Back to the Drawing Board: Bike Month

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Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Devil's Lake, ND

Last summer, I rode a bicycle from Chicago, IL to Devil's Lake, ND. Since I've never written about the adventure, and since it was a long December as far as temperatures went, I thought January might be a good time to talk about summer 2008. January is Bike Month at the Drawing Board.

The howling wind woke us earlier than we would have wanted, but there we were. We had to dismantle the tent immediately, as the thing would have blown to Canada without our combined body weight to hold it down.

We snacked on the remainder of our food, hoping desperately to find a town large enough to restock our virtually depleted supply. Devil's Lake loomed just about 80 miles away, a long ride considering the whipping wind, and Paul's further diminished health. If any day of our trip was going to kill us, it was this one.

We rolled out looking for food, and as Paul announced, a doctor. Our first sign of civilization was a town called Petersburg, which was disturbingly empty. Everything was closed down, shut down, and boarded up. A man gave us a heads-up on a doctor, miles away in a town caled Michigan.

We rode out again as we had so many times before, rolling west. The wind ravaged our bodies and bikes and made everything very difficult. Bridges posed a very real risk - we were literally in danger of being blown off of any one of them.

A man pulled off in a truck, delivering a warning. Storms and tornadoes were ahead; also chasing us from behind. We had an hour, maybe two, to get ourselves safe; and at the rate we were moving, Devil's Lake was another nine hours away. This was North Dakota.

We found Michigan and rolled into a town that was little more than a strip with a few buildings on it. One of these was a doctor's office. It had to be our first stop.

The place turned us away, saying they didn't have the technology to diagnose a sick person. This was not the best kind of news, but left us wondering what sorts of technology they had to treat a sick person could they have identified them.

Continuing to Devil's Lake at this rate was foolhardy; setting up camp in the tornadoes along the way would have been even moreso. I'm not sure how we got to this point, but hitch hiking quickly became our best option. We tooled over for a gas station breakfast and hoped for the best.

Jim was the kind of nice guy who liked to curse at cyclists who'd managed to get themselves into a mess like this. His advice: Get well and get the hell out of North Dakota. After a few more well-meaning barbs, we wound up at an emergency room in Devil's Lake, ND.

The doctor spent several hours with Paul, while I spent several hours with All My Children. The people at the hospital were extraordinarily kind, lending whatever aid they could. Eventually the diagnosis was extreme dehydration - Paul was in worse shape than either of us imagined. The doctor advised us to halt our journey as immediately as was possible. The hospital shuttled us over to a hotel in a van, just as soon as Paul had taken his sixth bag of IV fluid.

Paul decided that Chinese food sounded good. The check-in attendant at the hotel loaned us her car - another bit of unexpected kindness - so that we could get into town. The Chinese buffet was just about what you'd expect from a Chinese buffet in a town like this. It was gross, and it wasn't quite what the doctor would have ordered for my sick compatriot.

Our bike trip ended there as much of it had already been. We laid in a foreign bed and watched our nation lead the charge in another medal round in a place around the globe.

Within 36 hours I was home in South Bend; strangely tanned, oddly lean, and somehow different than I'd been before. My life became a new thing and an old thing altogether; soon enough I'd find employment and engagement and all of those other things.

Then, within a day or two, it was as if it hadn't happened. Only the memories and pictures, and even now; a few lingering tan lines remain.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Niagara, ND

Getting out of Grand Forks was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. Here was a large, sprawling city with beautiful greenways, theaters, hospitals, a university. Then we rode west for twenty minutes and it was all gone as if it had never existed. I've never experienced such a sharp line between the decivilization that was the townless parts of North Dakota - which was most of it.

We rode for a few hours before stopping for a quick lunch at an air force base somewhere in North Dakota. Suffice it to say, we didn't exactly fit with the regular clientele.

And so we rolled out again. North Dakota is the kind of state where you can celebrate individual trees. In Indiana, uncivilized land is farmed or forested or claimed - truthfully, none of it is reallt uncivilized. But in North Dakota, the roads cut through a kind of landscape that's remained untouched since Native Americans passed through a few hundred years ago.

It's in this context that the trees stand alone, fighting a losing battle against a furious wind.

And it's the same way that we rode west on US-2; alone in North Dakota, fighting a wind that was battering us violently from the south. I suppose we were cutoff from most of the news of the world, but I had heard something about a hurricane in Florida. I dismissed it, thinking that such a thing would hardly affect me while I was in a state like North Dakota.

I received news the day before that windy weather was ahead; a result of the hurricane. To quote a local, "There ain't a single tree between here and Florida to block that wind."

Beyond belief, that toothless man was right. We rode with a crosswind from the left that was as vicious a thing as I've experienced. I worried about literally blowing off of every bridge we traversed. We rolled along at 11 to 12 miles an hour, stopping briefly at a rest stop so Paul could nap. Meanwhile, I commiserated with motorists who had to stop to take a break from the wind. This kind of riding was not fun.

After 40 miles of this kind of slow torture, we settled on finding the first town we could and rolled into the town of Niagara, North Dakota.

People in North Dakota use the word town pretty liberally, we learned. It was the first sign of development we'd seen all day, and the place didn't have a gas station, a store, a restaurant. It also featured no paved roads. It did have a post office, which offered little in the way of assistance at 6:00 in the evening.

We spent the next hour looking for someone in the town that could offer some advice; perhaps a sandwich. Woefully, we discovered only a few dogs who looked angry to see us. We wandered, hoping for something that might be called dinner.

A local pastor was the first person to spot us, probably because we were trying to break into to his church. He introduced himself, explained that no, there was no food for miles, and offered us a frozen pizza for dinner. It went down easier than it was returned.

We set up camp under brutal wind conditions and prepared for bed. A five-year-old boy arrived, announced that he was hiding from his grandmother and proceeded to remove his pants so that he could show off his Spiderman underwear.* I'd heard about this kind of stuff. Fearing a sting operation from Dateline, we ran from the kid as if he was a movie monster, and when we returned, he was gone.

I don't think either of us knew it would be our last night in that tent.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Grand Forks, ND

We'd been riding bikes through Minnesota for 12 days now, and pretty soon we'd be leaving it all behind. The people here had been beyond friendly, offering their food, their homes, their hot tubs, their beer, and their companionship.

Still, there was a sense that we'd been in Minnesota too long; we'd had enough of the mosquitoes and the accents didn't sound so weird anymore. In fact, I'd started to pick one up myself.

We continued from Erskine along Highway 2, unperturbed by the anti-Christ, and rolling into an increasing wind. Paul was recovering slowly, but recovering. We moved modestly into Crookston, Minnesota and stopped for a coffee break at a small bookstore. We were out of there almost as quickly as we had arrived. We made a pit stop at a gas station and we fell further and further into the de-civilized world.

Then, like a Jack-in-box, the town of Grand Forks appeared. The metropolitan area is shared between Minnesota and North Dakota; their border celebrated unceremoniously by a bridge over the Red River. We rolled through the beautiful city and into North Dakota where we did the thing we did best. We found a coffee shop.

Quickly, one of the baristas offered up her own apartment for our showers. The place was huge and fully furnished and was reminiscent of a loft you might find in the suburbs of New York. I was left with one impression - baristas in Grand Forks, ND make an absolute truckload of money.

Of course, it's possible that baristas were paid so well because the place was absolutely haunted by a small girl who spoke at roughly 430 words a minute. She played chess with Paul and gave him other orders too. Finally she explained the inner workings of the coffee shop, told us where she lived, and exegeted the annals of Roman history. It was an exhausting process that I observed from a safe and hilarious distance.

Later, we found a bike shop on the other side of town, ate dinner at a Perkins,* and did the thing we do where we try to talk someone in to inviting us to their home for the night. It never happened.

* Perkins? Perkins? Seriously? A Perkins?

Paul was still on the upswing and so we decided another good night might be for him what he needed. Another night in a crappy hotel was absolutely called for and that meant there was a zero percent chance we'd be on the road before 11:30 the next morning. Also, I would be eating a dozen bagels for breakfast.

Erskine, MN

I want you to know that I just spent 40 minutes on Google Maps trying to figure out which town we stayed in next. This was the part of the trip that really just started to run together; days in nowhere began to blend together like oatmeal that's been cooked with too much water.

And yes, all of this is an attempt to finish off bike month in less than 60 days.

Good gravy, what is there to say about Erskine? Not much that I can tell, so let's start about 60 miles away. We left Bemidji as late as our hotel would allow check out. I spilled coffee on my very favorite shirt, threw the thing away, and like that, I was out of casual clothes that didn't zip up.

We rode west along US 2, through farmlands and small town USA. Each town gave us an opportunity to stop for a minute to pick up a drink and each town offered roughly the same amenities. We'd become all-too accustomed to lounging in the gas station the way we would a Starbucks; this was amplified when the place featured a Subway.

Our breaks are the only thing I can remember. The roads were flat and easy and the winds hadn't picked up the way they would in a few days. Our last stop came in the town of Erskine, MN. We searched desperately for a little bit of help. The churches were locked up and the town was too quiet to provide any assistance. We ate dinner at one of those places that aspires to be a crappy diner but falls woefully short. That's where things start to get interesting.

We were approached by a woman who had noticed our unique matching jerseys. Bright orange, they were emblazoned with the words BIKERS FOR JESUS, a leftover gift from our friends back home. Anyway, she saw the things and wanted to talk to us.

She told us her life story - how she'd come here from California. She told us of her struggles and her victories over drugs. But most of all, she told us that the town of Erskine was infested with demons. She told us that the town of Erskine was the home of the anti-Christ. She told us the story of a local pornographer who claimed to be the devil incarnate. He could control minds through the television. In fact, he would probably be coming for us; that night. Her advice was to ride out and to ride fast.

But we were tired and brave so we thre up our tent and hung our jerseys like flags in the wind. The night passed without incident. The devil was scared.

Bemidji, MN

Bemidji, Minnesota is perhaps most notable for being the fictitious home of legendary axe-man Paul Bunyan. It's also the home of the United States Curling Team, and a lovely downtown area that sits on the tamer parts of the Mississippi River.

I have no idea how we got into Bemidji, although I can guess our ride in was just boring enough that I can't remember it even a little bit. I believe we went to Target for a little bit, but that might be a fabrication. At some point we probably went to a laundromat, but I can neither confirm nor deny that.

We ate pasta and lounged on the river and made our way to a coffeeshop. I ate a muffin and drank coffee and enjoyed the free internet they offered. It was one of the greatest coffeeshops I've enjoyed, and that was before the owner of the place offered us a bed for the evening. She had a camper in her backyard and it had a TV and showers and everything and we were welcome to use it.

We spent the afternoon in bookstores and at pubs and finally we made our way back to the home. Our host was more than hospitable and handed us over to the camper. We made beds and switched on the Olympics and got ready to take showers. Paul hopped in first while I did everything in my power to not touch anything with my more stinky parts.*

* Which was basically all of me.

Then, it was my turn. I got in and I soaped myself up real good and that's about when the water ran out. In one of my more desparate moments, I completed the rinsing process with a few bottles of refrigerated Aquafina. Still, I was soon dry and warm, so no harm; no foul.

More alarming was the fact that there was no water running into the toilet. This would become an issue later.

I slept as soundly as I had in weeks. The same could not be said for Paul. I woke up to find that he had spent the night with GI problems; the worst second-hand illness I'd ever experienced. The kind lady delivered an exquisite breakfast of coffee, oatmeal, and peaches; oblivious to the destruction that Paul had earlier wrought. I hope she never asks herself where that wastebasket wound up, and I hope even more that she never finds it.

We left the place with boisterous thank-yous and silent apologies. We wouldn't be leaving Bemidji today. It was time for a rest.

Blackduck, MN

Even before we'd gone to bed on Thursday, we knew that Friday was going to be a rough day. Our map showed very little between Ranier and Bemidji, a city that was more than a hundred miles away. We knew we'd have to roll through Big Falls all over again, a corner of uncivilization I'd be happy to never ever see again. So we dreaded Friday, and that was before I woke up with a case of the Backside Blues.*

* Diarrhea.

We packed up our tent and wandered down to a restaurant called Grandma's Pantry for breakfast. Some of the more profane locals called by a similar sounding and far less appetizing name.* We ate wild rice pancakes that could have deliciously substituted as a footprint for our tent. We drank coffee. This amplified my GI problems. Then we rolled out.

* You're going to have to figure that out on your own.

We rolled back through International Falls, said goodbye to Smokey the Bear, and quickly found ourselves, once again, somewhere between a pair of nowheres. Along the way, I discovered proof of a loving God in a bottle of Pepto, and I took a nap on a picnic table in hell. By that I mean, I slept for an hour in Big Falls, Minnesota. We ate a lunch of peanut butter crackers. It was the best we could do.

We rode for the next six hours at a non-stop clip, stopping only for a mid-afternoon gas station snack. We had decided we were ready to be done for the night, and so we asked the gas station attendant where we might find a meal and quit. She recommended the town of Blackduck. They served pizza from the bowling alley and we could probably camp there too. Trouble was, Blackduck was still 25 miles away, but not to worry; she told us it was all downhill.

The gas station lady was a liar. We rode up and up and up, fighting each stroke; although the scenery was improving drastically. We skirted rich farmland on a firm shoulder, and everyone was feeling better about the day. We arrived as scheduled in Blackduck; which is to say we never had a schedule and neither did Blackduck, apparently.

We tracked down the first pedestrian we could find and enjoyed the following exchange.

ME: Is there any good place to eat in Blackduck?

HER: There's a little place right over there. I ate lunch there today.

ME: Is it any good?

HER: Depends who's cooking.

ME: Who's cooking?

HER: Well, there's no where else to go.

And so a one-armed chef, who may or may not have been the preferable purveyor, made us fried chicken while an overwhelmed waitress continuously refilled our shot glasses that were filled with water.

We moved from there to a bar, where we hoped to watch the Olympics. Instead, we were treated to a mediocre beer and a jukebox that was stuck on repeat, and of course, it was stuck on Discovery Channel* by the Bloodhound Gang. After the fifth iteration of the tune, we'd decided to vacate the place.

* "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals..."

That's when the bartender approached us carrying a cordless phone.

HIM: Phone call for you.

US: That seems unlikely.

HIM: Nope, it's for you.

US: That's actually impossible.

HIM: Are you the guys riding bikes from Canada to New Mexico?

US: Lucky guess.

Our interest was piqued and so Paul took the phone. Some dudes were camped out a softball diamond and wanted us to bring them beer. Even now it doesn't make much sense. Instead, we snuck into a mosquito-infested campground and left early the next morning without paying the required fee. In our defense, we weren't caught.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Ranier, MN

I am not nearly writer enough to describe the way our morning in Big Falls went. After just about two weeks of consistent riding, our muscles were taut and stiff like an old rubber band. We'd slept directly on top of the concrete while overnight temperatures dipped again into the 40s. Standing up again became less an action; more a process.

This was the part of the day when we stretched, dressed ourselves, stretched again, brushed teeth, and finally stretched before hauling into town for breakfast. I ate an omelette. Paul ate a cinnamon bun that was roughly the size of our tent.

We were kind of in a rough place in deciding our route for the day. We were 40 miles from International Falls*, which was supposed to function only as a turnaround point. Like a schoolyard race, we just had to touch Canada and come back. Trouble was, we'd have to come back through Big Falls. If we just rode to I-Falls and returned, we'd hit Big Falls at just about mile 80; we'd be done for the day, and we'd be stuck in this awful place for another night.

* It's worth mentioning that there were no falls here either. Minnesota is kind of a big liar when it comes to naming its settlements.

We rode north along low-travelled roads, intending not to stop until we hit civilization again, a thing that we'd missed far more than expected for the past 48 hours. There was a gas station that lived in a log cabin and a right turn and a few more cars and then there was a K-Mart. I'd never expected I would appreciate the glory of a K-Mart, but there I was. There were gas stations and trashy salons and Chinese buffets run by Mexican immigrants. After the previous night, it was like heaven.

We meandered into town and found a coffeeshop for lunch. We ate sandwiches and sipped coffee and agreed to spend the rest of our day doing very little. It was the prettiest day we'd seen all week. We fixed a flat tire and visited a bike shop. We spent a few hours at the library. We didn't nearly find ourselves a place to stay.

And so at about four-in-the-afternoon, we left. We weren't sure where we were going; still we left.

We rode east a few miles; north just a little bit too. After waiting on the longest train I'd ever seen, we stumbled into the tiny town of Ranier, Minnesota; four or five square blocks completely overwhelmed with people. There was music and there were tents and we must have looked like tourists because we were immediately greeted by a lady named Tara, who ran the town's bed-and-breakfast. She offered up her free showers and plenty of snacks.

As fate would have it, we arrived on the eve of the town's bicentennial celebration. They were celebrating with music from a Johnny Cash tribute artist, and a big party featuring free food. This is where we would spend our time tonight.

Tara offered up her yard for our tent, so we made camp and took tour of the town. We watched the sunset over Canada, I believe Paul got himself into a paddleboat, and we ate ice cream on a bench. Then we watched the Olympics at Woody's Pub before stumbling back into the tent for another night.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Big Falls, MN

Kimbra the Bartender had to be to work at the country club by 7:00 in the morning. That meant that we had to leave her home by 6:45. Again, this was a shame, as I'm fairly certain I could have slept until Inauguration Day. The morning temperatures were flirting with the 40s, and so we moved as quickly as we could into town to wait for warmth. Again, we found a coffeeshop and enjoyed the free internet they offered. I believe I ate a peach muffin.

We left town earlier than we'd been accustomed; definitely before 9:00. It was a big day to our destination, and there was hardly a town* between us and Big Falls. We'd spend the entire day on one road, riding north, further away from what normal people called civilization.

* Screw that. There was barely a mailbox between us and Big Falls.

We left with a sun that disappeared almost immediately. We acclimated to the cold and rode headlong through a rainy mist that never stopped, but never got too bad either. We stopped at a shack for lunch. It was a shack with a bar and crappy sandwiches. I won't say that the sandwiches tasted any good, but they were definitely the best crappy sandwiches I've ever eaten.

We stopped only once to take cover from the rain, an ill-advised move. Once stopped, the mosquitoes were thicker than any kind of precipitation. The little bloodsuckers ravaged my body and we were quickly gone again.

It got colder and rainier. There wasn't a thing to see. We peed at an intersection. A wolf chased us. We rode bikes for about six hours without stopping, never seeing a home, a mailbox, a person, or a car. Eventually we arrived in Big Falls, MN. We were cold, wet, exhausted, and most of all hungry.

That's when we started to learn a little bit about Big Falls. The first thing we learned was that it was not big. Secondly, it did not have falls. A better name for the town might have been Some Rocks. This was as big and fally as it got.

More importantly, we learned that no place in town served food after about 2:00. It was the most depressing visit to a gas station that anyone has ever made. We found a post office and a liquor store and a closed down restaurant. We found a motel that was constructed by connecting trailers. And we found a bar that didn't have beer on tap, but would sell us a frozen pizza for the low, low cost of $10. What choice did we have?

We took showers at a campground, naked and surrounded by hungry mosquitoes. We ate bratwursts with some potheads on a kayak trip. We fell asleep on a concrete pad as early as our bodies would allow. The next morning, we got out of there just as quick as we could.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Grand Rapids, MN

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.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Aitkin, MN

This day was going to be different. For nine days now, we'd known every morning roughly where we'd end up in the evening. When we fell asleep behind the steakhouse, we set no alarm, we had no agenda. We had a tent and we had some bikes. We were at the whimsy of the wind.

It was the first night we'd slept on the ground, and I was taken aback by just how chilly August could be. Early morning temperatures were in the low 50's; so we made the executive decision to wait out the bite in the first coffee shop we saw. This would become a theme.

I can't remember too much about the place. It appeared to be an old, converted diner. I drank coffee and ate some sort of pastry and spent some time with my nose buried in a newspaper. I wrote a letter to the girl I was going to marry. I moved with no sense of rush since there was nothing to rush me.

We rode out and headed north along state highway 169. The road was wide and clean and virtually devoid of traffic. It was the kind of road that went nowhere and wasn't even the fastest way to get there. We held the shoulder at a quick but calm pace.

We coasted through the town of Milaca, and chose not to stop for the town play, a musical about how Paul Bunyan met Babe the Blue Ox.* I only wish I was making this stuff up. The whole state seemed to be obsessed with Paul Bunyan.

* Paul Bunyan: Holy crap! You're a big ox!

Babe the Ox: Holy crap! You're a big guy!

Paul Bunyan: Holy crap! You can talk!

So we paced through Milaca, regrettably without a second thought. In Indiana, no matter where you are, you can count on being within 20 miles of a town. That means that if you decide not to stop for lunch in one town, you'll almost certainly have another opportunity in an hour or so.

That's how we arrived in a town called Onamia about an hour after we'd decided we were famished. It's tough to say what makes a town a town; in this case, it was a food court on the side of the road. Also, they sold sweatshirts that featured a phoenetic pronunciation of the town's name. You know, in case you want a souvenir from a town that's greatest feature is that it's difficult to pronounce.

* oh-name-ee-uh

Just after lunch, we discovered Mille Lacs Lake. Of the state's ten-thousand lakes, it's the second largest one that's held entirely within Minnesota. On the map, it was the size of my thumb and from one shore, I couldn't see to the other.

It's the home to several posh fishing communities, extravagant summer homes, and a particularly poor-looking Indian Reservation. The road runs along the curvature of the river and so every hundred feet provided a vista of wealth or destitution, seemingly at random intervals.

It's tough to say what we were looking for as we wandered through Minnesota. A campground? A cool restaurant? A coffeeshop? At some point, we were going to see something that made us want to stop for the night, and if we didn't, nightfall would.

That's when we saw a sign that said in big letters:

FREE SPAGHETTI DINNER TONIGHT

That was pretty much it. I nearly wrecked myself following the arrow that pointed to the east. We found a Lutheran church and we had a lot of questions. Is it really free? Is it really dinner? Is it really spaghetti? Is it really tonight? Can we take showers?

All of our questions were answered affirmatively, so we locked up our bikes, showered in a renovated part of the building and toured the town for an hour while we waited for dinnertime. We found a natural foods' store and a bootery* and an internet cafe and everything a person might want from a town that was a 12 hour stayover.

* They love putting the suffix -ery on the ends of words of there. More to come.

We ate spaghetti and then got some more and then even offered to clean up the church. This piqued the interest of a man named Bryan Johnson who asked us about our quest, our homes, and whether or not we'd seen much of the Olympics. Would we like to go to his house tonight to watch the Olympics and sleep in beds in guest room in the basement?

Um, yes.

So we went back to his house and watched the Olympics and ate brownies and slept in beds and we learned that the chance that you might be abducted by a serial killer is sometimes worth the risk. Besides, he seemed like a really nice guy, and he was.

Somewhere, half a world away, the U.S. was sticking it to the French in a swimming pool, and it's amazing the power that has to unite people. I slept like a rock instead of on top of one.

Friday, January 30, 2009

Princeton, MN

The ride out of St. Paul was tough. We spent the morning fixing flats and trying to figure out just how we were going to replace a van that had been, until that point, highly underrated. In all, we carried a tent, two sleeping bags, two tarps, two changes of clothes, a notebook, various tools, and a pile of energy foods that wouldn't last the week.

We attended a church service, and this was the only thing that reminded me that days still had names and roles. My excitement to leave was eclipsed by the growing knowledge that too soon, I'd be rolling one way, and Lindsay would be rolling another. It was August 10. I'd see her again in October. That seemed even further away than the other side of the country did.

Our target was Mexico, but in order to make a complete circuit, we'd have to ride north for several days until we got to Canada. We started that way with Hans, a friend I'd met on a mission trip only two weeks earlier. He'd built a route out of the twin cities and agreed to spend the day with us.

The cities featured as many bike trails as I've ever seen, each playing around the Mississippi and around the hundred bridges that traversed it. Quickly, we longed for the companionship of our dozen friends from just two days ago. When Paul and I spotted a man in a brightly colored bike jersey our spirits were lifted for the few moments that we believed it was Glen. Turns out, Glen's not the only cyclist who occasionally dresses like a fruit.*

* Another dude wearing the Sesame Street bike jersey? What are the odds of that?

We rode north, into Minneapolis, around downtown, quickly through the red light district. We moved through poorer neighborhoods and followed the same road into the wealthy suburbs. It's impossible to say when the sprawl of the city ceased, but soon we were headlong into the country, free of traffic, free of most everything.

We climbed hills that were just tall enough to conceal the horizon, each mound of concrete giving way to a new and different vista. I climbed strong, eager to see the other side; then slowed as I was blown away by the stark scenery I beheld. I'd never win a race like this. I wanted each moment to last forever, and racing only makes it a blur.

It was in the middle of this kind of visual poetry that my stomach reminded me that, no, I hadn't eaten lunch. It's impossible to say why, but we still never stopped beyond a potty break.

August in Minnesota is a lot like January in Minnesota. It's colder there than it is in Indiana. As the day wound down, I started to feel it. The chill always preceded the setting of the sun and served as a warning that it was nearly time to call it a night.

That's just about the moment we realized we were hopelessly lost. Fortunately, a man on a mountain bike was there to help. Uri* wore camo pants and a hat and spoke with the thick accent of a Minnesotan the way I'd imagined all Minnesotans did. He directed us several miles into town for dinner, then offered his own yard for our lodging.

* Urii? Uree? Ureigh? Uriieiieiey?

We destroyed that steakhouse. We were three sweaty, dirty bikers, now unashamed of the fact that we were wearing only the spandex that our bodies had moistened. We ate and ate and I don't remember that I even washed my hands first, although I do remember that they were nasty. Paul and I agreed to never skip lunch again.

The trouble with dining indoors is that it's tough to notice the decline of the sun when it's concealed behind window and shade. This wasn't the time to panic, but it was the time to hurry. Yuree lived five miles back, and light was fading. At that point, neither of us desired to ride a bike ever again. Besides, he wore camo pants, lived in the middle of nowhere, and was far too eager to welcome strangers.* His home wasn't ideal.

* At first it was creepy when a dude was eager to welcome stinky strangers. We got over that fast. Like, by the next day.

A bit of quick research and a bit of flirting on Paul's end yielded a lead. The owner of the restaurant would let us camp out behind the parking lot. She promised traffic would be light, and also said she'd leave the bathrooms open for us. This kind of spirit became a trend in the state. She even wrote us a note in case the cops came sniffing around.

The cops didn't show up, but Uerei did. He found us pretty easy, and seemed genuinely disappointed that we'd elected not to stay with him. We explained that as we lost the sun, it didn't seem best to double back his way. He rolled home, saddened, and we went to sleep without taking a shower. It would be one of only two nights we roughed it so viciously.

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