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Bryan was a retired high school music teacher whose post-work life included a lot of cooking, reading, and church involvement. We woke up just a little bit before 6:00, which was only a shame because I could have slept in that bed until November. We dressed ourselves and moved upstairs and enjoyed the fruits of Bryan's restlessness - eggs, bacon, toast, juice, assorted jams.
He drove us over to his church so that we could sit in on a midweek Bible study. We enjoyed an hour with a dozen gruff Minnesota men who each stopped their own lives for a few moments to share themselves. They all agreed that we were nuts, and their second consensus was that we ought to hop a train across North Dakota because North Dakota sucks.* It's hard to say why I disagreed preemptively, but I was genuinely excited to get out there in a week or so.
* North Dakota sucks.
By this point, it was nearing eight, and the sun was yet to show itself. The clouds blanketed the sky completely, threatening a rain that would never materialize. Still, it was too cold to be comfortable, so again, we found a coffee shop for an hour or two.
Eventually the sun appeared to heat the earth and we rolled happily north toward Grand Rapids, Minnesota. It was only about 50 miles away; then we'd had a late start, and the next town north of Grand Rapids appeared to be in Canada. We were looking for a homeless shelter we'd heard about, thinking it would provide our lodging for the night.
Grand Rapids is situated right on US Highway 2, which just happens to be the road of choice for trans-continental cyclists. We saw a number of cyclists loaded down with the luxuries we'd given up, riding from places like Maryland to other places like Oregon. They carried things like pots and pans and air mattresses and fishing poles. They shaved on a regular basis and wore gel in their hair.
Unable to locate the homeless shelter, we were left to find another place to stay. We mulled over the possibility of sleeping in a dugout on a college campus, but decided it was probably too close to the road to make for comfortable arrangements. We wound up touring the town looking for a pocket of trees that could conceal us, only to discover that not only was the carnival coming to town in a couple days, the carnies had already arrived to prepare the thing. We would be sharing a sleeping space with the carnies.
Still, with time to kill, we rode our bikes back into town. We ate rodeo cheeseburgers at a Burger King and continued to delay our return to fairgrounds. Understandably, we were in no hurry to get back there. So we moved on to the River Swine Bar, a place that was actually probably called the Rivers Wine Bar. It was almost certainly the most exquisite restaurant in town, and there we were, a pair of sweaty, dirty, cylco-carnies; sitting at the bar, drinking beer that had been produced a month earlier in Michigan.
Our bartender was either interested in our trip or overly confused about it. I say this because she asked a lot of questions. So we sat, trying to explain why we do the things we do. Still, as the sun was setting, we began to realize that we needed to get back to the fairgrounds quickly. The carnies were waiting.
Then a remarkable thing happened. Kimbra the bartender offered her basement for our lodging. We could sleep on the couch and watch the Olympics and use blankets, and also she had a hot tub, and we could enjoy a soak. Furthermore, the beers were on her.
Sold.
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