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We rolled out into the bluffs of northern Wisconsin. We fought massive hills, then rolled happily and furiously down the other side. The heat of the day led me to lower my jersey's zipper in order to get some airflow. The airflow led my zipper to beat against my chest, and all of that led to a very small and very specific black and green bruise right at the crux of my sternum.
We spent the day skirting the river and paying attention as the accents shifted in the locals; their O's growing longer and longer by the mile.
I don't remember much aside from the constant up and down of the hills. We were passed by a group of strong older women. They reached the top of the hill, came back down, and passed us again. We stopped for pie at a pie shop in Prescott, WI; just shy of the state line.
There we were; 18 cyclists on the porch of an old-fashioned bakery. We ate pie and drank coffee and sang Aerosmith at the top of our lungs, much to the delight* of the people that had gathered for an afternoon respite.
* Chagrin, actually.
We finished up, rode forward another mile, crossed into Minnesota and then wound up unexpectedly on the interstate. The shoulder was rough and impossible, and the semi-truck behind was coming fast.
The horn on the thing was enough to move me around the road, but there was really nowhere else for me to go. There was real potential there for me to really and actually die. Spoiler Alert: I didn't, but I'm still not sure how.
We arrived at a small church in Cottage Grove, Minnesota. We stole showers at various homes, then rolled back to the church that would be our home for the night. My muscles were tired and worn and I sat in a bench with no illusion that I would ever move again. Then a ten-year-old showed up and asked if I wanted to play soccer.
It was time to move again.
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