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Several decades ago, before the advent of gigantic semi trucks and airborne shipping, railroads ruled the world. Trains canvassed the country delivering goods, news, and people. Tracks were laid throughout the nation, predominantly in the midwest.
The land adjacent to the tracks was considered virtually unusable; too loud, too stinky, too dangerous. So, when the urban sprawl attacked, the lands surrounding train tracks was left virtually unmolested. Ecosystems all over the country have been modified and destroyed, but even after the tracks were unused and abandoned, the biological profile remained unperturbed.
In 1986, the Rails to Trails organization began taking back this unused land, paving over the old tracks with biking trails, hiking trails, and cross country skiing trails. We spent the ride into La Crosse predominantly on these trails. It looked like the Shire.
It was a strange ride. We would coast along seemingly disconnected from anything industrial; coasting through the forest, cutting through hills and rock walls. Then, after several minutes we'd roll into the absolutely depressing sight of a long shutdown shipping depot, overgrown with weeds and coyote poop.*
* Yep.
The best part of the ride were the tunnels. Railroads weren't built for sharp turns and steep climbs, and so when railroaders had that to deal with, they just cut through the earth instead. For cyclists, this meant three unlit tunnels, the longest checking in at just over a mile long. From the center of the cavern, the only light visible was the the light we provided ourselves. We called them the Mines of Moria.
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We stopped later at a bike shop in some town called Elroy,* then rolled out again. This was probably a mistake.
* Yeah, like the kid from the Jetsons.
Within minutes it started to rain. Within a few more, it started to pour. My crew sought refuge under a bridge, leaving as soon as the storm slowed. Then it was time to roll out again. This was our second mistake.
Only a mile or two later, the winds turned and strengthened; the rains became enough to keep us off the trail. We rode off into the street and found a hospitable warehouse. We camped out in the loading dock and played euchre* on the dirty floor. It was way past time to worry about that.
* It was euchre and we were in Wisconsin. The game was as alien to the people as jai alai would have been. Thankfully, the rain stopped soon.
Thankfully, the rain stopped. We rolled out again, staying on the streets instead of the now muddy trail. This was our third mistake.
Somehow we wound up rolling along a surface highway in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Wikipedia tells me that La Crosse is home to 120,000 people;* and we met each and every one of those people while they were in their cars alongside. The roads were flooded, muddied, and dirty. The shoulders were unserviceable, and the rush hour traffic was impatient. In a matter of hours, the most beautiful day of our trip became the most harrowing. Cars splashed us spitefully, but we arrived at our destination safe and messy. We ate too much spaghetti and spent the next several hours repairing the damage that nature had dealt.
* When you roll through a town on a bicycle, it sure seems a lot smaller than it is. I would have never guessed.
We were to the Mississippi now, which meant we were further west than I'd ever been. It had been that way for a week now, and I could make the same claim every day for the next three weeks. I slept on a beanbag chair and I slept well.
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