funny how the mind processes such a sight. At first I thought I was being attacked by a bunch of local toughs, then I realized they were naked, and only then did I recognize who the guys were. (To name names would be violating the group’s tacit code: “What happens on the Big Ride stays on the Big Ride.”)
Once I’d escaped the hijinks, I was able to relax again, and thoroughly enjoy the 25 miles to Viroqua. The route stayed on small county roads all the way, passing through only one town – Chaseburg – where there was a cheese factory, and then climbing a steep mile-and-a half rise into rich, hilly farmland owned mostly by the Amish. As the roads dipped, rose and twisted, I found myself entranced, thinking to myself, “This is what I came for.” There were sweeping landscapes; family farms made of well-kept wooden buildings – silos standing alongside red or white barns and outbuildings; pens of sheep, goats, and cattle; old houses and shade trees; and well-manicured fields broadly striped with different crops, mostly alternating between corn and oats, the grain heaped into short stacks rather than rolled into bales. While my heart soared, I searched to understand why this riding was so much more thrilling than on the highway – why it felt so much more viscerally alive – and what I realized what that it had a lot to do with smell. On these narrower roads, all the scents were much stronger, from the sweetness of the wildflowers to the sourness of manure, and from the deep earthiness of the aging oat stacks to the lush aroma of freshly cut grass. Overall it was the most idyllic and exhilarating stretch of riding on the trip. Just that quickly I felt my second wind and a burgeoning love of Wisconsin.
In Viroqua, feeling too good to read much of The Grapes of Wrath, I went to a movie for the first time on this trip, seeing a comedy, “You, Me, and Dupree.” It wasn’t hilarious, but still it felt good to laugh, and the best part was the popcorn: the large tub was $3.00.
Day 31: Wednesday, July 26 –Viroqua to Madison, WS – 100 miles.
Another good day by virtue of the first 35 miles, where we remained on county roads until Richland Center. The scenery wasn’t quite as spectacular as it had been in the Amish section (Harmony township), but still the route featured minimal traffic and challenging hills as we twisted southeast past small farms nestled in the narrow valleys. Again I felt energized, although several times the hills humbled me: I’d get excited, push hard on a climb, reach the top, and then realize that another lay just beyond it. As they had been the day before, many of the hills we encountered were longer and steeper than mere rollers, where the momentum of coasting downhill can propel you up the next. Many riders found the riding hard and exhausting, but I love the challenge of climbing and the more varied landscapes.
Riding with renewed vigor, I made good time in the morning and reached Richmond Center by 10:30 a.m. Once again, then, the route resorted to U.S. 14: all tolled now, we’ve followed it for nine straight riding days, logging 600 miles across three states on the one road. After the morning workout in the hills, however, and having to ride 100 miles to reach Madison that day, I appreciated the speed and ease of the highway. The land flattened and, aided by a strong western tailwind, I found myself riding at nearly 20 mph. Sacrificing aesthetics, then, I happily zoomed toward Madison, stopping only a few times, once at a roadside fruit and vegetable stand that also featured a petting zoo – lots of bleating goats – but also, more sadly, some lone, exotic animals – a llama, a camel, an alligator, and a zebra. None seemed mistreated, but still I thought them superfluous: the fresh produce was wonderful and really sold itself.
Nearing Madison, the route took us off U.S. 14, and we worked our way into town along a series of back roads. It proved slow going: most of the roads were in need of repaving, marred by frost heaves, making for a bumpy ride; but still I finished the 100-mile day by 1:30 p.m., reaching an air conditioned dormitory on the University of Wisconsin campus.
* * *
Sitting here, I don’t know what the future days have in store. Will we enjoy more rural riding, or be stuck mostly on highways? I know that a week from now, we ride right through downtown Cleveland … But I also know that, to enjoy what remains of the Big Ride, I need to focus less on the route and more on the people with whom I’m sharing this experience. It’s true that, for the purpose of expedience, we’ve been relegated to a lot of highway riding. Perhaps in future Big Rides, if alternative overnight stays can be found, the route across Minnesota east of New Ulm can be shifted off U.S. 14 and onto Route 30. Meanwhile, however, I can draw inspiration from my fellow riders. Yesterday afternoon I began a video project, having brought along a video camera on this trip that I borrowed from the Technology Department of the Dwight School. My idea was to videotape interviews with all the Big Riders so that in the fall, when I tell students about my experience, they’ll have a chance to see and hear from the other participants. The main question that I’m asking is obvious: “Why did you decide to sign up for the Big Ride?” and the answers, I’m finding, are really inspirational. Many of the riders wanted to participate in honor or in memory of a loved one. I’ll save the details of what I’m learning for my next journal entry and merely summarize by saying the following: that just as they draw strength to get through each day by remembering others, I can draw strength through them, inspired by their stories to ride along with them and enjoy the experience for what it is, breaking out of my self-absorption, letting go of my negativity. This cross-country ride is not the same as others I’ve done; but still I love being out here, I’m achieving my fitness goals, and the experience is both challenging and unique. I have no regrets in being part of it, and regardless of what roads we’re on, I’m sure to enjoy the two weeks that remain.