JULY 22, continued
After our stop at the post office, dad and I got two enormous cinnamon doughnuts at the bakery, then raced down the street to catch the ferry across the river and into Canada. Five minutes after that, we stood in our second country of the trip. We stopped in Sombra, just over the boarder, to ask directions at a souvenier shop. Afterwards, we had a snack at the Fry House, next door; I had onion rings, which sat in my stomach for most of the day. Deep fried food and bike touring don't play nicely together. Trusting the directions given us by the man in the souvenier shop, we stuck to high way 2 all day, cutting inland across Ontario... What a mistake! Our ride on the highway was long, straight, edged by corn, and devoid of all human life. At our camp in Port Glasgow, we just climbed into our tents for the night, when a big storm hit, the torrential rains lasting for a full hour. Our last episode of such perfect timing.
JULY 23 Port Glasgow to Houghton Center, Ontario
Our first stop of the day was in Port Stanley, where we planned on a mid-morning library visit. Port Stanley, as with many Ontario towns, is situated on a river feeding into Lake Erie. These rivers run through steep and narrow valleys cutting into Southern Ontario, meaning great descents in, and brutal climbs to get back out. We descended the hill into Port Stanley, but before we turned left to go to the library, dad yelled out, "Turn right!" To our right, three loaded bikes stood in the park, and three sopping rain flies hung over the benches, and three college-age bike tourers poked through their bags, searching for clothes in need of drying. As we talked to the three riders (we never got their names), a blond woman on an unloaded mountain bike rode over.
"Hello! I'm Margaret. I just had to come over and see where you're from and where you're going!"
"We left Madison, Wisconsin a couple of days ago." One of the biker told her, "And we're headed for Boston."
"Good, good. And you?" She said, looking expectantly at dad and I.
"We rode out here from Washington... the state... and we're headed for Maine." I told her.
"Ahh! More cross country tourers! Did you two meet Rick and Rick?" dad and I shook our heads. "Oh, they stayed with my husband and I. Their heading west across the country." we couldn't help but wince, knowing what the winds are like in the prairies, especially for riders out of the east. "Well, if you need anything at all, I live in that brown tower house just over the river. Feel free to come on over!" she extended the invitation to all of us, then rode away, followed shortly by the three boys (one rode wearing flip-flops!) Dad and I decided to stay for a snack, but soon it started to rain, forcing us on.
We had gone less than a mile and were stopped at an intersection, staring at our maps, when Margaret rode up again, "Lost alreaedy?"
"Well, yeah..." dad admitted.
"To get out of town, you need to go up that hill." she saw both of us cringe at the suggestion, "Or you could come have breakfast with me. I have eggs and bacon, and I just got this bread at the library." I could tell part of dad wanted to press on through the rain, but he also looked tempted. "Curvy hill, or breakfast.... curvy hill, or breakfast..." Margaret pretended to weigh the options with her hands.
"What do you want to do, Seth?" dad asked, "It's up to you."
I only had to think about it for a moment, "Let's go with her... if that's okay with you."
"Sounds good." he said.
"Great!" Margaret said, "It's just down this road. We let strays... that's what we call you, the bike tourists we take in... we let you put your bikes in the garage."
As we propped up our bikes in the garage, I looked outside to see the rain falling harder, "Looks like we timed this stop well, dad."
"Dad?" Margaret asked, "A father and son? Oh, you're so lucky!" she looked at dad, "And you're so lucky!" she said at me.
Minutes later, she had whisked us into her kitchen (I noticed the rain had stopped while we spoke.... so much for our timing!) and pulled out a pair of stools for us, "Washroom's just around the corner!" she told us.
The house itself was pretty amazing. As Margaret cooked the bacon, she told us about it, "All the houses round here used to be fishing cottages. We bought two of them and built the tower here in the middle. Nine levels, or something like that." The house looked like a dream for hide-and-go-seek (well, maybe not for the seeker) with lots of small rooms and nooks tucked away into various corners. Margaret also let me use her lap top to catch up on my blog some, "You're that far behind? Well get writing! Do your homework!" In truth, I didn't get very much written... I had too much fun trading stories with Margaret.
After our brunch of egg and bacon sandwiches, Margaret offered us ice cream, "...or popsicles! Oh, who can say no to popsicles!" She hurried off, and soon returned with three frozen snacks. Reluctantly, dad and I left all of the hospitality (both of us wished we could have stayed the night, but we needed to be in Niagara by Friday). We said goodbye and thankyou to Margaret, the most full-time road angel we have met, then headed up the "curvy hill."
While at Margaret, we had watched the weather channel, where a glowing red banner flashed across the bottom of the screen, warning about 75 mm (3 inches) of rain in the next 3-4 hours in Eastern Ontario... where we were headed. As we crested the curvy hill, the sky decided to prove the weather man true. I had taken my rain jacket off during the climb because I was overheating, and I never bothered to put it back on. Surprisingly, my mood only got better in the rain, as I shouted out snatches of the Phantom of the Opera into the storm, the rain slowly soaking through my clothes.
After half-an-hour, the rain stopped for most of the afternoon, but just a mile from our campground it started again. We checked in, then unloaded our bikes under a covered picnic area. It stopped raining, and we set up our tents, then made dinner, then went to bed.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Day 44 Part 1: America
JULY 22 St. Claire, MI to Port Glasgow, Ontario
I slept on the floor at the Murphy Inn... and did my best to stay in my sleeping bag Tuesday morning, even after dad had crawled out of bed. Leaving the hotel, we had some difficulties finding the route, and only made it 8 miles into Marine City by 10:00.
At the Marine City post office, we displayed our pass ports and asked for any mail, "Greendale? Oh, yeah. I think you guys got a bunch!" the woman behind the counter said. She left, then returned with a stack of mail for us, including a cardboard tube with a spare set of tent poles for my tent (Big Agnes, my tent's manufacturer, was more than helpful when we told them about my breaking tent poles. They replaced the poles, sending them to us on the road, without even asking how we had broken them.) We also received some personal letters, plus a packet full of more hand written letters from my Aunt's first graders. I know getting post cards means a lot to them, but I wonder if the know how much I love getting their letters. It's my favorite part of every mail stop.
As we exchanged the old tent poles for the new ones in the lobby, the woman from behind the counter ran out, "Oh, good, you're still here! I found one more for you!" she handed us a white express package.
"It's from FAAN!" Dad said excitedly. We opened it to find a letter signed by all of the staff at FAAN, as well as 5 rubber wrist bands that say "Food Allergy P.A.L." (PAL stands for Protect A Life).
(This is a good chance to remind everyone that my ride isn't solely about the adventure... I'm also trying to raise Funds and Awareness for FAAN, the Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis Network, becuase my cousin Nathan is deathly allergic to peanuts and tree nuts. My goal is to raise $10, 000 for FAAN. To learn more about my mission, read the very first most on this blog; to learn more about FAAN, visit them at www.foodallergy.org, and to donate to FAAN, go to http://www.firstgiving.com/cycling4allergies)
I slept on the floor at the Murphy Inn... and did my best to stay in my sleeping bag Tuesday morning, even after dad had crawled out of bed. Leaving the hotel, we had some difficulties finding the route, and only made it 8 miles into Marine City by 10:00.
At the Marine City post office, we displayed our pass ports and asked for any mail, "Greendale? Oh, yeah. I think you guys got a bunch!" the woman behind the counter said. She left, then returned with a stack of mail for us, including a cardboard tube with a spare set of tent poles for my tent (Big Agnes, my tent's manufacturer, was more than helpful when we told them about my breaking tent poles. They replaced the poles, sending them to us on the road, without even asking how we had broken them.) We also received some personal letters, plus a packet full of more hand written letters from my Aunt's first graders. I know getting post cards means a lot to them, but I wonder if the know how much I love getting their letters. It's my favorite part of every mail stop.
As we exchanged the old tent poles for the new ones in the lobby, the woman from behind the counter ran out, "Oh, good, you're still here! I found one more for you!" she handed us a white express package.
"It's from FAAN!" Dad said excitedly. We opened it to find a letter signed by all of the staff at FAAN, as well as 5 rubber wrist bands that say "Food Allergy P.A.L." (PAL stands for Protect A Life).
(This is a good chance to remind everyone that my ride isn't solely about the adventure... I'm also trying to raise Funds and Awareness for FAAN, the Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis Network, becuase my cousin Nathan is deathly allergic to peanuts and tree nuts. My goal is to raise $10, 000 for FAAN. To learn more about my mission, read the very first most on this blog; to learn more about FAAN, visit them at www.foodallergy.org, and to donate to FAAN, go to http://www.firstgiving.com/cycling4allergies)
Day 43
JULY 21 Caro to St. Claire, MI
Not a lot happened for the majority of our last full day in Michigan: we got a late start to riding, took an hour in a library, and multiple snack and lunch stops, then stopped in Memphis, the last town with a store before our campground for the night. Unfortunately, the store was woefully lacking in food: four small shelves stocked mostly with condiments and canned vegetables, and some drink coolers along each wall; dad and I decided on subs from the store's deli for dinner. We ate our meal, then started in on the last few miles of our day.
Except they weren't our last few miles: just before our intended campground, we saw the ominous orange signs bearing the words "Road Closed." Ahead was an overpass, blocked off by more orange signs and supporting a massive crane-caterpillar. We maneuvered our way around the signs, then rode slowly up the overpass; I stopped off to one side while dad continued right up to one of the construction workers. They talked for a few minutes, and then dad rode back, hanging his head unhappily, "He says he could get us across this evening, "Dad announced, "but they're basically demolishing the overpass, and he doesn't know how much they'll get done tonight. We might not be able to get back across in the morning. So, how 'bout a hotel in St. Claire tonight?"
"Sounds good to me." Checking on the adventure cycle maps, I found there are three hotels in St. Claire: the St. Claire Inn, the Burkemo Cottages and Inn, and the Murphy Inn. The St. Claire Inn sounded most reputable, so I gave dad their phone number to try first.
Dad came back shaking his head, "They only have smoking rooms left. You have any other numbers?" Disheartened, I gave him the number of the Burkemo Inn, listed second on the map.
"Any luck?" I asked when dad returned.
"They have rooms... but I don't know. Some weird guy answered the phone, 'Room? We have room.' I asked him if we could put our bikes in them, 'Oh no! Ask lady behind desk!' I don't know if I got the janitor, or what..."
We decided to ride into St. Claire, another couple of miles, and see what we could find. After a third phone call, we made our way to the Murphy Inn, and old white building with a 2-d leprechaun out front. Inside, there was a bar and restaurant downstairs, and a floor of rooms on top. It felt very much like an old world tavern and inn. We locked our bikes out back, ferried our gear upstairs to room 202, labeled Buckingham, and spent the rest of the evening watching Food Network and Hogan's Heroes.
Not a lot happened for the majority of our last full day in Michigan: we got a late start to riding, took an hour in a library, and multiple snack and lunch stops, then stopped in Memphis, the last town with a store before our campground for the night. Unfortunately, the store was woefully lacking in food: four small shelves stocked mostly with condiments and canned vegetables, and some drink coolers along each wall; dad and I decided on subs from the store's deli for dinner. We ate our meal, then started in on the last few miles of our day.
Except they weren't our last few miles: just before our intended campground, we saw the ominous orange signs bearing the words "Road Closed." Ahead was an overpass, blocked off by more orange signs and supporting a massive crane-caterpillar. We maneuvered our way around the signs, then rode slowly up the overpass; I stopped off to one side while dad continued right up to one of the construction workers. They talked for a few minutes, and then dad rode back, hanging his head unhappily, "He says he could get us across this evening, "Dad announced, "but they're basically demolishing the overpass, and he doesn't know how much they'll get done tonight. We might not be able to get back across in the morning. So, how 'bout a hotel in St. Claire tonight?"
"Sounds good to me." Checking on the adventure cycle maps, I found there are three hotels in St. Claire: the St. Claire Inn, the Burkemo Cottages and Inn, and the Murphy Inn. The St. Claire Inn sounded most reputable, so I gave dad their phone number to try first.
Dad came back shaking his head, "They only have smoking rooms left. You have any other numbers?" Disheartened, I gave him the number of the Burkemo Inn, listed second on the map.
"Any luck?" I asked when dad returned.
"They have rooms... but I don't know. Some weird guy answered the phone, 'Room? We have room.' I asked him if we could put our bikes in them, 'Oh no! Ask lady behind desk!' I don't know if I got the janitor, or what..."
We decided to ride into St. Claire, another couple of miles, and see what we could find. After a third phone call, we made our way to the Murphy Inn, and old white building with a 2-d leprechaun out front. Inside, there was a bar and restaurant downstairs, and a floor of rooms on top. It felt very much like an old world tavern and inn. We locked our bikes out back, ferried our gear upstairs to room 202, labeled Buckingham, and spent the rest of the evening watching Food Network and Hogan's Heroes.
Day 42
JULY 20 Sanford to Just Outside of Caro, MI
I woke up before dad and tried to work quietly as I packed up my gear. Just as I got all of my bags out of my tent and took my rain fly off, it started to rain. Not a 'high', 'clean' rain, as is common in Oregon, this felt much more as if the humidity had simply risen too high, and the air had to drop some water; the sky didn't seem so much to weep as it seemed to sweat. Still, the rain felt good, mildly cleansing, and my only fear was that my bags and gear would get wet. The rain stopped early on, but the clouds remained, low and threatening off to our right.
Twenty miles into the day, we came to Bay City, Jerry's home town. Unfortunately, before we had even entered the town itself, a sign reading "Detour, road work ahead!" sent us off course. Within minutes, we were lost. "Do you know what road we're looking for?" dad asked.
"Yeah, Jeanette."
"I thought we were paralleling Jeanette; shouldn't we be looking for Walnut?"
"No, we're paralleling Walnut... well, sort of... We need to turn onto Jeanette to get to Walnut."
We pulled off to the side of the road and had our maps unfolded when a gray pick up truck pulled up, "You lost?" The driver, an unkempt old man, asked. Next to him sat a thin woman with a long face, drab hair, and glasses.
"We're looking for Walnut." I told the man.
"Ask about a bike shop!" dad whispered. My bottom water bottle rack had broken that morning, so we were in search of a replacement.
"Walnut, huh?" the driver said, "Well, ya drive ahead and the road bends to lef', then ya take a righ'-"
"Onta Marquette." the woman in the passenger seat supplied.
"Onta Marquette, an' that'll take ya to Walnut."
"Do you know if there's a bike shop in around?" dad interjected.
"Hmmmm... there's one was outta town-"
"It probably wouldn' be open ona Sunday." The woman put in.
"Yeah, probably not open ona Sunday... Le'see, is there another...."
"It's just a small thing. Not that important." dad told him, "So, right on Marquette to get to Walnut?"
"Yeah," the woman said, the driver still staring out the window, lost in thought, "right on Marquette at the Silver Swan-"
"Ya take a lef' at the chapel, an' a righ' at the convenience store, then bend off to the lef'... ya stay straight on tha' all the way down, then take two more righ's, an' another lef' at the bank..." the old man interrupted with a set of directions that left my head spinning, "Tha's how ya get to the bike shop."
"Well, it's okay, we don't really need a bike shop." dad said.
"Or ya could just cut onta the road under construction an' take that all the way down, an that'll get ya to the bike shop." The man gestured with his hand, oblivious what my dad had said.
The woman, who had broken into hysterics as the man spoke, repeated her directions, "Take a righ' on Marquette at the Silver Swan Inn, that's how ya know it's Marquette-"
"Silver Swan Inn tells you it's Marquette." The man echoed, "Or take the road under construction all the way down an' tha's your bike shop." The woman started laughing once more, and we thanked them, then watched as the drove away. Their directions were good, though, and soon we found ourselves riding along Walnut, right where we needed to be. Road Angels come in all shapes and sizes, I suppose.
Before we left Bay City, the rain set in, driving us inside. We ate lunch at Jimmy John's Sub Shop. The shop was plastered with signs such as "Sub's so fast, you'll Freak!" or "Bread so French, it needs to be liberated!" The rain lasted only about 15 minutes once we were back on the bikes, and by the time we were out of town, the sky was clear and dry.
Ten miles out of Bay City, as we rode along Akeron Road into the thumb of Michigan, dad spotted a house with a magnificent swimming hole. A high dive had been set up, and kids in inter tubes played in the water. As dad stopped for a picture, a crowd of adults beyond the swimming hole waved, then one elderly man detached himself from the crowd and walked over. "Hey there!" he shouted to us, "Where you headin'?"
"Maine." dad told him.
"And where you from?" he asked.
"Oregon."
"Oh, we had some other folks through here from Missouri. They started in Washington State and are headin' to Maine too. You know 'em?" We both shook our heads, "Ahh, that's too bad. Well, I'm Lerry Malroy. This is our family reunion. Over 100 people here. Feelin' hot?"
"Not really." dad said; after the rain shower, both of us were feeling a little cold.
"Well, we got a swimmin' hole if you are. We also got chicken and ice cream if you wanta come on down."
"You got my attention with ice cream!" dad said, and Larry led us over to his barn. We met his wife, Verness, and told her about our trip as she led us around the potluck spread out in the middle of the barn. As we headed to a pair of open seats, balancing plates full of food, some one whistled, calling the family reunion meeting to order.
"Doesn't matter to you guys." Larry whispered as we settled into our chairs. The reunion president began to call role, and each member of the Prine family would stand, introduce themselves and their family, and tell who their parents were (we later found out that the 'original' Prine family had 10 kids, 9 boys and 1 girl, which caused such a large family.) Part way through, Larry tapped me on the shoulder, "What's your dad's name?" he whispered.
"Chip." I whispered back.
"I just wanted to introduce my new friends from Oregon," Larry interrupted, "This is Chippie." He pointed at my dad.
"Or just Chip!" my dad muttered.
"And this is this is his son, Seth. They're ridin' their bikes across the country."
After a round of applause, the role continued, interrupted a second time as some one told a story about Aunt Midge's Beans. "Did you have any of those?" Larry asked us. Dad and I shook our heads, "They're really good. Navy beans... we grow 'em around here. Let me go get you some." Larry wandered off, and returned moments later carrying the pot of beans. "She uses extra sugar... that's what makes 'em so good." Larry confided. The beans were delicious. After an hour spent sitting, talking, and eating with the Prine family, we left the reunion, with an invitation to attend next year. "Third week in July!" Larry told us as we road away, "Every year, same time, same place."
"We might come back just for this!" dad said, "Thanks for everything." I added my thanks, and then we rode off, still more miles to cover that evening.
We road a little off course that afternoon, planning to stay in Caro, because it was a big enough town to have a grocery store (other wise, we would be buying our dinner at a party store, essentially a liquor store that also carries some food.) Pat, Bill, and Dave had stayed in the fair grounds at Caro a week or so before us, and we hoped to do the same. We picked up supplies for our meal for the night, and then started off through town, searching for the fair grounds. Almost immediately, I spotted a banner hanging across main street, proclaiming, "Tuscola County Fair, July 20-26." Checking my watch, I realized we were in town just in time for opening night; we wouldn't be camping in the fairgrounds that evening.
We stopped into Taco Bell for a pre-dinner snack (fast food isn't my favorite, but you have to use the cards dealt you.) As we started eating, an older man and his son at the table next to us began asking about our ride. By the end of the meal, they had offered to let us stay in their back yard for the evening. However, their house was an additional five miles from the nearest campground (already about ten miles away). We hated to do it, but after riding or half an hour, dad called to let them know we wouldn't make it to their house for the evening. We made it the campground, cooked up a quick meal, and then crashed in our tents after a long day of riding.
I woke up before dad and tried to work quietly as I packed up my gear. Just as I got all of my bags out of my tent and took my rain fly off, it started to rain. Not a 'high', 'clean' rain, as is common in Oregon, this felt much more as if the humidity had simply risen too high, and the air had to drop some water; the sky didn't seem so much to weep as it seemed to sweat. Still, the rain felt good, mildly cleansing, and my only fear was that my bags and gear would get wet. The rain stopped early on, but the clouds remained, low and threatening off to our right.
Twenty miles into the day, we came to Bay City, Jerry's home town. Unfortunately, before we had even entered the town itself, a sign reading "Detour, road work ahead!" sent us off course. Within minutes, we were lost. "Do you know what road we're looking for?" dad asked.
"Yeah, Jeanette."
"I thought we were paralleling Jeanette; shouldn't we be looking for Walnut?"
"No, we're paralleling Walnut... well, sort of... We need to turn onto Jeanette to get to Walnut."
We pulled off to the side of the road and had our maps unfolded when a gray pick up truck pulled up, "You lost?" The driver, an unkempt old man, asked. Next to him sat a thin woman with a long face, drab hair, and glasses.
"We're looking for Walnut." I told the man.
"Ask about a bike shop!" dad whispered. My bottom water bottle rack had broken that morning, so we were in search of a replacement.
"Walnut, huh?" the driver said, "Well, ya drive ahead and the road bends to lef', then ya take a righ'-"
"Onta Marquette." the woman in the passenger seat supplied.
"Onta Marquette, an' that'll take ya to Walnut."
"Do you know if there's a bike shop in around?" dad interjected.
"Hmmmm... there's one was outta town-"
"It probably wouldn' be open ona Sunday." The woman put in.
"Yeah, probably not open ona Sunday... Le'see, is there another...."
"It's just a small thing. Not that important." dad told him, "So, right on Marquette to get to Walnut?"
"Yeah," the woman said, the driver still staring out the window, lost in thought, "right on Marquette at the Silver Swan-"
"Ya take a lef' at the chapel, an' a righ' at the convenience store, then bend off to the lef'... ya stay straight on tha' all the way down, then take two more righ's, an' another lef' at the bank..." the old man interrupted with a set of directions that left my head spinning, "Tha's how ya get to the bike shop."
"Well, it's okay, we don't really need a bike shop." dad said.
"Or ya could just cut onta the road under construction an' take that all the way down, an that'll get ya to the bike shop." The man gestured with his hand, oblivious what my dad had said.
The woman, who had broken into hysterics as the man spoke, repeated her directions, "Take a righ' on Marquette at the Silver Swan Inn, that's how ya know it's Marquette-"
"Silver Swan Inn tells you it's Marquette." The man echoed, "Or take the road under construction all the way down an' tha's your bike shop." The woman started laughing once more, and we thanked them, then watched as the drove away. Their directions were good, though, and soon we found ourselves riding along Walnut, right where we needed to be. Road Angels come in all shapes and sizes, I suppose.
Before we left Bay City, the rain set in, driving us inside. We ate lunch at Jimmy John's Sub Shop. The shop was plastered with signs such as "Sub's so fast, you'll Freak!" or "Bread so French, it needs to be liberated!" The rain lasted only about 15 minutes once we were back on the bikes, and by the time we were out of town, the sky was clear and dry.
Ten miles out of Bay City, as we rode along Akeron Road into the thumb of Michigan, dad spotted a house with a magnificent swimming hole. A high dive had been set up, and kids in inter tubes played in the water. As dad stopped for a picture, a crowd of adults beyond the swimming hole waved, then one elderly man detached himself from the crowd and walked over. "Hey there!" he shouted to us, "Where you headin'?"
"Maine." dad told him.
"And where you from?" he asked.
"Oregon."
"Oh, we had some other folks through here from Missouri. They started in Washington State and are headin' to Maine too. You know 'em?" We both shook our heads, "Ahh, that's too bad. Well, I'm Lerry Malroy. This is our family reunion. Over 100 people here. Feelin' hot?"
"Not really." dad said; after the rain shower, both of us were feeling a little cold.
"Well, we got a swimmin' hole if you are. We also got chicken and ice cream if you wanta come on down."
"You got my attention with ice cream!" dad said, and Larry led us over to his barn. We met his wife, Verness, and told her about our trip as she led us around the potluck spread out in the middle of the barn. As we headed to a pair of open seats, balancing plates full of food, some one whistled, calling the family reunion meeting to order.
"Doesn't matter to you guys." Larry whispered as we settled into our chairs. The reunion president began to call role, and each member of the Prine family would stand, introduce themselves and their family, and tell who their parents were (we later found out that the 'original' Prine family had 10 kids, 9 boys and 1 girl, which caused such a large family.) Part way through, Larry tapped me on the shoulder, "What's your dad's name?" he whispered.
"Chip." I whispered back.
"I just wanted to introduce my new friends from Oregon," Larry interrupted, "This is Chippie." He pointed at my dad.
"Or just Chip!" my dad muttered.
"And this is this is his son, Seth. They're ridin' their bikes across the country."
After a round of applause, the role continued, interrupted a second time as some one told a story about Aunt Midge's Beans. "Did you have any of those?" Larry asked us. Dad and I shook our heads, "They're really good. Navy beans... we grow 'em around here. Let me go get you some." Larry wandered off, and returned moments later carrying the pot of beans. "She uses extra sugar... that's what makes 'em so good." Larry confided. The beans were delicious. After an hour spent sitting, talking, and eating with the Prine family, we left the reunion, with an invitation to attend next year. "Third week in July!" Larry told us as we road away, "Every year, same time, same place."
"We might come back just for this!" dad said, "Thanks for everything." I added my thanks, and then we rode off, still more miles to cover that evening.
We road a little off course that afternoon, planning to stay in Caro, because it was a big enough town to have a grocery store (other wise, we would be buying our dinner at a party store, essentially a liquor store that also carries some food.) Pat, Bill, and Dave had stayed in the fair grounds at Caro a week or so before us, and we hoped to do the same. We picked up supplies for our meal for the night, and then started off through town, searching for the fair grounds. Almost immediately, I spotted a banner hanging across main street, proclaiming, "Tuscola County Fair, July 20-26." Checking my watch, I realized we were in town just in time for opening night; we wouldn't be camping in the fairgrounds that evening.
We stopped into Taco Bell for a pre-dinner snack (fast food isn't my favorite, but you have to use the cards dealt you.) As we started eating, an older man and his son at the table next to us began asking about our ride. By the end of the meal, they had offered to let us stay in their back yard for the evening. However, their house was an additional five miles from the nearest campground (already about ten miles away). We hated to do it, but after riding or half an hour, dad called to let them know we wouldn't make it to their house for the evening. We made it the campground, cooked up a quick meal, and then crashed in our tents after a long day of riding.
Days 40 & 41
JULY 18 Ludington to Pere Marquette State Forest, MI
Riding in Michigan, we soon discovered that it was a flat state... even when compared to North Dakota. The scenery was interesting: at times it felt like Oregon (a very hot and humid Oregon) minus the mountains; at times it felt like Ohio, corn stretching on forever, with the occasional barn or cow pasture; and at times it felt like Louisiana, the marshy creeks and deciduous forests conjuring images of the bayou. But despite the ever-changing scenery, the pancake flat miles wore on us, numbing our minds; each pedal stroke became more and more difficult as we drew slowly closer to our campground.
Sunrise Lake Campground was nearly deserted when we got there that evening. There was no real running water at the campground (beside an old metal hand pump) which meant no real toilets and no real showers. But, because the campground was mostly empty, dad decided to make due with the hand pump. I walked over to him to ask him something, figuring he was just filling the pots, to see him wearing only his t-shirt and scrubbing busily at his legs. I gasped and spun around, heading back to the campsite. A few minutes later, dad returned, smiling at my embarrassment, "Looks like I have some pretty amazing timing!" he said, nodding at some cars just now driving into the campground, "I just beat the rush!" By comparison, my 'shower' was much more modest, but much less cleansing, as I only dabbed above my waist with a wet towel.
After dinner, as I climbed into my tent, I discovered that the slugs at Sunrise Lake Campground decided my tent made a good jungle gym, slithering all over the inside of my rain fly! Luckily, these were only tiny ones, no more than an inch long, but I was still flicking them off my fly all evening, shivering at the thought that one might discover how to get into my tent.
JULY 19 Pere Marquette State Forest to Sanford, MI
I woke up the next morning to find three new slugs staring at me through my tent's mesh ceiling. Horrified, I raced to pack up my sleeping bag and thermarest, then ripped off my rain fly and shook it out, hoping to dislodge my unwanted guests; in the end, I had to resort to prodding them off with twigs. We ate breakfast, then left camp around 7:30, riding off into our first foggy morning since Washington.
Forty miles into our day, we stopped in the town of Clare, and made the mistake of shopping for lunch on very empty stomachs. We came away from the grocery store with tons of food; lunch that afternoon was a feast. The last 30 miles of our day were on a beautifully kept rail-to-trails path, possibly some of the best riding of the entire tour: there was no traffic, smooth asphalt, and best of all, no raccoons smeared halfway across the path, reeking for a quarter mile radius (roadkill has become a growing nuisance the farther east we get... I'm not really sure why.) In Sanford, basically our final destination for the evening, we asked a couple unloading bikes from the back of their truck for directions to a grocery store. We got to talking, as the woman, Sharon, quizzed us about our ride. "Well, thank you for the directions!"dad said, "we'll let you two get off on your ride."
"Not much of a ride compared with you two!" Sharon said.
"Hey, you're riding bikes. That's what counts!" dad told her.
We stayed in Black Creek Campground, another state campground, meaning great scenery, but no showers. Since this park was more populated, dad had to leave his clothes on , but we both rinsed off at the spigot, wearing only our bike shorts. Dinner was noodles with tomatoes, veggies, and sausage, and we decided to get fancy for dessert, stacking our pots together to use as a double boiler (a trick Pat showed us) so we could cook a blueberry cake (yes, out of a box mix, but still....)
Riding in Michigan, we soon discovered that it was a flat state... even when compared to North Dakota. The scenery was interesting: at times it felt like Oregon (a very hot and humid Oregon) minus the mountains; at times it felt like Ohio, corn stretching on forever, with the occasional barn or cow pasture; and at times it felt like Louisiana, the marshy creeks and deciduous forests conjuring images of the bayou. But despite the ever-changing scenery, the pancake flat miles wore on us, numbing our minds; each pedal stroke became more and more difficult as we drew slowly closer to our campground.
Sunrise Lake Campground was nearly deserted when we got there that evening. There was no real running water at the campground (beside an old metal hand pump) which meant no real toilets and no real showers. But, because the campground was mostly empty, dad decided to make due with the hand pump. I walked over to him to ask him something, figuring he was just filling the pots, to see him wearing only his t-shirt and scrubbing busily at his legs. I gasped and spun around, heading back to the campsite. A few minutes later, dad returned, smiling at my embarrassment, "Looks like I have some pretty amazing timing!" he said, nodding at some cars just now driving into the campground, "I just beat the rush!" By comparison, my 'shower' was much more modest, but much less cleansing, as I only dabbed above my waist with a wet towel.
After dinner, as I climbed into my tent, I discovered that the slugs at Sunrise Lake Campground decided my tent made a good jungle gym, slithering all over the inside of my rain fly! Luckily, these were only tiny ones, no more than an inch long, but I was still flicking them off my fly all evening, shivering at the thought that one might discover how to get into my tent.
JULY 19 Pere Marquette State Forest to Sanford, MI
I woke up the next morning to find three new slugs staring at me through my tent's mesh ceiling. Horrified, I raced to pack up my sleeping bag and thermarest, then ripped off my rain fly and shook it out, hoping to dislodge my unwanted guests; in the end, I had to resort to prodding them off with twigs. We ate breakfast, then left camp around 7:30, riding off into our first foggy morning since Washington.
Forty miles into our day, we stopped in the town of Clare, and made the mistake of shopping for lunch on very empty stomachs. We came away from the grocery store with tons of food; lunch that afternoon was a feast. The last 30 miles of our day were on a beautifully kept rail-to-trails path, possibly some of the best riding of the entire tour: there was no traffic, smooth asphalt, and best of all, no raccoons smeared halfway across the path, reeking for a quarter mile radius (roadkill has become a growing nuisance the farther east we get... I'm not really sure why.) In Sanford, basically our final destination for the evening, we asked a couple unloading bikes from the back of their truck for directions to a grocery store. We got to talking, as the woman, Sharon, quizzed us about our ride. "Well, thank you for the directions!"dad said, "we'll let you two get off on your ride."
"Not much of a ride compared with you two!" Sharon said.
"Hey, you're riding bikes. That's what counts!" dad told her.
We stayed in Black Creek Campground, another state campground, meaning great scenery, but no showers. Since this park was more populated, dad had to leave his clothes on , but we both rinsed off at the spigot, wearing only our bike shorts. Dinner was noodles with tomatoes, veggies, and sausage, and we decided to get fancy for dessert, stacking our pots together to use as a double boiler (a trick Pat showed us) so we could cook a blueberry cake (yes, out of a box mix, but still....)
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Days 38 & 39
JULY 16 Wrighstown to Manitowoc WI
The ride to Manitowoc was one of the shorter rides of our trip, at about 55 miles. We started early in the morning, because we wanted to get in early to spend time with our friends, the Crousers, who were meeting us in Manitowoc (they were vacationing in Chicago and decided to drive up to meet us for a couple of days). And it was a good thing we began our ride early, because by 8:30, my arms and face were slick with sweat. The temperature and humidity kept rising all morning, so that by 11:00, dad and I had each drained three full water bottles, and still found ourselves parched. We stopped at a house by the side of the road and asked the elderly man out front if he could refill our water bottles; when he returned the water bottles, they had ice cubes floating in them, "Have a good ride, now!" He called as we pedaled away, the only thing he said throughout the entire exchange.
The temperature dropped drastically once we got into Manitowoc, situated on the shore of Lake Michigan. Dad and I stopped for lunch at Fatzo's Sub Shop, and then rode across town to the Best Western. We laid down our bikes in front of the hotel, and dad went inside to register; within seconds, the Crouser twins, Jonny and Eddy, had raced outside to say hello. Their older brother, Steve, and their parents, Jim and Brenda followed shortly, along with my dad. The 7 of us spent the next ten minutes standing in front of the hotel and exchanging stories about our trips. "Why don't we let these guys go shower, and then we'll find something to do with them around Manitowoc." Brenda finally suggested.
Dad and I jumped at the suggestion, wheeling our bikes into the elevator to take them up stairs. After each of us had spent a long time, luxuriating in a shower that didn't need to be fed quarters every 3 minutes, we went down to the hotel lobby to meet back up with the Crousers. That afternoon, we talked, played cards, braved a brutal thunderstorm to go to the movies (Jim was drenched after 15 seconds in the rain), and splashed around in the pool until it was time to go to bed. It was a glimpse at what our 'normal' vacations are usually like, one that I knew would make me homesick as soon as it was over.
JULY 17 Manitowoc WI to Ludington MI (mostly by Ferry)
The Crousers took the ferry, the S.S. Badger, with us across Lake Michigan. We spent most of the ride talking and playing cards, downing an entire box of Oreos and two bags of chips during the four hour ride. All too soon, the Ferry came into port in Ludington, and we were scrambling to get our bags and our bikes and get off the ship, "Goodbye!" we called to the Crousers.
"Goodbye!" they shouted back.
Then, 5 steps later we ran into them again, "Goodbye!"
"Goodbye!"
Another five steps. And another. Finally, Eddy asked, "How many times do you think we'll say good bye before we really leave?" Our last goodbye came in the parking lot, just off of the ferry. We all hugged, and wished each other a safe journeys, then turned and went our separate ways. As we rode away, I was more homesick than I've been all trip.
We stayed in a campground near Ludington. We chose a site, but then we noticed the young couple next to us unloading Tiki Torches, "They might just want to stay up talking..." dad suggested doubtfully.
"Right." I said sarcastically, "couple, young 20's, Tiki Torches-"
"And ears!" dad interrupted. We still decided to find another site.
As soon as we rolled into our next site, a 20-something girl walked over, "The rangers just told us a storm's coming in! We've been trying to tell everyone around us." We thanked her, and rushed to set up our camp; as I put up my tent, one of the poles cracked along the joint. We braced it with duct tape, our panacea, and thought nothing more of it. Later that evening, as I ducked into my tent, I heard an ominous cracking sound. Looking up, I saw that my pole was giving out through the tape! It had already bent itself into an odd, elbow shape, and was bowing even more as I watched. I scrambled back out of my tent and tore off my rain fly, ignoring the huge clouds billowing in overhead. Dad was off walking around the campground, so I frantically tried to repair the pole myself, but by the time dad returned, my tent had collapsed entirely, now no more than a lump on the ground. As the two of us worked to fix the pole, trying to splint it with sticks, and then with a spare spoke, a woman walked by, "Need any help?" she called.
"Not really... unless you got any spare poles!" dad replied.
"Sorry... looks like you two might be sharing a tent tonight. If you need anything, I'm in that tent just over there."
When nothing seemed to hold my tent up, dad set off around the campground, asking for spare tent poles. He finally found some, and a hack saw to cut them down to the proper size, and by about 10:00, we had my tent at least functional again. I went to sleep praying the whole thing wouldn't collapse on me in the middle of the night.
The ride to Manitowoc was one of the shorter rides of our trip, at about 55 miles. We started early in the morning, because we wanted to get in early to spend time with our friends, the Crousers, who were meeting us in Manitowoc (they were vacationing in Chicago and decided to drive up to meet us for a couple of days). And it was a good thing we began our ride early, because by 8:30, my arms and face were slick with sweat. The temperature and humidity kept rising all morning, so that by 11:00, dad and I had each drained three full water bottles, and still found ourselves parched. We stopped at a house by the side of the road and asked the elderly man out front if he could refill our water bottles; when he returned the water bottles, they had ice cubes floating in them, "Have a good ride, now!" He called as we pedaled away, the only thing he said throughout the entire exchange.
The temperature dropped drastically once we got into Manitowoc, situated on the shore of Lake Michigan. Dad and I stopped for lunch at Fatzo's Sub Shop, and then rode across town to the Best Western. We laid down our bikes in front of the hotel, and dad went inside to register; within seconds, the Crouser twins, Jonny and Eddy, had raced outside to say hello. Their older brother, Steve, and their parents, Jim and Brenda followed shortly, along with my dad. The 7 of us spent the next ten minutes standing in front of the hotel and exchanging stories about our trips. "Why don't we let these guys go shower, and then we'll find something to do with them around Manitowoc." Brenda finally suggested.
Dad and I jumped at the suggestion, wheeling our bikes into the elevator to take them up stairs. After each of us had spent a long time, luxuriating in a shower that didn't need to be fed quarters every 3 minutes, we went down to the hotel lobby to meet back up with the Crousers. That afternoon, we talked, played cards, braved a brutal thunderstorm to go to the movies (Jim was drenched after 15 seconds in the rain), and splashed around in the pool until it was time to go to bed. It was a glimpse at what our 'normal' vacations are usually like, one that I knew would make me homesick as soon as it was over.
JULY 17 Manitowoc WI to Ludington MI (mostly by Ferry)
The Crousers took the ferry, the S.S. Badger, with us across Lake Michigan. We spent most of the ride talking and playing cards, downing an entire box of Oreos and two bags of chips during the four hour ride. All too soon, the Ferry came into port in Ludington, and we were scrambling to get our bags and our bikes and get off the ship, "Goodbye!" we called to the Crousers.
"Goodbye!" they shouted back.
Then, 5 steps later we ran into them again, "Goodbye!"
"Goodbye!"
Another five steps. And another. Finally, Eddy asked, "How many times do you think we'll say good bye before we really leave?" Our last goodbye came in the parking lot, just off of the ferry. We all hugged, and wished each other a safe journeys, then turned and went our separate ways. As we rode away, I was more homesick than I've been all trip.
We stayed in a campground near Ludington. We chose a site, but then we noticed the young couple next to us unloading Tiki Torches, "They might just want to stay up talking..." dad suggested doubtfully.
"Right." I said sarcastically, "couple, young 20's, Tiki Torches-"
"And ears!" dad interrupted. We still decided to find another site.
As soon as we rolled into our next site, a 20-something girl walked over, "The rangers just told us a storm's coming in! We've been trying to tell everyone around us." We thanked her, and rushed to set up our camp; as I put up my tent, one of the poles cracked along the joint. We braced it with duct tape, our panacea, and thought nothing more of it. Later that evening, as I ducked into my tent, I heard an ominous cracking sound. Looking up, I saw that my pole was giving out through the tape! It had already bent itself into an odd, elbow shape, and was bowing even more as I watched. I scrambled back out of my tent and tore off my rain fly, ignoring the huge clouds billowing in overhead. Dad was off walking around the campground, so I frantically tried to repair the pole myself, but by the time dad returned, my tent had collapsed entirely, now no more than a lump on the ground. As the two of us worked to fix the pole, trying to splint it with sticks, and then with a spare spoke, a woman walked by, "Need any help?" she called.
"Not really... unless you got any spare poles!" dad replied.
"Sorry... looks like you two might be sharing a tent tonight. If you need anything, I'm in that tent just over there."
When nothing seemed to hold my tent up, dad set off around the campground, asking for spare tent poles. He finally found some, and a hack saw to cut them down to the proper size, and by about 10:00, we had my tent at least functional again. I went to sleep praying the whole thing wouldn't collapse on me in the middle of the night.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Days 36 and 37
JULY 14 Neillsville to Steven's Point WI
The ride to Stevens Point was rather ordinary... we woke p early and paid our dues, putting in the majority of our miles before lunch. Mid morning, we spotted an odd yellow sign, with a silhouette of a horse and buggy on it. Not a mile down the road, we saw the real deal: a single horse pulling a low, wooden cart; in back sat a boy wearing a straw hat and a button up shirt. We stared at him as we rode by, and he stared at us, his face mirroring the wonder on ours. A little further down the road, we spotted another boy, dressed as the first, walking down the side of the road. "I think they might be Amish!" Dad said after we passed the second boy; I nodded excitedly.
We stopped for lunch at a cheese factory in the town of Rudolph, then rode the rest of the way into Steven's Point, the town Pat, Bill, and Dave are from. We spent the night at Bill's house, with his wife, Teri, and his two kids, Billy and Jillian; clearly, being married to a bike tourer, Teri knew what was important to us when we got there: just inside the door, she had a table laden with cherries, grapes, pretzels, and other snack food. She showed us to our rooms for the night, then next stop was the shower, where she had fresh towel already laid out for us. We had a pasta dinner with Bill's mom, Betty (although I think I used the wrong fork... I'm not used to formal dining, especially after weeks on the road.) and then returned to Bill's house to go to bed.
JULY 15 Steven's Point to Wrightstown WI
We were the first ones awake in Bill's house the next morning, and went about getting our breakfast, making ourselves at home. Partway through our meal, Betty drove up, wearing a pink sweater over a black dress, " I brought you some muffins!" she said, handing us a bag of blueberry muffins, "I made the first batch last night, but I fell asleep while reading the newspaper and I burnt them! I'm sorry.
"Oh, don't worry about it." dad reassured her, "These look great!" Teri woke up to see us off, but she said not even the tornado sirens would get Billy an Jillian out of bed. We thanked her for all the wonderful hospitality, and then hit the road.
Riding that day was long, hot, humid, into a slight headwind... and over all, very pleasant. The scenery looked like what we imagined entire Midwest would be: rolling cornfields, scattered trees, and occasional barns. Our pace was rather slow, but we plugged along all day, taking breaks for snacks, lunch, Dairy Queen, and more snacks. After our DQ break, we stopped into a Burger King to ask directions to Freedom, the next town along our route. "Do you know how to get to Freedom?" I asked the girl behind the counter.
"Well, you take this road... I'm not very good with directions. Let me go get someone-"
"Oh, it's okay." I said, "We just needed to know what road to take out of town. Thank You."
As I turned to leave, she asked, "Your riding bike all the way to Freedom?" Freedom was only 10 miles away, but she sounded shocked.
"Well, we need to be in Manitowoc by tomorrow." Her eyes widened even more (Manitowoc is 60 miles past Freedom.) I didn't tell her that we were headed to Maine, or that we had come from Washington; I can only imagine what she would have said about that!
In Freedom (after making the necessary cheesy puns about the town's name) we stopped at the grocery store for a pair of Gatorades. As we checked out, a woman behind us leaned forward, "It's too hot out there to be riding!" she warned us, smiling.
"Yeah, it sure is!" dad agreed, "That's why we're in here. But we only have a couple more miles to go today."
"Where're you ridin' to?" the woman asked.
"Well, tonight we're going to... Seth?"
"Apple Creek campground. But we're eventually heading to Maine..." As we told her about our trip, a small audience of shoppers and checkers gathered around, listening to our story. Just like in Carleton, we were celebrities for the next 10 minutes as we told them about the mountains, the winds, the mosquitoes, camping, and all the other little parts of the trip that have now just become a part of everyday life for us.
As we prepared dinner that evening, a man from an adjoining campsite walked over to talk with us, "Hi, I'm Michael. I saw the bikes and just had to come over and ask: where are you riding from?" We told him our story, and then he began to tell us his, "Right now I'm on a motorcycle trip with my best friend, and then I'm going to drive out to Oregon, pick up my kids, and we're going to spend a few weeks riding Candisk, a bicycle trip across North Dakota. This is my 6 week vacation in the United States."
"Oh?" I asked, "Where do you work?"
He grinned, apparently glad that I had asked, "Well, I work for an oil security company in Qatar... it's a small country in the Middle East..."
"On the north side of the Arabian peninsula, right?" I asked.
"Very good!" He said, "I'm impressed you knew that."
"So how is it living in the Middle East?" I asked.
"Hot...a lot of the year it's a dry hot, but some times we get a wind in off of the Indian Ocean, and then we get 120 degrees and 98% humidity. I have 11 air conditioners in my house! That's how people at home know how hot it is for me: I tell them how many air conditioners I have on. When I left in the beginning of July, I had... le'see... 1... 2, 3, 4..." He ticked them off on his fingers, "5 and 6...7, 8, and 9; I had 9 air conditioners running to stay cool! The heat's the hardest part for me. Otherwise it's great!"
"And how is it safety-wise over there?" Dad asked.
"Driving's the most dangerous thing I do. The people there are maniacs on the road. But all the stuff you hear on the news... well, it's at least as safe as it is in America, maybe safer! I mean, as long as you're smart, and don't go to like Iraq, or Afghanistan, you'll be fine. I've been to Jerusalem, and throughout the Arabian peninsula...no problems." Michael wandered away as we finished eating, calling over his shoulder, "I'm in that trailer over there. If you need anything, be sure to come on over and ask."
After cleaning the dishes, I went off to meet another bike tourer dad had talked to earlier in the evening (while I was showering). He was sitting in the lodge-restaurant building, half watching a baseball game on TV, and eating a microwave pizza. "Hello!" I said, walking over, "I heard there was another biker around and I came by to say hi. I'm Seth."
"Oh, hello. I'm Steve. Have a seat." He said, turning his attention away from the ball game, "So I was talking to your dad. All the way across the country?"
I nodded, "And you're going round Lake Michigan, right?"
"Yeah. I started in St. Paul, and I'm taking the ferry over the lake tomorrow, then I'll loop back over the Upper Peninsula and back down to St. Paul. Then I'm flying home."
"I hear that home is a ways away..." I said
"Your dad must have told you! I teach AP calculus to diplomat's kids in Libya."
"That would be really fun!" I could feel myself getting excited just talking about it, "Why Libya?"
"My wife and I have also taught in Egypt and Thailand. When I was younger I wanted to go into the Peace Corp, but then this opportunity came up, and, well, I got a bit distracted. I still haven't joined the Peace Corp."
"And what's it like in Libya?"
"Oh, it's great. The people are nice and friendly. I mean, they think George Bush is an idiot, and I think Kadaffi should be shot, but we all realize that those are just the governments. Beneath that, people are just people. That's what you really have to remember. We're all really the same." Steve showed me some of his pictures from Libya, and then we said goodnight, and he went back to his baseball game and I went off to my tent to write.
The ride to Stevens Point was rather ordinary... we woke p early and paid our dues, putting in the majority of our miles before lunch. Mid morning, we spotted an odd yellow sign, with a silhouette of a horse and buggy on it. Not a mile down the road, we saw the real deal: a single horse pulling a low, wooden cart; in back sat a boy wearing a straw hat and a button up shirt. We stared at him as we rode by, and he stared at us, his face mirroring the wonder on ours. A little further down the road, we spotted another boy, dressed as the first, walking down the side of the road. "I think they might be Amish!" Dad said after we passed the second boy; I nodded excitedly.
We stopped for lunch at a cheese factory in the town of Rudolph, then rode the rest of the way into Steven's Point, the town Pat, Bill, and Dave are from. We spent the night at Bill's house, with his wife, Teri, and his two kids, Billy and Jillian; clearly, being married to a bike tourer, Teri knew what was important to us when we got there: just inside the door, she had a table laden with cherries, grapes, pretzels, and other snack food. She showed us to our rooms for the night, then next stop was the shower, where she had fresh towel already laid out for us. We had a pasta dinner with Bill's mom, Betty (although I think I used the wrong fork... I'm not used to formal dining, especially after weeks on the road.) and then returned to Bill's house to go to bed.
JULY 15 Steven's Point to Wrightstown WI
We were the first ones awake in Bill's house the next morning, and went about getting our breakfast, making ourselves at home. Partway through our meal, Betty drove up, wearing a pink sweater over a black dress, " I brought you some muffins!" she said, handing us a bag of blueberry muffins, "I made the first batch last night, but I fell asleep while reading the newspaper and I burnt them! I'm sorry.
"Oh, don't worry about it." dad reassured her, "These look great!" Teri woke up to see us off, but she said not even the tornado sirens would get Billy an Jillian out of bed. We thanked her for all the wonderful hospitality, and then hit the road.
Riding that day was long, hot, humid, into a slight headwind... and over all, very pleasant. The scenery looked like what we imagined entire Midwest would be: rolling cornfields, scattered trees, and occasional barns. Our pace was rather slow, but we plugged along all day, taking breaks for snacks, lunch, Dairy Queen, and more snacks. After our DQ break, we stopped into a Burger King to ask directions to Freedom, the next town along our route. "Do you know how to get to Freedom?" I asked the girl behind the counter.
"Well, you take this road... I'm not very good with directions. Let me go get someone-"
"Oh, it's okay." I said, "We just needed to know what road to take out of town. Thank You."
As I turned to leave, she asked, "Your riding bike all the way to Freedom?" Freedom was only 10 miles away, but she sounded shocked.
"Well, we need to be in Manitowoc by tomorrow." Her eyes widened even more (Manitowoc is 60 miles past Freedom.) I didn't tell her that we were headed to Maine, or that we had come from Washington; I can only imagine what she would have said about that!
In Freedom (after making the necessary cheesy puns about the town's name) we stopped at the grocery store for a pair of Gatorades. As we checked out, a woman behind us leaned forward, "It's too hot out there to be riding!" she warned us, smiling.
"Yeah, it sure is!" dad agreed, "That's why we're in here. But we only have a couple more miles to go today."
"Where're you ridin' to?" the woman asked.
"Well, tonight we're going to... Seth?"
"Apple Creek campground. But we're eventually heading to Maine..." As we told her about our trip, a small audience of shoppers and checkers gathered around, listening to our story. Just like in Carleton, we were celebrities for the next 10 minutes as we told them about the mountains, the winds, the mosquitoes, camping, and all the other little parts of the trip that have now just become a part of everyday life for us.
As we prepared dinner that evening, a man from an adjoining campsite walked over to talk with us, "Hi, I'm Michael. I saw the bikes and just had to come over and ask: where are you riding from?" We told him our story, and then he began to tell us his, "Right now I'm on a motorcycle trip with my best friend, and then I'm going to drive out to Oregon, pick up my kids, and we're going to spend a few weeks riding Candisk, a bicycle trip across North Dakota. This is my 6 week vacation in the United States."
"Oh?" I asked, "Where do you work?"
He grinned, apparently glad that I had asked, "Well, I work for an oil security company in Qatar... it's a small country in the Middle East..."
"On the north side of the Arabian peninsula, right?" I asked.
"Very good!" He said, "I'm impressed you knew that."
"So how is it living in the Middle East?" I asked.
"Hot...a lot of the year it's a dry hot, but some times we get a wind in off of the Indian Ocean, and then we get 120 degrees and 98% humidity. I have 11 air conditioners in my house! That's how people at home know how hot it is for me: I tell them how many air conditioners I have on. When I left in the beginning of July, I had... le'see... 1... 2, 3, 4..." He ticked them off on his fingers, "5 and 6...7, 8, and 9; I had 9 air conditioners running to stay cool! The heat's the hardest part for me. Otherwise it's great!"
"And how is it safety-wise over there?" Dad asked.
"Driving's the most dangerous thing I do. The people there are maniacs on the road. But all the stuff you hear on the news... well, it's at least as safe as it is in America, maybe safer! I mean, as long as you're smart, and don't go to like Iraq, or Afghanistan, you'll be fine. I've been to Jerusalem, and throughout the Arabian peninsula...no problems." Michael wandered away as we finished eating, calling over his shoulder, "I'm in that trailer over there. If you need anything, be sure to come on over and ask."
After cleaning the dishes, I went off to meet another bike tourer dad had talked to earlier in the evening (while I was showering). He was sitting in the lodge-restaurant building, half watching a baseball game on TV, and eating a microwave pizza. "Hello!" I said, walking over, "I heard there was another biker around and I came by to say hi. I'm Seth."
"Oh, hello. I'm Steve. Have a seat." He said, turning his attention away from the ball game, "So I was talking to your dad. All the way across the country?"
I nodded, "And you're going round Lake Michigan, right?"
"Yeah. I started in St. Paul, and I'm taking the ferry over the lake tomorrow, then I'll loop back over the Upper Peninsula and back down to St. Paul. Then I'm flying home."
"I hear that home is a ways away..." I said
"Your dad must have told you! I teach AP calculus to diplomat's kids in Libya."
"That would be really fun!" I could feel myself getting excited just talking about it, "Why Libya?"
"My wife and I have also taught in Egypt and Thailand. When I was younger I wanted to go into the Peace Corp, but then this opportunity came up, and, well, I got a bit distracted. I still haven't joined the Peace Corp."
"And what's it like in Libya?"
"Oh, it's great. The people are nice and friendly. I mean, they think George Bush is an idiot, and I think Kadaffi should be shot, but we all realize that those are just the governments. Beneath that, people are just people. That's what you really have to remember. We're all really the same." Steve showed me some of his pictures from Libya, and then we said goodnight, and he went back to his baseball game and I went off to my tent to write.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Day 35
JULY 13 Elk Mound to Neillsville MN
We said goodbye to Ann and Flynn the next morning and hit the road around 8:00, a rather late start. Ten miles up the road, we stopped in Eau Clare to pick up some post cards to send to Aunt Kathy's first grade class (while in Minneapolis they sent me another batch of letters, so I was in the process of responding to all of them). At the first hotel we stopped into, I picked up 5 of the 7 post cards I needed; I figured there would be more hotels, so I only took the better post cards. As we rode away, dad told me, "In the future, you might want to consider getting all the postcards you need, just in case you can't find any latter." How prophetic he was.
The next hotel we stopped at didn't have any post cards, and neither did the 15 after that. At each hotel, I would walk up to the desk and ask, "Do you have any postcards?"
"No, but you might try at the...." was always the reply. I became more and more frantic as it became apparent that no where in Eau Clare had any postcards; hotels, gas stations, grocery stores... nothing.
Finally, dad and I gave up and began riding out of town. Suddenly dad shouted, "STOP!" Off to the left was a little run down shopping center with the name 'Hallmark' written on the facade in glowing letters. Beneath it, we found postcards in the 'variety' hardware store.
"Oh, thank you!" I cried when we found them, "we've looked EVERYWHERE for postcards, and you're the only place in town to have them!.
"Yep." the woman behind the counter agreed, "Only other place is the university, and they're closed on Sundays." I bought 5 postcards... 3 extras just in case!
Later that afternoon, we stopped at the Wisconsin State War Memorial, known as the High Ground. As we dismounted, an elderly man with a bent nose came up, "Are either of you veterans?" He spoke in a thick voice. Both of us shook our heads. "Well, I am."
He said, gesturing to his baseball cap, which had the emblem of some branch of the armed forces, "This is the High Ground. We- we call it that because in a fight, you always want the high ground. This is the highest ground around. You need some place to stay tonight? You can stay here off in the bushes..."
"Thanks." dad said, but neither of us were seriously considering it; the winds were strong enough that day, that to go 5 miles into Neillsville to get groceries, and then come 5 miles back... into a headwind... would have been excruciating. However, when we got to Neillsville, we began to think we might have to go back to the High Grounds: the next closest campground was 15 miles down the road, and we were both spent. After asking all around town, we ended up camping out behind WCCN radio station, after talking to Kevin, the DJ.
"Oh, thank you!" I cried when we found them, "we've looked EVERYWHERE for postcards, and you're the only place in town to have them!.
"Yep." the woman behind the counter agreed, "Only other place is the university, and they're closed on Sundays." I bought 5 postcards... 3 extras just in case!
Later that afternoon, we stopped at the Wisconsin State War Memorial, known as the High Ground. As we dismounted, an elderly man with a bent nose came up, "Are either of you veterans?" He spoke in a thick voice. Both of us shook our heads. "Well, I am."
He said, gesturing to his baseball cap, which had the emblem of some branch of the armed forces, "This is the High Ground. We- we call it that because in a fight, you always want the high ground. This is the highest ground around. You need some place to stay tonight? You can stay here off in the bushes..."
"Thanks." dad said, but neither of us were seriously considering it; the winds were strong enough that day, that to go 5 miles into Neillsville to get groceries, and then come 5 miles back... into a headwind... would have been excruciating. However, when we got to Neillsville, we began to think we might have to go back to the High Grounds: the next closest campground was 15 miles down the road, and we were both spent. After asking all around town, we ended up camping out behind WCCN radio station, after talking to Kevin, the DJ.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Day 34
JULY 12 Minneapolis MN to Elk Mound WI
The first 30 miles of our day out of Minneapolis, through St. Paul and into Stillwater on the Wisconsin boarder, Chris and Steve led us along bike paths winding through the Twin Cities. In Stillwater, we stopped in the Daily Grind coffee shop, for a second breakfast. Steve's breakfast burrito came first, and with it, 4 bottles of hot sauce, "This one's mild," the server/cook told us, "These two are hot, and this one is hurt-your-friends." He gestured last to what appeared to a be a glass bottle full of water.
"Oooh, I'm gonna have to try this!" dad said, taking the clear bottle, as Steve selected one of the hot sauces for himself. Dad poured a drop on his finger and stuck it in his mouth. At first he shrugged, but then a minute or two later his eyes widened a little, "That stuff sort of grows on you." He said casually, "You have to try it, Seth!"
Dad still seemed fine, so I figured it couldn't be that bad, and poured a little more than a drop on my finger. Gingerly, I touched it to the tip of my tongue. At first it wasn't that bad, but then I swallowed, and a burning sensation swept through my entire mouth; the tip of my tongue felt like it had been dipped in molten metal! My lips were stinging too, and I gulped down all of my drink, "Maybe you should just stick your tongue in your juice." Chris suggested.
"Or just cut it off!" I moaned. After five minutes of agony, I finally gave in and went up to the counter to order a large glass of milk.
"Two-percent work? Or do you want skim?"
"I don't care!" I managed, then realized that that sounded awfully rude. Painfully, I explained my predicament, to the amusement of those behind the counter. It was only after the entire cup of milk that the pain shrunk to a more manageable level.
Our ride that day was easy, with a strong tail wind, but since it was our first day back to riding after 3 days off, we took a while to get back into the swing of it all. Still, we covered about 95 miles, more than we had planned, and arrived in Elk Mound just in time to end the day. Luckily, we had a contact in Elk Mound through the breed of dog Skipper has, a Leonberger. (Very few people have leos, so those that do form a rather tight-knit community. Skipper asked around for families with Leos along the way who would be willing to take us in.)
Since we hadn't planned to make it to Elk Mound until about noon the next day, we had told Ann (our contact) that we probably wouldn't stay with her; when we called to ask if we could, she agreed to have us, but warned us that she was also having a little party with a couple of friends. As we arrived at the small, white duplex, the screen door edged open, and out popped a round friendly face, "Hello, you must be Chip and Seth!" Ann called, bustling out the door. As we walked over, she stepped to one side, revealing her large, golden leo (all leos are large and golden!), standing shyly in the living room, tail between his legs, "This is Flynn. He warms up to women faster than to men, but I'm sure he'll get used to you." Ann opened the garage for our bikes, and told us where the shower and towels were. She seems to know what's important to cyclists! As we were stashing our bikes, a car drove up, the first of Ann's guests, "This is my cousin-friend Mary." Ann introduced the figure who emerged from the car, "Mary, this is Chip and Seth."
"We're crashing your party." dad told her. Mary just laughed.
Ann's second guest, Deb, arrived, bringing with her an adorable kitten she had found on the road on the 4th of July. She hadn't named it, since she didn't plan on keeping it (this is her 33 rescue/foster cat), but she wanted all of us to hold it so that it got used to people. "If it weren't for the bike, I think the kitten would have a new home!" Mary joked as she watched me play with it. Deb also brought with her some stalks of rhubarb out of her garden; I jumped at the opportunity to use them in a Rhubarb crisp (baking is one of the things I've been missing most while on the road.) Mary chopped up the rhubarb while I made the crumbly topping, and we threw it in the oven to add to the barbecued peaches Deb had already brought for dessert.
The first 30 miles of our day out of Minneapolis, through St. Paul and into Stillwater on the Wisconsin boarder, Chris and Steve led us along bike paths winding through the Twin Cities. In Stillwater, we stopped in the Daily Grind coffee shop, for a second breakfast. Steve's breakfast burrito came first, and with it, 4 bottles of hot sauce, "This one's mild," the server/cook told us, "These two are hot, and this one is hurt-your-friends." He gestured last to what appeared to a be a glass bottle full of water.
"Oooh, I'm gonna have to try this!" dad said, taking the clear bottle, as Steve selected one of the hot sauces for himself. Dad poured a drop on his finger and stuck it in his mouth. At first he shrugged, but then a minute or two later his eyes widened a little, "That stuff sort of grows on you." He said casually, "You have to try it, Seth!"
Dad still seemed fine, so I figured it couldn't be that bad, and poured a little more than a drop on my finger. Gingerly, I touched it to the tip of my tongue. At first it wasn't that bad, but then I swallowed, and a burning sensation swept through my entire mouth; the tip of my tongue felt like it had been dipped in molten metal! My lips were stinging too, and I gulped down all of my drink, "Maybe you should just stick your tongue in your juice." Chris suggested.
"Or just cut it off!" I moaned. After five minutes of agony, I finally gave in and went up to the counter to order a large glass of milk.
"Two-percent work? Or do you want skim?"
"I don't care!" I managed, then realized that that sounded awfully rude. Painfully, I explained my predicament, to the amusement of those behind the counter. It was only after the entire cup of milk that the pain shrunk to a more manageable level.
Our ride that day was easy, with a strong tail wind, but since it was our first day back to riding after 3 days off, we took a while to get back into the swing of it all. Still, we covered about 95 miles, more than we had planned, and arrived in Elk Mound just in time to end the day. Luckily, we had a contact in Elk Mound through the breed of dog Skipper has, a Leonberger. (Very few people have leos, so those that do form a rather tight-knit community. Skipper asked around for families with Leos along the way who would be willing to take us in.)
Since we hadn't planned to make it to Elk Mound until about noon the next day, we had told Ann (our contact) that we probably wouldn't stay with her; when we called to ask if we could, she agreed to have us, but warned us that she was also having a little party with a couple of friends. As we arrived at the small, white duplex, the screen door edged open, and out popped a round friendly face, "Hello, you must be Chip and Seth!" Ann called, bustling out the door. As we walked over, she stepped to one side, revealing her large, golden leo (all leos are large and golden!), standing shyly in the living room, tail between his legs, "This is Flynn. He warms up to women faster than to men, but I'm sure he'll get used to you." Ann opened the garage for our bikes, and told us where the shower and towels were. She seems to know what's important to cyclists! As we were stashing our bikes, a car drove up, the first of Ann's guests, "This is my cousin-friend Mary." Ann introduced the figure who emerged from the car, "Mary, this is Chip and Seth."
"We're crashing your party." dad told her. Mary just laughed.
Ann's second guest, Deb, arrived, bringing with her an adorable kitten she had found on the road on the 4th of July. She hadn't named it, since she didn't plan on keeping it (this is her 33 rescue/foster cat), but she wanted all of us to hold it so that it got used to people. "If it weren't for the bike, I think the kitten would have a new home!" Mary joked as she watched me play with it. Deb also brought with her some stalks of rhubarb out of her garden; I jumped at the opportunity to use them in a Rhubarb crisp (baking is one of the things I've been missing most while on the road.) Mary chopped up the rhubarb while I made the crumbly topping, and we threw it in the oven to add to the barbecued peaches Deb had already brought for dessert.
Days 31, 32, &33
JULY 9, 10, & 11 Minneapolis, MN
For brevity's sake, I'm only going to summarise our time in Minneapolis; in truth, I spent much of it sitting in front of a computer, trying to get this up to date. When dad and I weren't catching up on journals, the blog, and much needed rest, we spent time with Steve and Chris, and their neighbors, Rhonda and Kelly. All of them are huge dog people: Chris and Steve have two dogs, Riley and Hanna (pronounced Honna); Riley's a hyper dog and Hanna is a cute Rottweiler who just wants to be petted. Rhonda and Kelly have one dog, Murphy, who is amazingly soft. Since neither Chris and Steve nor Rhonda and Kelly have kids, the dogs have filled that role for them.
On Friday, we drove down to North Field to visit the colleges of St. Olaf and Carleton. Just off of appearances, St. Olaf has a prettier campus, but then we visited Carleton in the afternoon, when it was close to 90 outside; that might have affected my opinion some what. Both struck me as very good colleges. That afternoon, as we left Carleton, I asked if they could send me the leaflets they give out at the end of the visit, because I was on a bike, "Of course!" the woman behind the desk said, "Wait, where did you say you were from...?"
"Oregon." I replied.
"And you rode here?!" I only nodded, smiling. For the next ten minutes, dad and I had an enthralled audience, as we told about our trip: everyone in the admissions office, parents, tour guides, admissions counselors, even prospective students, were silent as we spoke, then exploded with questions whenever we paused. By the time we left, we had given everyone a copy of our blog address, and both dad and I felt like celebrities.
That afternoon, I also called my Aunt Kathy's first grade class in Las Vegas (I have been sending them letters all trip, and Aunt Kathy thought they would enjoy having an actual conversation). "Hello, this is Seth." I said when Aunt Kathy picked up the phone.
"Well, hello Seth! You caught us right in the middle of a spelling test." I started to apologize and tell her I could call back latter, when I heard her saying to her class, "Okay everyone, put down your pencils and gather around the phone." They put me on speaker phone, and I was greeted by a thunderous, "HELLO!" from a classroom full of first graders. I told them a little about my trip, and then let them ask questions.
"Have you seen any bats?"
"Well, no, we're usually asleep by the time it gets dark."
"Have you seen any bunnies?"
"Oh yeah, lots!"
"Have you seen any black bunnies?"
"No, most of them are gray or brown."
"How do you get dressed?"
That one had me a little stumped. I figured I shouldn't give some sarcastic reply, which left me stuttering, "Well, ah, I'm in my tent...."
"Just like you do, silly." Aunt Kathy saved me. "Are there any more questions?... No, well then lets say goodbye!"
"GOODBYE!" they shouted.
"Goodbye!" I replied, then hung up, savoring my second dose of celebrity for the day. It's really amazing to see how excited that class got about my adventure. That night there was a big windstorm, so we sat inside, and went to bed around 10:00, the earliest night for our entire stay in Minneapolis. The next morning, we were heading back onto the road.
For brevity's sake, I'm only going to summarise our time in Minneapolis; in truth, I spent much of it sitting in front of a computer, trying to get this up to date. When dad and I weren't catching up on journals, the blog, and much needed rest, we spent time with Steve and Chris, and their neighbors, Rhonda and Kelly. All of them are huge dog people: Chris and Steve have two dogs, Riley and Hanna (pronounced Honna); Riley's a hyper dog and Hanna is a cute Rottweiler who just wants to be petted. Rhonda and Kelly have one dog, Murphy, who is amazingly soft. Since neither Chris and Steve nor Rhonda and Kelly have kids, the dogs have filled that role for them.
On Friday, we drove down to North Field to visit the colleges of St. Olaf and Carleton. Just off of appearances, St. Olaf has a prettier campus, but then we visited Carleton in the afternoon, when it was close to 90 outside; that might have affected my opinion some what. Both struck me as very good colleges. That afternoon, as we left Carleton, I asked if they could send me the leaflets they give out at the end of the visit, because I was on a bike, "Of course!" the woman behind the desk said, "Wait, where did you say you were from...?"
"Oregon." I replied.
"And you rode here?!" I only nodded, smiling. For the next ten minutes, dad and I had an enthralled audience, as we told about our trip: everyone in the admissions office, parents, tour guides, admissions counselors, even prospective students, were silent as we spoke, then exploded with questions whenever we paused. By the time we left, we had given everyone a copy of our blog address, and both dad and I felt like celebrities.
That afternoon, I also called my Aunt Kathy's first grade class in Las Vegas (I have been sending them letters all trip, and Aunt Kathy thought they would enjoy having an actual conversation). "Hello, this is Seth." I said when Aunt Kathy picked up the phone.
"Well, hello Seth! You caught us right in the middle of a spelling test." I started to apologize and tell her I could call back latter, when I heard her saying to her class, "Okay everyone, put down your pencils and gather around the phone." They put me on speaker phone, and I was greeted by a thunderous, "HELLO!" from a classroom full of first graders. I told them a little about my trip, and then let them ask questions.
"Have you seen any bats?"
"Well, no, we're usually asleep by the time it gets dark."
"Have you seen any bunnies?"
"Oh yeah, lots!"
"Have you seen any black bunnies?"
"No, most of them are gray or brown."
"How do you get dressed?"
That one had me a little stumped. I figured I shouldn't give some sarcastic reply, which left me stuttering, "Well, ah, I'm in my tent...."
"Just like you do, silly." Aunt Kathy saved me. "Are there any more questions?... No, well then lets say goodbye!"
"GOODBYE!" they shouted.
"Goodbye!" I replied, then hung up, savoring my second dose of celebrity for the day. It's really amazing to see how excited that class got about my adventure. That night there was a big windstorm, so we sat inside, and went to bed around 10:00, the earliest night for our entire stay in Minneapolis. The next morning, we were heading back onto the road.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Edit
There is new a post below "mail drops".... I started writing it before the "mail drops" post, but only just published it
~Seth
~Seth
Monday, July 14, 2008
Mail Drops
For anyone interested in sending us a letter (it's always fun getting mail!!), I have two mail drops for you. The first is in Marine City Michigan. We should be there around July 22nd, so try to send any mail early enough that it will get there in time.
Hold For Delivery (Seth and Chip Greendale)
Arrival July 22nd
460 S Water St
Marine City, MI 48039
Our second drop spot is in Ithaca, New York, when were staying with one of Skipper's friends. We should get in sometime early august.
Seth and Chip Greendale
109 Simsbury Dr
Ithaca NY 14850
Hope to get some mail!!
~Seth
Hold For Delivery (Seth and Chip Greendale)
Arrival July 22nd
460 S Water St
Marine City, MI 48039
Our second drop spot is in Ithaca, New York, when were staying with one of Skipper's friends. We should get in sometime early august.
Seth and Chip Greendale
109 Simsbury Dr
Ithaca NY 14850
Hope to get some mail!!
~Seth
Day 30
The keys are messed up on the computer I'm at... they look like their in alphabetical order, with "A" in the upper right hand corner where "Q" usually is. Except "Q" is still there; it's REALLY confusing.... no button is what it says it is. So basically, expect a lot of spelling errors and typos on this post!
JULY 8 St. Cloud to Minneapolis MN
Our first stop after leaving Larry's house was a bakery in St. Cloud, ten miles away. We walked in and ordered two blueberry turnovers and six cookies from the woman behind the counter. We decided to eat them on the porch, and just about 30 seconds later we had polished off the turnovers (we decided to stash the cookies for later in the day). "Wanna get another?" Dad asked.
"I actually think I will." I said, standing up and fishing my wallet out of my handlebar bag.
"Grab me an apple one when you go!" dad called as I strolled into the store.
The woman behind the counter glanced up at me, "You're back!" she said surprised.
I smiled at her bewilderment, "I'll take two apple turnovers, please." She still looked rather stunned, "We burn a lot of calories out riding." I offered in explanation.
"I would imagine." she chuckled, beginning to regain her composure. She gave me the turnovers and I paid, then took them outside to dad. Despite my best efforts to savor the doughnut, these were gone at least as fast as the first.
Getting out of St. Cloud, we rode on some of the busiest streets of the trip so far. Fortunately, the traffic was short lived, and soon we were back onto quiet country roads. The doughnuts, however, were short lived as well, and two hours later it felt like we hadn't eaten a morsel all morning. For our third breakfast, we decided to have ice cream. We stopped in a Dairy Queen that was still in the process of opening for the morning (it was still only 10:00) and each ordered large servings of ice cream. My morning total of food that day came out to be 2 bowls of cereal, a glass of orange juice, a bagel, a banana, 2 turnovers, and a medium m&m blizzard. By 11:30 I was back to being hungry.
That day was just destined to be a big eating day (well, actually, we only ate a bit more than usual). At noon we stopped for sandwiches in a little butcher shop, and then a couple of miles down the road we stopped at a u-pick raspberry stand for a basket of berries. This is on top of all of the junk/snack food we eat while riding: gorp, fig newtons, snickers bars.... that's truly the wonderful thing about bike touring: you're always hungry so you can always eat!
Around 2:00 we came to Wayzata (pronounced wizetta), on the outskirts of Minneapolis, where we were staying with Chris, one of Skipper's biking buddies. Chris's husband, Steve, met us in Wayzata to lead us back to their house. The ride into Minneapolis was surprisingly tame for going through downtown. The city is riddled with heavily traveled bike paths leading to almost any section of town (at least that's sure how it seemed.) Of the 20 miles from Wayzata to Chris's house, all but about 5 were on bike paths. We reached Chris's house and dismounted from our bikes, not planning to ride again for at least 3 days; finally, a long overdue rest from pedaling.
JULY 8 St. Cloud to Minneapolis MN
Our first stop after leaving Larry's house was a bakery in St. Cloud, ten miles away. We walked in and ordered two blueberry turnovers and six cookies from the woman behind the counter. We decided to eat them on the porch, and just about 30 seconds later we had polished off the turnovers (we decided to stash the cookies for later in the day). "Wanna get another?" Dad asked.
"I actually think I will." I said, standing up and fishing my wallet out of my handlebar bag.
"Grab me an apple one when you go!" dad called as I strolled into the store.
The woman behind the counter glanced up at me, "You're back!" she said surprised.
I smiled at her bewilderment, "I'll take two apple turnovers, please." She still looked rather stunned, "We burn a lot of calories out riding." I offered in explanation.
"I would imagine." she chuckled, beginning to regain her composure. She gave me the turnovers and I paid, then took them outside to dad. Despite my best efforts to savor the doughnut, these were gone at least as fast as the first.
Getting out of St. Cloud, we rode on some of the busiest streets of the trip so far. Fortunately, the traffic was short lived, and soon we were back onto quiet country roads. The doughnuts, however, were short lived as well, and two hours later it felt like we hadn't eaten a morsel all morning. For our third breakfast, we decided to have ice cream. We stopped in a Dairy Queen that was still in the process of opening for the morning (it was still only 10:00) and each ordered large servings of ice cream. My morning total of food that day came out to be 2 bowls of cereal, a glass of orange juice, a bagel, a banana, 2 turnovers, and a medium m&m blizzard. By 11:30 I was back to being hungry.
That day was just destined to be a big eating day (well, actually, we only ate a bit more than usual). At noon we stopped for sandwiches in a little butcher shop, and then a couple of miles down the road we stopped at a u-pick raspberry stand for a basket of berries. This is on top of all of the junk/snack food we eat while riding: gorp, fig newtons, snickers bars.... that's truly the wonderful thing about bike touring: you're always hungry so you can always eat!
Around 2:00 we came to Wayzata (pronounced wizetta), on the outskirts of Minneapolis, where we were staying with Chris, one of Skipper's biking buddies. Chris's husband, Steve, met us in Wayzata to lead us back to their house. The ride into Minneapolis was surprisingly tame for going through downtown. The city is riddled with heavily traveled bike paths leading to almost any section of town (at least that's sure how it seemed.) Of the 20 miles from Wayzata to Chris's house, all but about 5 were on bike paths. We reached Chris's house and dismounted from our bikes, not planning to ride again for at least 3 days; finally, a long overdue rest from pedaling.
Long List o' Links
I've been meaning to do this for a while now, and I'm only just getting around to it... as we travel, we've run into tons of other bike tourists; most of them have blogs of their own. I'm just going to post the links to all of those blogs for anyone interested in hearing another side of the story (we've ridden with these cyclists from anywhere from 20 minutes to 3 weeks... the stories will probably vary a lot!)
Pat, Bill, and Dave's Blog:
www.crossamericabikeride.blogspot.com
Steve's Blog:
Stelf@wordpress.com
Barb and Bob's Blog:
www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/grayling
Jay's Blog:
www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/jaybrosnan
Mike and Yoni's Blog:
www.Mikeandyoni.blogspot.com
Greg and Caroline's Blog:
http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/?o=3Tzut&doc_id=3661&v=7a
For most of these, if you can't find the blog using the link, you can google, "(cyclist name), blog, biking" or something to that effect. For those on Crazyguyonabike, you can google that website name, and then use the search box in the upper right hand corner to find their blog.
~Seth
Pat, Bill, and Dave's Blog:
www.crossamericabikeride.blogspot.com
Steve's Blog:
Stelf@wordpress.com
Barb and Bob's Blog:
www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/grayling
Jay's Blog:
www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/jaybrosnan
Mike and Yoni's Blog:
www.Mikeandyoni.blogspot.com
Greg and Caroline's Blog:
http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/?o=3Tzut&doc_id=3661&v=7a
For most of these, if you can't find the blog using the link, you can google, "(cyclist name), blog, biking" or something to that effect. For those on Crazyguyonabike, you can google that website name, and then use the search box in the upper right hand corner to find their blog.
~Seth
Friday, July 11, 2008
Day 29
JULY 7 Parker's Prairie to Saint Cloud MN
We got one of our earlier starts leaving Parker's Prairie... probably because of our early bed time... which meant that we had several hours of cool, predawn weather, perfect for riding. Twenty miles down the road or so, we stopped in Long Prairie for a second breakfast, greasy breakfast sandwiches at Burger King, effectively exceeding my fast food quota for the year. The rest of the ride was pretty normal that day, although dad was rather worried about the thunder heads building on the horizon. We stopped for lunch in the park in the tiny town of Sobieski, and ran into Barb and Bob for what was probably the final time on our trip, since we were taking a few days off in Minneapolis while they planned to push on through Wisconsin. That afternoon, we had our first sighting of the Mississippi River, looking exactly as I expected it would: broad, and brown, meandering by low hanging trees. We turned South, paralleling the river along its west shore, heading for St. Cloud, where we planned to spend the night.
Just outside of St. Cloud, we stopped for a candy bar. As we sat in the scrubby grass by the road side, a recreational cyclist flew by, waving as he passed. Finishing our candy bars, we climbed back on our bikes and continued our ride toward St. Cloud. Just after we began riding again, the recreational cyclist (by that I mean non-tourist biker) shot out of a driveway to our left, then pulled in next to us. "Hello! Where you guys from?"
Dad told him our story, finishing by asking, "Do you know anywhere to camp around St. Cloud?"
"Well, sure!" The rider exclaimed, "My house! Oh, I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Larry."
"Chip and Seth." Dad replied, "And thanks a lot for letting us stay with you. Your sure it's all right?"
"Oh, yeah, definitely. But we have to make a stop on the way home. I promised to show these two ladies a clump of lady slippers, the Minnesota state flower. It's very rare, so it's kind of a big deal to us." Soon we pulled into a small driveway, and Larry had ran into the street, flagging down a maroon Buick, "Virginia!" he called to the driver.
The Buick pulled off the rode, and two short old ladies climbed out, and began to walk over to us. Larry smiled and waved to them, "It's easy to remember these two's names." He assured us, "They're both Virginia." Larry helped the Virginia's over next to the flowers and motioned us over. We all oohed and ahhed; the flowers were pretty spectacular. Then the Virginias piled back into their car and drove away while Larry got back on his bike and led us to his house. On the way, he told us that both he and his wife are Lutheran ministers, but at different churches.
Larry's house sat right on the Mississippi River, so the first thing we did after unloading our bikes was go for a swim. What an amazing thing to get to do! I mean, the Mississippi River is really central to the American psyche, and we not only saw it, but got to swim in it! Dad said the whole time I had an enormous smile printed on my face.
We had an early dinner because Larry's wife, Elizabeth had an evening sermon to preach, and his son, Nate, had a ball game to umpire. Both left, and dad and I sat on the porch with Larry, discussing our ride. As we sat, the sky became steadily darker, until finally we decided it would be best to retreat inside. Dad grabbed the plates, Larry covered up the barbecue, and I collected the napkins; just as we stepped inside the door, the clouds broke open. The storm we saw made us glad Larry had taken us in: the wind howled, blowing the raindrops horizontal, and the rain fell so thick that we could barely see the Mississippi 10 feet away. Luckily, the fowl weather passed quickly, and when the sun came out, a beautiful rainbow arched over the lake.
We got one of our earlier starts leaving Parker's Prairie... probably because of our early bed time... which meant that we had several hours of cool, predawn weather, perfect for riding. Twenty miles down the road or so, we stopped in Long Prairie for a second breakfast, greasy breakfast sandwiches at Burger King, effectively exceeding my fast food quota for the year. The rest of the ride was pretty normal that day, although dad was rather worried about the thunder heads building on the horizon. We stopped for lunch in the park in the tiny town of Sobieski, and ran into Barb and Bob for what was probably the final time on our trip, since we were taking a few days off in Minneapolis while they planned to push on through Wisconsin. That afternoon, we had our first sighting of the Mississippi River, looking exactly as I expected it would: broad, and brown, meandering by low hanging trees. We turned South, paralleling the river along its west shore, heading for St. Cloud, where we planned to spend the night.
Just outside of St. Cloud, we stopped for a candy bar. As we sat in the scrubby grass by the road side, a recreational cyclist flew by, waving as he passed. Finishing our candy bars, we climbed back on our bikes and continued our ride toward St. Cloud. Just after we began riding again, the recreational cyclist (by that I mean non-tourist biker) shot out of a driveway to our left, then pulled in next to us. "Hello! Where you guys from?"Dad told him our story, finishing by asking, "Do you know anywhere to camp around St. Cloud?"
"Well, sure!" The rider exclaimed, "My house! Oh, I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Larry."
"Chip and Seth." Dad replied, "And thanks a lot for letting us stay with you. Your sure it's all right?"
"Oh, yeah, definitely. But we have to make a stop on the way home. I promised to show these two ladies a clump of lady slippers, the Minnesota state flower. It's very rare, so it's kind of a big deal to us." Soon we pulled into a small driveway, and Larry had ran into the street, flagging down a maroon Buick, "Virginia!" he called to the driver.
The Buick pulled off the rode, and two short old ladies climbed out, and began to walk over to us. Larry smiled and waved to them, "It's easy to remember these two's names." He assured us, "They're both Virginia." Larry helped the Virginia's over next to the flowers and motioned us over. We all oohed and ahhed; the flowers were pretty spectacular. Then the Virginias piled back into their car and drove away while Larry got back on his bike and led us to his house. On the way, he told us that both he and his wife are Lutheran ministers, but at different churches.
Larry's house sat right on the Mississippi River, so the first thing we did after unloading our bikes was go for a swim. What an amazing thing to get to do! I mean, the Mississippi River is really central to the American psyche, and we not only saw it, but got to swim in it! Dad said the whole time I had an enormous smile printed on my face.
We had an early dinner because Larry's wife, Elizabeth had an evening sermon to preach, and his son, Nate, had a ball game to umpire. Both left, and dad and I sat on the porch with Larry, discussing our ride. As we sat, the sky became steadily darker, until finally we decided it would be best to retreat inside. Dad grabbed the plates, Larry covered up the barbecue, and I collected the napkins; just as we stepped inside the door, the clouds broke open. The storm we saw made us glad Larry had taken us in: the wind howled, blowing the raindrops horizontal, and the rain fell so thick that we could barely see the Mississippi 10 feet away. Luckily, the fowl weather passed quickly, and when the sun came out, a beautiful rainbow arched over the lake.
Days 27, 28
JULY 5 Fargo ND to Pelican Rapids MN
We left late the morning in Fargo, after a beautiful breakfast of 2 dozen eggs, scrambled with cheese and asparagus (dad ate my asparagus for me), orange juice, tea, toast, and water melon. As we packed up our bags in the garage, the Grays hovered around us, advising us on the best routes and snapping action shots of us strapping on our bags. Finally, around 9:00, we had to once again head out onto the road.
The ride through Fargo was pleasant, along well shaded, tree-lined streets (I hadn't realized how much I had missed trees until I saw them again!). We crossed a short concrete bridge, with a toll booth at the end. Dave stopped at the window, "Cyclists enter for free, correct?" he said, peering over his sun glasses as he tends to do. The girl behind the counter nodded. "Excelent! That's what we like to hear." Passing the toll booth, we entered into Minnesota without fanfare.
A wall of humidity struck us almost immediatly after we crossed the boarder; the temperature itself didn't rise any, but it took on a sticky, probing feeling that has been with us ever since. I think I prefer the dry heat. A few blocks past the crossing, we all stopped at a Holiday Gas Station for a bathroom and snack break. Dad and I got snickers bars, and apples that tasted more like cardboard than anything else. The Wisconsin Crew came away with handfuls of giant gas-station cookies. Just as I walked out of the bathroom, I saw Bill disappearing into the women's side. "That was perfect timing!" Pat laughed, "He had just given up waiting for you when you opened the door!"
That gas station was also where we parted ways with the Wisconsin Crew after having ridden with them for 18 days (in truth, it felt like much longer; in those 18 days, it sort of felt like we had become one big group, a road family, as opposed to two separate entities with separate goals.) "Y'know, you could ride with us for another day..." Pat suggested, shrugging, "we're only planning on going 60 or so today..." Tempted as we were, dad and I had to decline; they were on a faster schedule than us, and we needed a chance to set our own pace. Dad and I found ourselves saying an anticlimactic goodbye, and discovering for the first time on the trip that we were truly by ourselves.
After our goodbyes, we rode a difficult 20 miles through side- to occasional head-winds. During those 20 miles, the scenery began to change: the wild flowers began to disappear, corn fields replaced wheat fields, lakes began to become more common, and trees finally began to return to the landscape. Despite the wind, my mood improved drastically with the return of trees.
Arriving in the town of Hawley around 11, dad and I instantly spotted the Dairy Queen, "Wanna stop here or wait for the next town?" he asked me. I dithered for a few seconds, breaking one of the cardinal rule of touring: NEVER pass up a DQ. Before I answered, Bob and Barb rolled out of the grocery store parking lot. "Hey!" dad shouted and we rode over. Turns out, we never made it to Dairy Queen.
"Hello," Barb called back, "You should check out that store over there, great selection of food for lunch." She paused, and we both nodded. "I visited the cathedral today and lit candles for all the cyclists we've met so far. I did everything right... I don't know why we're getting this awful wind!"
"Did you light a candle for good wind?" Dad asked.
"Well, no..."
"There you go!" he said matter-of-factly, eliciting a round of laughter.
Barb and Bob headed on, while dad and I stopped for lunch, sheltering behind a wall of trees for protection from the winds. We knew that after lunch we would have to face the winds quite literally head-on over an 8 mile stretch heading directly due south. The ride into the wind took us about an hour (traveling at just about 8 mph, if that even needs to be said). Dad and I took turns pulling out front while the other drafted behind. At one point as I was pulling, I started to whistle 'Mellow Yellow.' And then I couldn't help laughing at the craziness of it all: riding my bike at 8 miles per hour, into a head wind, on a back road in Minnesota, whistling a 60s song to distract me from the pain in my legs. What the hell was I doing out there? Why wasn't I back home, curled up with a good Star Wars book? And why was I asctually enjoying myself?
After 8 miles, we turned out of the wind (now it was only a side-wind), and were met right away by an uphill. Our pace hardly changed. That was when my brain clicked into survival-mode, focusing on everything and anything but what was going on around me. The miles certainly didn't fly by, but at least I wasn't thinking about them anymore. In the town of Cormorant, we stopped for a snack... soda and candy. "I'm starting to think David was right." Dad said, refering to my swim coach, David, "Our diets are going downhill fast. He predicted we'd be eating soda and twinkies. I told him we'd be healthier than that, but..."
In Pelican Rapids, we met up again with Barb and Bob, who had decided to stay in a hotel because of the forboding black clouds on the horizon; dad and I decided to brave staying in the city park. The park actually turned out to be quite nice, with lots of trees overlooking a river. The sign on the bathroom door, however, was worrisome: "In case of tornados, take shelter in the bath house." Noting the clouds that had scared away Bob and Barb, we hurried to set up our tents before the rain came.As we made dinner that night, two more riders entered camp and rode right up to us. "Hello, I'm Graham." One said, sticking out his hand; he hadn't even climbed off his bike or taken off his helmet.
"Seth." I introduced myself.
"And this is my friend James." Graham said, gesturing to the second biker, standing a few yards behind him. Both looked pretty young, in their mid 20s, and James had a couple of tattoos and piercings (including one in his nose, like a bull). They left to take showers, while we ate our dinner. Afterwards, we still had a decent amount of spaghetti left in the pot.
"Why don't you go offer it to them." dad suggested. I hesistated nervously, but decided to go for it.
"We had some extra pasta," I said, walking over, "We made WAY too much. Do you want the rest."
"Sure. Your sure your done with it?" I nodded, "Thanks!" they eagerly scooped the spaghetti into one of their own pans.
Just before we went to bed, and old man and his grandaughter came by with a plate of cupcakes, "Want some cupcakes?" he handed one to both dad and I, "My granddaugher wanted to make cupcakes, but it the box made 24, so we decided to give away some to the rest of the campground." Dad and I both thanked him, then polished off our snacks. It's things like this that make me want to keep going.
JULY 6 Pelican Rapids to Parkers Prairie MN
Our first morning on our own in a long while... we got on the road before Graham or James even woke up; they were both still curled up in their bivysacks, sound asleep. A couple of miles in, dad glanced down at his chain ring, "Hmmm, my bike is making an odd sound." he said distractedly, I glanced over at his bike to see if I noticed anything, and when I glanced back at the road, my bike was headed for soft gravel and a grassy ditch. My first instinct was to jerk back on the handle bars and pray that I remained upright, but I fought this down and kept riding in a straight line; that's probably what saved me any new scabs. My bike went off the road, through the gravel, and into the ditch, all with me still on the seat. From the ditch, I maneuvered my bike back up the side and onto the road, to dad's unbelieving stare, "Nice job." he congradulated me, "I was pretty sure you would try to stay on the road; then you'd of been toast!" I smiled proudly and kept on riding.
Mile 1834, in the town of Battle Lake Minnesota, a landmark more important even than our first DQ of the trip: our first bakery. Dad spotted the little building, and with an "ooh!", he steered his bicycle into the parking lot. I followed his lead. Before the trip, we had planned to doing our best to find bakeries in every little town we passed; turned out, North Dakota isn't known for its bakeries. Inside, we both ordered a cinnamon roll and orange juice, then took them outside to eat them on the porch. As we ate, an older couple walked by, "Looks like your on quite the adventure!" The woman said, gesturing over her shoulder towards our bikes.
"All the way across the country."
"Wow... I've always wanted to do that. I told myself that I'd do that when I'm 60... that's in three years. But I don't know if I ever really will..."
"If you want to, you will." Dad reassured her, "I'm sure you could do it."
The woman smiled, "Well, thank you. Good luck on your ride!" then her and her husband crossed the street and disappeared into a little store.
On the road again, dad and I enjoyed the general lack of winds for a couple of miles. Then, in the distance, we spotted another loaded down bike tourer, coming our direction. We swerved over to his side of the road, and waited for him to stop. We talked to him for a few minutes, then an older man on a recumbant rolled up as well. Together, they introduced themselves as Mike (on the recumbant) and Yoni. They had traveled from their home in New York, and were headed out west along the Adventure Cycle route... mostly; they're ultimate goal is Eugene, OR. We offered our house for them to stay at if they ever passed by Canby, and then we also traded blogs. "Bikingforallergies... so you're doing this for a cause, then." Mike said, reading my blog site, "I always hated it when people with allergies came into my restaurant. I just wanted to tell them to go eat somewhere else!" "You worked in a restaurant?" I asked.
"Yeah, I was the head chef."
"What kind of restaurant?" Dad asked.
"A snooty French one." Mike replied.
"It sounds like we should be riding with them!" I said to dad, "We'd be eating a lot better than we are now."
"Only if you like Raemen noodles." Mike pronounced the 'a' when he said it. That's what we've been eating a lot of. Our crowning achievment was Raemen noodles with sardines." On second though, maybe I'll pass on the "snooty French" cooking; sardines don't quite do it for me. Later I asked Mike if he was related to Yoni. "Ahh, no. He's a friend of my son's. My son wouldn't go with me; he said he couldn't put up with me for that long. I'm not that bad!" Just one more reminder as to how lucky dad and I are that we both are willing to spend 10 weeks, almost round the clock, with each other on such a great adventure. I guess some families don't get along quite as well.
"May the wind be at your back!" I called as we wished Mike and Yoni farewell.
"Seth, no!" dad corrected me, "If the wind's at their back, it's a head wind for us!"
"How about a side-wind all around, then." Yoni said, laughing.
The campsite at Parker's Prairie left a lot to be desired: there was very little running water, meaning pit toilets and no shower, and our neighbors were a rowdy extended family, celebrating Fourth of July weekend up to the last minute. Periodically, a firework would exploded, followed by cheers from the revelers. We set up our camp as far from them as possible, and hoped that come bed time, we'd be too tired to notice the noise. In town, we ran into Graham and James (who Barb and Bob have nick-named the 'bivysack boys') while picking up groceries. They planned to push on to Long Prairie that evening, an extra 30 miles. "We just came from the pool!" James told us, "They let cross country cyclists swim for free!" That sounded too good to pass up, so dad and I headed over to the pool, and swam for a grand total of 5 minutes (I thinking we took more time in the locker room showers). Still, we came out feeling moderately refreshed and ready to eat.
Back at camp, we ran into Bob and Barb, who were also staying there, although Barb was none too happy about it, "We should have pushed on today; I knew I should have pushed on today. We could have made it to Long Prairie, it only would have been 100 miles." she said to dad, "But them, probably would have had a mutiny on my hands." Bob's feet have a tendency to begin hurting while on his bike, meaning he has trouble going really far or really fast. (He's actually discovered that the best way to alleviate the pain is to wear his Keens Sandles when he rides instead of his regular bike shoes... whatever works!) "Oh, I also talked to a priest today." Barb said, "I asked him why we had such terrible winds yesterday after I lit the candles! 'Well,' he said to me, 'God wants you to go straight to heaven when you die, so he's giving you some of your purgatory now.' you have to admit, that's a pretty good response!" After talking to Barb, we prepared dinner, and then I crashed, likely because of the heat: I was in my tent and asleep by 8:00.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Days 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26 The Great Plains Part 2: North Dakota
JUNE 29 Culbertson MT to Williston NDThis was the shortest day of the trip so far, at 43 miles. It was also our second day of eating out for breakfast. we stopped into a little truck stop before hitting the road. The riding went fairly easily over some mildly rolling hills (yes, there are hills in the Great Plains!) and we passed into North Dakota around 10 in the morning... well, actually around 11 in the morning because at the boarder we switched over from Mountain Time to Central Time. The last miles into Williston seemed the longest, a problem dad and I call Last "Ten Mile Syndrome": without fail, every day, short or long, headwind or tailwind, hilly or flat, the last ten miles seem to drag on for ever; they're always the hardest miles of the day because the end is in sight.
Our first stop in Williston was the local Dairy Queen. After our lunch of ice cream, we headed off to find the city park to camp in, following instructions given us by the server at DQ. Just shy of the park, we ran into Michael who had ridden to Williston at his own speed, taking it easy in hops that his knee would get better. The three of us rode into the park together. Just as Michael unclipped his shoe and started to put his foot down, a couple hundred mosuitoes materialized around him. "I'm getting a motel." he bit out, then put his foot back onto the pedal and rode away. Dad and I looked at each other, then followed him, batting away mosquitos as we went.
The first motel we tried, the El Rancho, had no vacancies. We were astounded. What were so many people doing in a small town of 12,000 in North Dakota? The next motel we tried, Super 8, had only 2 rooms left. Despite the fact that they were on the 3rd floor, meaning we would have to lug our bikes and bags up 3 flights of stairs, we jumped at what were probably the only two rooms available in town. While normally this Super 8 might've seem like a rather low-end motel, for a bike tourer it was paradise: beds with real pillows and (mostly) clean sheets, air conditioning, a real shower that didn't require quarters every couple of minutes, and the best part, a continental breakfast for the next morning.
Dad and I took extra long showers, then shoved all of our dirty clothes into a pillow case and headed down to the laundromat. In the laundromat, dad talked to a young, heavy-set woman about riding through Michigan, "Oh, there're great fruit stands there," she said, "My husband visited there once and he still talks about the peach he ate, 'best peach ever.'" Dad and I smiled eagerly, imagining our arrival in Michigan late in July to find hundreds of tasty little fruit stands dotting the road. After cleaning up, we went out to dinner at Applebees with Michael, then returned to the hotel. Just as we were getting ready for bed, Michael called, "Dave Henneghan just called. He says be in the lobby in a couple of minutes for a special treat." (Dave, Bill, and Pat were staying with Leroy, a graduate from the Naval Academy like Bill).
All of us trooped down to the lobby and Pat, Bill, Dave, and Leroy walked in, carrying a paper plate covered in tin foil. Inside were what tasted like peanut butter rice krispi treats frosted with chocolate. According to Leroy, they're sort of a local treat. Pat, Bill, and Dave had also come by to discuss some possible course changes, "You see," Bill said pointing at the map, "The Adventure Cycle route goes way down here, then back up to Minot and Rugby, then all the way back down to Fargo. I talked to Leroy, and he said there's another road that cuts out Minot and Rugby that will take us right into Fargo. But you can't give me a hard time if my short cut turns out bad." He grinned at the last part.
"Would you give us crap if we had a bad short cut?" Dad asked
"Hell yes." Bill laughed
"Well, then..." dad left it hanging and grinned.
JUNE 30 Williston to Newtown ND
That morning in Williston, we took full advantage of the Super 8's continental breakfast: doughnuts, waffles, cereal, orange juice, apple juice, milk; our only complaint was the lack of any fruit (we'd planned to eat some with breakfast, but also to take a few apples and bananas with us for the road... no such luck.) Michael planned to stay in Williston for the day to give his body a chance to recover, so we said our good byes (after having ridden with him for over 3 weeks) and then headed out on the road.
The ride out of Williston was easily the hardest ride of the entire trip: worse than any pass in Washington or any century in Montana. The core reason to the days difficulty was that dad and I had bought into the myth that North Dakota is flat as a pancake. We expected an easy 70 miles over flats, maybe battling a minor wind, but nothing serious. As I said, flat is a myth. All day, the road rolled up and down next to the Missouri River, dropping down to cross some little creek before steeply climbing up the other side. At first, this wasn't to bad; in fact, it felt sort of good to have some decent sized hills to climb after the relative flatness of Montana (not that Montana is pancake flat either). However, as the day wore on, the temperature rose into the 90s, and the road turned so we were riding directly into the wind, our moods soured considerably. Worse, when we were still about 15 miles out, Newtown appeared ahead of us, across a bend in the river. "Last Ten Mile Syndrome" set in early. By the time we reached Newtown, both of us were about ready to throw our bikes down, stick out our thumbs, and hitch-hike to the nearest Amtrack home. At the Supervalu store in New Town, dad picked up a powerade, and I grabbed a quart of chocolate milk, my new second favorite recover drink, after strawberry milkshakes.
After our brief rest, I set off to find the library while dad went in search of a camp spot. A few blocks down the road, I was unsure where the library was, so I stopped to ask someone. "Oh, it's right here." she said, looking up from the bed of flowers she was watering, "It's closed right now, but I can let you in." She let me in, and I soon settled down in front of a monitor and began to write. Over and hour later, a heavy set woman with tattoos on her arms (this is the standard look for many North Dakotans, we discovered) came in to shoo me off.
"I have to lock up now. You need to get off."
"Doesn't the library open at 5:00." I said, having seen the sign, "It's 4:40 right now..."
"I know that, but I have to lock up when I leave, and I'm leaving now."
Sighing, I rose from my chair. "Thank you for letting me use the computers." I said, then hurried to leave.
The camp we were staying in was rather scuzzy; it just had a run down feel to it. But the showers were warm and functional, and despite the grime, I didn't contract any fatal disease from using them. The heat that night was oppressive, and after the long day, I found it debilitating. As I crawled into my tent, Steve and Michael showed up at camp! "There was no room left in Williston!" Steve called, "We had to press on. After forty miles, we stopped and Michael hitched the rest of the way in. Hell of a ride!" They went about setting up camp and preparing dinner while I brushed my teeth (a rather rare occurrence on the road), read Crime and Punishment, and went to bed.
JULY 1 Newtown to Fort Stevenson ND
Leaving Newtown wasn't nearly as torturous as getting there had been. We had planned on leaving early, but I slept through my watch alarm set for 4:45 and didn't wake up until 6:00. Needless to say, Steve, always the early rise, gave us a bad time about this fact. Nothing exceptional happened during the ride to Fort Stevenson barring a mail stop at the tiny town of Ryder to send home our cold weather clothes. (I also sent home The Illiad, my other summer reading assignment besides Crime and Punishment, this one courtesy of Mr. Bangs. I decided I'll be lucky to plow my way through one of them, let alone two).
The truly exceptional part of the day was Fort Stevenson State Park, where we camped for the night. The entrance road was lined with hardwoods, giving the place the feel of a plantation or military establishment (hmmm, maybe the name Fort Stevenson isn't just a coincidence.) Our camp spot was surrounded by trees, providing ample shade, and overlooking Lake Sakakawea, a dam lake on the Missouri River. This was easily our most beautiful campsite since Colonial Creek Campground in Washington, and this one had the added benefit of having free showers (colonial creek had no running water).
This was our first day off of the Adventure Cycling maps, following Bill's alternative route to Fargo. That morning was the last time we've seen Michael or Steve on the trip (although we keep in contact with phones) because they chose to stick to the actual route and head up to Minot for a couple of rest days so Michael could finally get his chance to recover.
JULY 2 Fort Stevenson to Goodrich ND
Day four in North Dakota was much like many other days riding in the plains, except that we decided to ride with Pat, Bill, and Dave all day, because camping up the road (now that we were off of the Adventure Cycle route) was unsure, and we thought we stood a better chance together than alone. As we rode, I made it my mission to get to know Bill and Dave a little better. I started out talking to Bill about being a physics teacher, and before long the conversation wandered over to Bill's time in the navy. Before long, I learned that he had actually been the captain of a ship, an LST Landing Tank, in Japan. "Did your ship get a name?" I asked.
"Yes, the San Bernardino." Bill replied.
"A city in California?" I guessed.
"Actually, it's named for the biggest county in all of America."
"So, are there naming conventions?"
"Well, there used to be." he said slowly, "All LSTs were named for counties, all submarines were named for fish or sealife, all the carriers for famous battles...."
"Like the Yorktown?" I supplied.
"Yes, like the Yorktown, or the Saratoga. There was also the Bonnie Rischard." He ran off the names slowly, trying to remember them.
"Wait, the Bonnie Rischard?" That wasn't the name of any battle I'd ever heard of.
"It's French." Bill explained, "Bonnie for happy, Rischard for King Richard. It was named after a ship John Paul Jones had when he attacked the much bigger British ship, the Sarapiss, and uttered the famous line-"
" 'I have not yet begun to fight!' " we both said together. He paused for a second, "I guess I could sort of understand getting a degree in humanities if it was about history." he said eventually, sounding as though he felt he were betraying physics, "Just don't go get a degree in literature! That's totally useless."
After my conversation with Bill, I drifted back to talk with Dave for a while. Our discussion soon turned to economic policy. Our views disagree, but I'll leave it at that to avoid stepping on any toes. For the most part, I asked questions about his views, because in truth, I know very little about economics.
After lunch, my mood took a turn for the worse, largely because of a brutal side-wind and a nasty side ache (I convinced myself that my appendix had ruptured and that at any moment I would fall from my bike and die, lying on the hot pavement in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota.) Eventually, dad dropped back to ride with me, and taking it slow, my side ache started to go away. When I confided in dad my notion of a ruptured appendix, he did his best to calm my fears, "Oh, don't worry. Dave's a doctor, and we could sterilize my pocket knife above the camp stove. You'd be fine." He grinned at the obvious unease on my face.
We stopped for the night in the town of Goodrich, population 160 and shrinking because about 70% of the population is over 70 years old (statistics courtesy of Butch, one of the minority at only 60 years old). Rolling into camp, we saw Bill ambling out of the showers, "Better than sex." he sighed, drying off his hair.
"Liar." Dave said, never looking up from the bag he was rummaging through. Since we were the only ones in the park, I wound up taking my shower in the girls bathroom, since dad was using the guys side. The whole time, I was on edge, worried I'd be walked in on; that would have been mortifying. After the shower, I cooked dinner, while everyone else went off in search of beer. Bill and Pat came back after a short while, disgusted by the towns lack of stores. Ten minutes later, dad and Dave returned, triumphantly carrying 6 Bud Lites. Bill grunted disgustedly, but still took one. "I know, it doesn't really count as Beer." Dave said, "But it's the best we could do. we started talking to one of the guys out watering his garden, and before we knew it, he had invited us inside. His name is Butch" (Butch is in the picture above, between dad and Dave).
"Downstairs it was like a shrine to the New York Yankees." Dad said, taking up the story, "He also has a giant pantry, stalked up with all sorts of food because the nearest real store is 70 miles away. We told him we were looking for beer, and this is what he gave us."
"Downstairs it was like a shrine to the New York Yankees." Dad said, taking up the story, "He also has a giant pantry, stalked up with all sorts of food because the nearest real store is 70 miles away. We told him we were looking for beer, and this is what he gave us."
"It might be better than nothing." Bill said, taking a drink.
JULY 3 Goodrich to Cooperstown ND
Again, another long day on the prairies. As Bill predicted, "The wind's coming from the South. A front's moving in." I never really noticed a 'front'. Still, he has an uncanny knack for predicting the direction of the wind; probably comes from being in the navy. Luckily, the wind had a slight bent to it, carrying us along all day.
That afternoon, when it was just dad and I riding together, we passed a beautiful, abandoned Lutheran Church, built in 1919 (there are tons of Lutheran Churches out here, you can barely go a mile without seeing one; I think it's because a majority of the original immigrants to this part of the country were Scandinavian, who are traditionally Lutheran.) Dad and I stopped to take pictures and read some of the names in the cemetery. As we stood in the midst of all the graves, up drove a silver car and out climbed two middle-aged ladies with curly blond hair. Dad and I began to head back to our bikes as they took pictures of the church, and as we passed we decided to stop and talk for a second. "Beautiful church, isn't it?" Dad said."Yes, definitely." one woman said, "Our grandparents used to go here. What I'd give to get inside."
"Oh, wouldn't that be cool." dad agreed.
"Yes. We're looking for our grandparents graves. No one in our family knows where they are. We even have an aunt who washed my grandma's body and sat with it for three days, but no one remembers where they're buried. We hope we'll find them here." We wished them luck in their hunt for their wayward grandparents, then climbed back on our bikes and rode off.
In Cooperstown, we met three new cyclists setting up their tents in the city park. We said hello, but soon rode away to set up camp by Pat, Bill , and Dave. After everyone had showered, we headed off to dinner. There were two options in 'downtown' Cooperstown: the Coachman Steakhouse, which was highly attractive to the Wisconsin Crew (Bill and Dave especially) because it offered a good selection of beer. The other option, the Pizza Ranch, while it didn't have beer, had an even stronger attraction: while Bill and Dave checked out the Coachman, a short man with white hair came over to us. When he talked, he displayed all of his upper teeth, "Y'know, you should eat here. An all ye kin eat buffet. I made it thru two plates. An' big sodas. Ya go ta the other place, ya only git what what ya order on your plate." He told us this at least three times, but our minds were made up after the first: an all you can eat buffet is like heaven on earth for a bicycle tourist. I ate until my stomach ached and bulged before I felt content.
JULY 4 Cooperstown to Fargo ND
During the ride out from Cooperstown, I got to know the three rider we had met at the park the day before, Bob and Barb (picture left) from Grayling, MI, and Jay (pictured below) from NC. Jay is a 67 year old who spent 20+ years in the marine corps. in 1976, he read an article about biking across the country, and wanted to do it until 2001, when he complete Adventure Cycle's Trans-America route from Oregon to Virginia. I'm amazed that he was able to wait 25 years before realizing his dream;I was getting antsy and eager after only two. This year, he decided to cross the country again, this time on the Northern Tier with his friend Jim. Everything went well until June 24th, in Eastern Montana. Jay got an early start, riding into a rainstorm, and expected Jim to catch up with him later. When Jim never showed up, he assumed they got separated in the rain. Jay arrived at his campground, he was accosted by a sheriff. Jim had died of a massive heart attack back at the last campground. He never even started riding that day.
"You're four years older...doesn't what happened to Jim make you a little worried?" I asked when he had finished telling me his story.
"No." Jay replied evenly, "I know my body. I know what I can handle. What I don't know is how many heart beats I have left. You can't know that." I thought that was a very good way to look at life.
At one point during the ride, I glanced in my mirror to see a car patiently waiting behind me. I quickly pulled in and waved apologetically to the driver (I later learned he'd sat back there for at least ten seconds.) Minutes later, dad rode up next to me, "Use your mirror or stay to the side of the road!" he scolded sharply. For some reason (probably a mixture of deep fatigue due to lack of a rest day, no trees, constant winds, and a high pace day in and day out) I became furious. I rocketed ahead at 16, 17, 18 miles per hour, ignoring the winds around me. Eventually, once I thought I had calmed down, I slacked off the pace a bit and let everyone else catch back up. Unfortunately, the anger wasn't quite out of my system, so dad and I soon fell to arguing. Luckily, a couple of miles along down the road I had calmed down, and we had both forgiven each other. I guess it was too much to hope for to make it all the way through the trip without bickering at all.
Our Fourth of July evening was pretty mundane. No fireworks. No parades. No parties. In truth, it was far better than that: we had a house to stay at. We stayed with the Grays (pictured left), whose son Beau is one of Pat's room mates at St. Olafs College. Beau, his brother Andrew, and his dad Brad were all rather quite, but his mom Cindy was very friendly and talkative. She was an amazing hostess, making sure we all had a place to sleep and enough to eat. At 10:30 that night, she walked up to me, "Were making smoothies with blueberries and strawberries. Whould you and your dad like one?""For tomorrow morning?" I asked, confused.
"No, right now." dad and I declined, being more than ready for bed, but someone must have taken her up on her offer, because before long we heard the whirr of the blender coming from the kitchen.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Days 17, 18, 19, 20 Great Plains Part 1: Eastern Montana
The Great Plains... a name that can be taken in a few sense. Plain, as in the traditional sense, a broad flat grassland; plane, as in a mathematical sense, a perfectly flat shape that stretches on for infinity; plain, as in plain, simple, boring, nothing to do, dull; or plane, as in "the winds were so strong the first three days in the plains that we flew along like and Air Plane". Okay, perhaps that's a lame pun, but I had to try.
The amazing tail-wind that blew us into East Glacier blew us out as well, carrying us into the Great Plains. I must admit, I had heard horror stories about the plains: stories about broad stretches of grass, both the color and shape of a piece of cardboard; stories about absolutely no trees, no water, and no people as far as the eye can see; stories about terrible head-winds that assault you whatever direction you try to cross the plains. I have to say right now, all of that is wrong. Perhaps it was the time of year, or the fact that we had a wonderful tail-wind, but my impression of the plains was quite different: the grass was green, covered in sheets of wild flowers, ponds appeared by the roadside, and the our route rolled up and down over gentle hills. There was even the occasional tree or bend in the road.
Since we traveled so quickly through the plains, and since I'm so many days behind, I'm going to try to be brief as a chronicle our adventures across this expanse. But then, as you have probably noticed, I'm not very good at being brief. So here goes with my best shot:
JUNE 25 East Glacier to Chester MT
The morning of June 25 was the last time we've seen Jerry, Greg, or Caroline. Greg and Caroline got out of camp first that morning because a raccoon got into their supplies and ate all of their breakfast food; Jerry was last out of camp that morning, as he took the time to entertain a small crowd of people from the RV park, all fascinated by his recumbent bicycle. All of them decided to ride a shorter day, while the rest of us pushed ahead.
The amazing tail-wind that blew us into East Glacier blew us out as well, carrying us into the Great Plains. I must admit, I had heard horror stories about the plains: stories about broad stretches of grass, both the color and shape of a piece of cardboard; stories about absolutely no trees, no water, and no people as far as the eye can see; stories about terrible head-winds that assault you whatever direction you try to cross the plains. I have to say right now, all of that is wrong. Perhaps it was the time of year, or the fact that we had a wonderful tail-wind, but my impression of the plains was quite different: the grass was green, covered in sheets of wild flowers, ponds appeared by the roadside, and the our route rolled up and down over gentle hills. There was even the occasional tree or bend in the road.We stopped atop a small rise outside of town and looked back at the Rockies, still huge behind us. "How long do you think until they disappear?" I asked in a small voice.
"Ahh, I'd give it about 100 miles." Steve said. As we rode on, I watched the mountains shrink in my mirror, growing blue and fuzzy with distance. It only took about 50 miles for them to dip behind a small hill and vanish entirely. The plains had swallowed us.
Seventy miles in, at the town of Shelby (our intended end point for the day) we stopped for lunch, and decided the tail winds were too good to waste. That evening, we pushed on another 40 miles into the town of Chester (this is where we lost Jerry, Caroline, and Greg: they all decided to stay in Shelby for the night). The last forty miles pushed our total distance for the day over 100 miles, my first century ever! Even with the wind, I the last couple of miles were difficult, but I made it, and since then we've done at least 5 more centuries... I've stopped counting.
In Chester, I dropped off my bags at the city park, and immediately headed off to find the library. I pulled up in front of the little building at 4:58. The sign said that it closed at 5:00. Disappointed, I turned around and began to walk my bike away, when a short, skinny woman with curly hair walked out the door. "Are you looking to use a computer?"
"I was, but it looks like you're about to close."
"Oh, don't worry about it. I'll be here for a while and I try to never turn away cyclists." She led me inside and sat me down at a computer. This was the beginning of a trend of nice people on the great plains.
About 20 minutes later, I saw 2 more bikes pull up, and in walked a pair of very talkative girls in their mid-twenties. One looked at me and immediately said, "I know that look!" She too wore lycra shorts, a jersey, and had tan lines from her helmet and gloves. They had soon made friends with the librarians, who told them where to get a shower (at the city pool) and where to find some free cake ("There's a wedding going on at the Methodist church. I'm sure they won't notice if you slip in the bag and take a slice or two of cake.") I need to start talking to more of the locals!
We went out to dinner that night in a little bar/casino. As I walked in, Michael looked up at me, "If anyone asks you, Seth, you're 18." I must have looked at least that old, because when the waitress came by with a pitcher of beer, she brought me a glass along with everyone else. I chose to stick with lemonade.
The waitress there had a really good sense of humor. Steve, trying to be funny, asked her to blow on his chicken to cool it off. "Blow on your what?" She asked indignantly, "Oh, on your chicken. I most certainly won't blow on your chicken." She flashed him a smile as she trotted away. Later, she came out while Steve was in the bathroom to clear our plates, "Anyone here want any apple pie ala mode?" She asked. We all declined politely. "Well good, because I don't have any. I just wanted to sound official. If you do run down to the store for some pie, be sure to grab me a piece."
When Steve returned, Bill told him there was apple pie. "Oh boy!" Steve said excitedly, "And you didn't get any? I can't believe you turned that down! That sounds great!" He waited a second, "Uh-oh, maybe she's in there doing the bill right now!" He ran into the back room to place his order, and all of us erupted into laughter. "You rats!" he said when returned a few minutes later. Back at the campsite we met Jim and Peter, another father-son team crossing the country, and then we all went to bed pretty early.
JUNE 26 Chester to Harlem MT
The 26th was really just a typical day on the plains: we woke up early, rode about 100 miles until late in the afternoon, then set up camp and went out to dinner. The road was speckled with multiple 'plains towns' that all looked the same: first, a dark smudge would be visible on the horizon from miles away; as we rode closer, the smudge would resolve into a clump of trees, the only trees visible all around, with a giant silver water tower looming above them; closer still, and the stocky gray forms of the grain elevators would come into view. Most of these 'plains towns' had gravel roads, a small city park, and maybe a post office, a bar, or a convenience store. They also usually had a train that ran right through the middle of town. The trains in the great plains are long and frequent; almost every campspot we've stayed at has been within spitting distance of the tracks. The joke now is that we'll never be able to get to sleep again without the rumble of steam engines and the blare of their horns.
JUNE 27 Harlem to Glasgow MT
We had trouble lighting our stove to make breakfast because the winds were so strong on the 27th. Dad was amazed that I had slept soundly all night: apparently there had been people skate boarding, some shouting, and a tremendous wind that shook the tents; Steve actually got out and moved his tent out of the wind, it was so bad. We later found out that Pat was the only other person to sleep soundly all night. Another joy of being a teenager.
Luckily, the wind decided to stick with us all day, coming out of the west in huge gusts. We averaged over 15mph all day, which sounds slow, but is phenomenal for a loaded bike. Beside the wind, little remarkable happened on the 27th, barring two situations:
Luckily, the wind decided to stick with us all day, coming out of the west in huge gusts. We averaged over 15mph all day, which sounds slow, but is phenomenal for a loaded bike. Beside the wind, little remarkable happened on the 27th, barring two situations:
First, there was a 6 mile (accounts vary from 4 to 6 miles, but 6 sounds most impressive) stretch of road past the town of Dodson that was under construction. Our first warning signal was our least favorite sign: an orange diamond, with the words "pavement ends" stenciled on in black paint. For the next couple of miles, we road through a mixture of packed dirt and gravel, moving about in search of the smoothest section. The gravel was hardest on Jim and Peter whose wheels are the thinnest; we soon pulled ahead of them and didn't see them again until lunch (we had been riding with them before the gravel.)
Second, we found our first Dairy Queen of the trip, in the town of Malta, 1104 miles and 19 days from Anacortes. Pat, Bill, and Dave were already there when we got there, and as we were ordering, Michael and Steve showed up. "We thought we'd find you here!" Steve exclaimed. They didn't stay for ice cream, though, because they had already had a large second breakfast (mind, DQ was our second breakfast!)
The wind carried us 120 miles that day, the longest ride any of us but Dave had ever done solo; we even made it in by three, because the winds were so strong. We arrived at camp in Glasgow and told we could set up in a side yard, but we had to wait for it to be mowed first. A big Native American man wearing a ripped shirt showed up with the lawn mower, "So, where're you comin' from?" he asked to make conversation.
"Harlem." we told him.
"Harlem? And you survived? I'm native and I won't even go there!" He started mowing the lawn, shaking his head as he went about it (Harlem is a town on an Indian Reservation; all throughout Montana we were warned about staying in any town on a reservation, particularly Browning or Poplar; this was the first we'd heard about Harlem. Besides some pesky mosquitos, which drove us into our tents around 7, the town seemed pretty pleasant.) The man also gave us a recommendation for breakfast the next morning: Bergie's in Nashua, ten miles up the road. "They have pancakes there so big, I can't even finish one!" We laughed when he said this, all thinking the same thing: he's not riding 120 miles in a day!
JUNE 28 Glasgow to Culbertson MT
It was nice waking up that morning in Glasgow: we didn't have to boil water or wash bowls. We packed up our tents, nibbled on a poptart to tide us over, then hit the road, heading for Bergie's diner in Nashua. As we rode up to the diner, Pat stood waiting on the doorstep for us, "They have a biker breakfast!" he called, "it comes with two large pancakes, 3 eggs, 3 sausages, hash browns, orange juice, and coffee!"
We eagerly led us inside, where Dave greeted us next, "Yes, Bill and Pat took the challenge. They ordered the Biker's Trek Breakfast, and plan on eating two of the pancakes." one of the locals grinned at this, already knowing their fate, "myself, I'm not man enough." Michael, Dad, and I weren't man enough either, although the breakfast I ordered did include on pancake.
We soon learned that the Native American man wasn't exaggerating his story: the waitress came out carrying a small plate loaded with eggs and sausage in one hand, and a huge blue disk piled with two pancakes in the other, "Sorry, the next one won't come for a while; the biker's trek always takes a while to make."
"You mean that's only one?!" Bill asked, eyeing the pancakes that were easily as large as pizzas, a foot and a half across, and an inch thick each.
The waitress smirked and nodded, "That's why I was surprised that your table ordered two of them!" Five minutes later she returned with a second set of plates which she set in front of Pat. Together, Bill and Pat's meals covered the entire table, forcing Dave to find somewhere else to eat. Both Bill and Pat made valiant efforts to finish their meal, plowing first through the eggs, sausages, and hashbrowns, and then beginning on the pancakes. Half way through his pancakes, Pat went to the bathroom, perhaps hoping to generate some extra space for his meal. While he was away, Bill slipped most of one pancake to Michael.
Pat returned to find Bill's pancakes two-thirds gone, "You've eaten all that?" he asked, dismayed. Bill nodded, and Pat redoubled his efforts, determined not to be out eaten by a 59 year-old. Neither one finished their breakfast; with Michael's help, Bill ate about as much as Pat ate by himself, but both had at least half of a pancake left on their plates. It was only after Pat had stuffed himself nearly to the bursting that Bill revealed the secret to his eating. "Agghhhh..." Pat moaned, "You mean I didn't really have to eat all that?" They both didn't really eat again until dinner.
The weather was pretty nasty for riding that day: hot with a vicious side wind. The wind is what caused my first, and hopefully only, crash of the trip (well, perhaps that's just me making an excuse... the wind helped to cause my crash). The shoulders in Montana are mostly chip sealed, making them very bumpy, with long patches of rumble strips; I was riding along a narrow path of smooth pavement just next to the side of the road, when I was caught by a gust of wind. My bike was pushed into the gravel, leaving me to wobble for a second before crashing to earth. Luckily, besides some minor scrapes (the pictures are of the ones on my elbow and hip; there was another on my knee, but the picture didn't turn out well), the only things really hurt were my confidence and pride. Dad had a perfect I-told-you-so moment as well, "I'm glad you're okay, but now WILL YOU STAY OUT OF THE FREAKING GRAVEL!" He was shouting, but also smiling at the same time.
The rest of the day went poorly as the miles wore on and the winds tired us out. Michael was hit especially hard, because his knee was hurting again, and the endless hours in the saddle were wearing on his butt. When we stopped for lunch with Pat, Bill, and Dave, he decided to push on in hopes of making it into camp a little early. Riding and talking with Pat certainly made the last forty miles feel easier. Four miles from Culbertson, our destination, a pickup pulled to a stop next to us, "Anybody need a ride?" He asked, "There's a pretty nasty hill coming up on the way to Culbertson."
"No way!" Bill said indignantly, the military part of his life coming to the fore, "we've come 98 miles today. There's no way any of us are giving up now!"
"Actually," Dave interjected rather quietly, whose leg and back had been hurting for much of the ride. "I might want to take you up on that." He loaded his recumbent into the back of the truck, then climbed up next to the driver, "What was your name?" he asked.
"Jim Hellmer." He supplied.
"There you go." Dave said jokingly, looking back at us, "If I disappear, you know who to look for."
In the city park in Culbertson, where we were camping for the night, we met a new cyclist, Reverend Hans, a well tanned man, wearing a parti-colored jersey. He walked over to us when we arrived to introduce himself, "Hello. I can't believe thewe awe so many cyclists hewe. You'we the fiwst I've seen all twip." (If you can't tell by my writing, he lisped slightly when he spoke). The reverend was a most interesting man, who said he rode 16,000 miles a year for something he called "pedalling for prayers", and was on the road more than he was at home.
"What is is you do on the road?" I asked, "what's you're Pedalling for Prayers program?"
"Weh-ll, I do whatevew the Lord tells me... evangelize, disastew welief, pwreaching." On top of his lisp, he had a slight southern accent.
Later, dad started talking to the reverend, "So where're you from?"
"Geowgia." He replied.
"Ohh, Jimmy Carter country." Dad said
"Weh-ll, he li-eve jest a ways fwom my house. But lots of us don't like him much. He's expwessing sum vewy un-Amewrican opinons."
"Isn't that what being an American's about?" dad asked, "expressing opinions?"
The reverend stammered for a moment, "Weh-ll, he's sticking his nose whewe it doesn't belong. He's talking to the wrong people in the Middle East. He jest knows the New Testament. Only a New Testament guy. He doesn't know what he's doing in the Middle East 'cause he doesn't wead the Old Testament." the reverend made it all sound very final. Despite our minor political disagreements, I found the reverend a very friendly and kind, if rather eccentric person. Still, what he's doing is good, and he's doing it by bicycle... power to him!
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