RAGBRAI

RAGBRAI— I love this quintessentially Iowa biking tradition—it's a week of no work encased in physical exercise wrapped in togetherness inspired by common struggle. We went to Truro, Iowa to meet up with the bike route. This is a town that is so small the consolidated school is named Interstate 35—the most remarkable thing about the place is that there is something supported by federal funds in the area. We were thinking that we would ride about 6 miles to St. Charles. The wind and drizzle worried me. Later, I found out that 15 minutes earlier, my bicycle-inexperienced wife had prophetically written on Facebook that she was "off to ride 6 miles on a bike in the rain to get a feel for what RAGBRAI is like. My family towing my sorry butt up hill!" We left to find another place. As we drove, I looked at our map of for the day's route. It showed that the day’s ride with prevailing winds, going south, was also the steepest of the day. Maura was not happy. We pulled off I-35 to an overpass that the bikers were crossing.
As we tried to pull over to the side, the state trooper there motioned us to come forward with a smirk of disapproval on his face.
"I guess we are riding today?" he said through our window. He probably guessed after he saw the bikes on the bike rake fastened to the van. Smart guy.
"Yes."
"Are we registered riders?" he continued to use the royal We.
"Ah," Maura and I looked at each other. "No. We are just going to be riding for a bit. Where is the best place to park the car and leave it for a few hours?"
"Ho, ho, ho! Indianola (the destination for the day). Or Greenfield (the day’s origin). HA! Yes, back to Greenfield would be the best place because there would be no one there by now." Of course, we should go find a bike ride with 10,000 people and then go back to where they started so we could ride alone. Makes perfect sense.
"Oh, we just want to show our kids what it's like."
With a genuine sourpuss grin and attitude, the man continued, "Oh, you don't want your kids to see this. They are drinking and mooning people off the bridge. It's not pretty. But if you are set on getting on your bikes (subliminally, he added, "…and I'm sure you are”), you can go up near Martensdale, park on a side road and take your bikes a mile or so to the route." He said this with a finality that implied the conversation was over. We drove off.
"Thanks," I said.
"Jerk," said Maura.
Uncharacteristically, I was not ready to label the man so quickly, although I do think she summed up the situation perfectly. I was surprised that a state trooper from Iowa would have such a negative impression of the ride. I've never met anything worse than indifference when it came to RAGBRAI.
We drove on until we were near Martensdale. There were several turn offs and we found a tiny church next to the road. We pulled in and stopped. We dismounted and hopped on the bikes—Maura, Maxim, Oskar riding in a kid's bicycle wagon behind me. The weather was overcast and cool—about 65°. As we pulled away, it struck me that we had done almost exactly what Mr. Sourpuss had suggested.
The line of bikers was relentless. If we waited for a break long enough to enter freely, Oskar would be in high school. Maxim drove proudly ahead of us. We loved to hear the other riders shout encouragement. Throughout the entire day, we saw no younger kid—didn’t even see another one-speed bike. He was called ‘little dude’ 10 times, ‘tiger’ twice and ‘buddy’ by 500 people.
The first town on the map after Martensdale was Prole in only 2.8 miles. We had stopped to buy some pie and ice cream.

“How soon before the ice cream will be here?"
"I told me husband to bring that. He is so fired!"

"Hey, Maura. That was it. The town. We've past it." Near the road was a post office, Elvis impersonator, and beer sales.
The next town was 15.2 miles—all the way to the end at Indianola. Discussion. Ride a ways and then I would ride back for the car. But how would I find them? I certainly didn’t want to ride the bike route. Maura didn't want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with the boys. Actually there is NO nowhere when it comes to the RAGBRAI route. We’re never far from a pie stand, a pickup with water, or someone trying to make money to send the drill team to national competition. You’re always somewhere.
There was nothing to do but ride. Soon we saw a sign for lemonade in 7 miles. At the time, I thought, "Seven miles! Maura and Maxim will never be able to do that.” They were game, so we gave ourselves a goal. Over the next hour or so, I asked several times if there were okay and if they wanted to pack it in.

“We’re alright.”
Lemonade 6 miles. Lemonade 5 miles.

“Lemonade!” said Oskar. I’m sure he was getting a bit tired of sitting in the cart. He got out and pushed the cart for a bit. One guy rode by and told him that he was doing well and that he should give his dad to get some exercise.

Lemonade 4 miles.

More pie.

Lemonade 2 miles.

“Did you see the 3 mile sign?”
“No I didn’t. Did you, Maxim?”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Maybe I didn’t see it.”

This lemonade goal reminded me of last week when Maxim had ridden 6 miles to Linden. I told him that when we got there, we could stop for a snack. Unbeknownst to me though, Linden is just this side of a ghost town with a post office and a library the only shops. There were three kids riding around the town—no shoes on any of them, and one of them was completely naked.

At one point, the RAGBRAI route was crossed by a hard-top road about two-thirds of the way up a half-mile long hill—not a place where a biker wants to stop. A demonstration of RAGBRAI power as this Trooper was treating the bikers with utmost respect—on this day, the pedals were king. Fossil fuels took the back seat to self-propulsion. A long line of cars, trucks, vans, buses, and jeeps waited for the folks in the saddle. As bikers pushed hard, struggled, or zipped, the Trooper calmly put up one hand and the vehicles waited silently. With his finger, he demanded the drivers come close to the road—right next to the driving surface. When there was a brief opening, he demanded a gas guzzler to dart across--one at a time. As I drove away, I said, "You're doing an excellent job, officer."

We got to the lemonade about 2:00, right after someone had given us sun tan lotion, right after we needed sun tan lotion. It seemed to be a foregone conclusion that we would ride all the way to Indianola. Now there was a tailwind and it would be a breeze (literally). On the way, I stopped at a water slide made from plastic. I kept all my clothes on and slide 30 feet on the best slide I'd seen.

We energetically arrived in Indianola. I took the 9-mile road straight from Indianola to Martensdale, bypassing the 5 miles north and 5 miles south. I unhitched the cart and took off leaving the rest of the family to fiddle around the carnival-like atmosphere. I covered the 9 miles in about 30 minutes. I felt great. As I approached the van, I thought to look for my keys and I knew exactly that they were—in the bike cart back in Indianola.

As I road the 9 miles back to Indianola, I remembered going the other way, meeting a few people riding TOWARD me and thinking, “Boy! I’m glad I don’t have to ride back this way."
Now I was doing it. :(

I tell people proudly that Maxim rode 18 miles of RAGBRAI that day. Maura says indignantly that she also deserves praise because she had never ridden that far, either. I am super proud of both of them. The day could scarcely have been better because now both my kid and my wife have a grand impression of RAGBRAI and we will be ready to do more in the future.