Heat, sweat......and pie

Thursday

Mind over matter. It’s all a matter of attitude, and yes, even though this is day 5 of little sleep on a sticky air mattress and biking in heat indices of 125 or so – why, what’s wrong with that? Whee! I bound around the tent, getting ready, putting my various supplies in my back jersey pocket……or trying to……what the….oh. I have my jersey on inside out.

It’s going to be another long day.

* * * * * * * *

So this obsession with pie – not that that’s a bad thing mind you – is something to behold. I’ve learned, much to my amazement, that rhubarb pie is the big seller – unless you get to a town early on, it’ll all be sold out. Really, rhubarb? Where I come from, we treat that stuff like a weed, or like something you leave on neighbors’ doorsteps in the middle of the night. Here in RAGBRAI-land it’s a delicacy, which just goes to show you that you can get people to buy pretty much about anything.

And never let it be said that the townspeople don’t take this dedication to pie seriously, oh no. I quote from the Des Moines Register, which has a daily page dedicated to RAGBRAI:

Nine Churdan community organizations united to make the pie-tasting experience a reality for riders coming through. “They told us we needed pie, so we made pie,” Churdan Library Director Shari Minnehan said. “We were told it was an important part of the experience.”

Well. ‘Nuff said.

Today is another day with a lot of climbing, and as usual, it’s insanely hot and brutish. People are really starting to piss me off with their complete lack of understanding of the whole concept of “ride right.” It’s bad enough on straightaways, but on those screaming downhills where I blaze past most people, it’s unacceptable. Next time I’m going to attach a sign to my bike that says “I’m fat and I’m surly and I’m faster than you, so get the hell out of my way!” Plus I have a whole year to design the patented Leftiminator, which will be a Speed Racer-like device that will attach to the front of my bike somehow, whereby any left-riding miscreants will be summarily shoved out of the way by a large cudgel that will shoot out, clearing a path.

Oh sure, some cyclists might wind up in a ditch, say, or in traction, but my new motto is “if you’re not right, you’re not my problem.” Case closed.

But then as I’m thinking evil thoughts, I wind up in a bizarre conversation that has me shaking my head in befuddlement the rest of the day. There I am blitzing along (as opposed to toodling, because hey, it’s early in the day yet), when I hear a question seemingly directed at me:

Guy cyclist: Hey, did that wheelset come with that bike?

Me, puzzled: Who, mine? Why yes.

GC: Because that’s a really nice wheelset – really great. And you’re a really strong cyclist!

I have no idea what to say to any of this.

Me: Umm, thanks?

GC: Awesome wheelset! Those will last you a lifetime!

Me: God willing and the crick don’t rise!

Okay, I don’t really say that, but it’s what comes to mind for some reason. Is that what pickup lines sound like on RAGBRAI? “Hey, nice wheelset, baby!” Still shaking my head…..

Later that day is a visit to the Templeton Rye distillery, a listen to a great marching band in Mitchellville, a couple of pictures of Annabelle the Traveling Cow, a chat with a local lady about how beautiful her phlox are, and a purchase of popsicles from a couple of nuns, right in front of a gazebo where all the towns mailboxes are. In other words, a typical RAGBRAI kind of day.

Of course, my life would not be complete without at least one major mishap each day, so today’s is this: there I am blazing down a hill at around 40 mph, when we go over a bridge that has seams that aren’t quite as fitted as they should be. I see the people in front of me yell as they go over this bump, but it’s too late to slow so over I go too, and shit, there goes my camera! Damn damn damn.

I pull over, and am aided in my search by another cyclist who’s also pulled over because he lost his phone. We’re picking up various things – I’ve picked up a handful of AA batteries before I realize that hey, my camera doesn’t even take AA batteries. My compatriot, he comes up to me with his findings.

Other guy: Here, I grabbed your camera out of the way, and here, you also lost this.

He hands me a brand new bicycle tube, still in a box. I start laughing.

Me: Thanks, but…..that’s not mine.

Him: Are you sure?

Me: Positive – mine is in a little bag under my seat. But here, do you want some AA batteries?

So my camera is rather crushed, but I’m more upset by the possibility that I might have lost my RAGBRAI photos than about the camera itself. I’ve found a camera card, but who knows if it’s mine or if it’ll still work? I cobble the camera back together, and damn, it doesn’t work.

Until it does. Yep, after several more tries, it decides to start working. Yay! This pretty much counts as a miracle in my book.

* * * * * * * *

One of the best roadside signs I see is the one that echoes our thoughts exactly as we’re nearing Grinnell, our next overnight town. Because as soon as you start getting close to any overnight town, you also wonder WHERE the heck is this damn place?? So the sign that says “Where the hell is Grinnell?” (2 miles ahead!) – that says it all right there.

That night, I find my bicycle cookies at Yumi’s Bakery, and then we head to the concert on Main Street, where I see the most awesome sign, which no one else finds unusual: “No firearms allowed in beverage garden!” I gently nudge a police officer aside so that I can get a good picture of it, and find out that if they hadn’t put that sign there, then people could carry their firearms around willy nilly. Who knew?

Friday is going to be our longest day, mileage-wise. Longest. Day. Whee?

RAGBRWYNLGASWYLL

Aka the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Where You No Longer Give a Shit What You Look Like. From peeling yourself off the air mattress in the morning, to curling up into lumpen balls of sweat anywhere there’s a shady patch during the ride, to going for a swim in a pool in the overnight town then looking at the long line for a shower in a trickle of cold water in a communal room and thinking – ech, pool, shower, same diff. Clean enough.

One member of the Slothians realized she had forgotten to bring a comb or brush, but managed to pick one up at a store……4 days into the trip. Me, I just keep my hair in a ponytail or braid, so a comb is kind of redundant.

And those people you see sticking their hands down their crotches? No, there isn’t a sudden epidemic of cyclists looking for a “happy ending” – it’s just them putting on some chamois cream in broad view, no longer caring that this might be considered a bit unseemly in polite company. Whatever that is.

Then you have people white with sunscreen, slathering it on thickly in vague hopes of preventing more sunburn, or white lips due to the same slathering of Blistex (ahem), or pouring water down their shirts or standing there with watermelon juice dripping all over themselves and hey, who cares?

I’ve heard rumors that people actually hook up during RAGBRAI, and this leaves me a bit incredulous. Seriously? That must be true love right there, if you can look at someone else under such circumstances and think hey, now there’s a catch.

* * * * * * * *

Today, Wednesday, is our shortest day mile-wise, a mere 55 or so, so even though Ann and I are status quo in terms of getting up (not earlier, not later), I resolve to take my time today. Well, not that I haven’t been, but I’ve felt the pressure to try to finish so as to minimize time in the blazing hot sun. Today? Ech, whatever. So when shortly into the ride I see a huge what-appears-to-be-papier-mache cow by the side of the road (and such a happy looking cow too!), of course I stop. I take some pics and am walking back to my bike, when Ann goes by, yelling “Is everything okay?”

Me: Yeah, I was just taking a picture of the cow!

Ann, continuing to ride by: What coooooooooooowwwwwww……………?

Clearly Ann is a much more focused athlete than I am.

Then I stop to wish Owen a happy 80^th birthday, and chat with him and his veteran friends as they dispense slurpees for donations. Then there’s the 100-year old farm, which has a beautiful wildflower garden. I chat with the 92-year-old woman who still lives there, and farms it with the help of her kids, with 6 out of the 8 of them living within a few miles. This is all so amazingly cool. Even though it’s still insanely hot and humid.

One of the towns today leads to a quest for pie, because for miles and miles, we’ve been seeing signs that promise “Optimist Club’s best pie in the WORLD!” or something like that. So naturally, like lemmings, we’re all looking for this pie – which, as it turns out, sold out a few hours beforehand. What the hell, people get up and start riding at 3AM so that they can gorge themselves on all the PIE? Apparently so.

But as I’m trudging down the street, dejected, what do I hear but Ann as she’s hanging out on the sidewalk, and yells the magic words: “Tasha – pie?”

Pie?

I clump over, where there’s the horrifying sight of one of the Optimist Club women about to throw away an entire pie! Good god! She must be stopped!

Optimist Club Woman: See, it’s underdone a bit, so we can’t really sell it.

Ann: I already had some – it’s really good.

I look at the pie, some kind of yummy-looking berry concoction, which looks pretty damn good to me. I feel I have no choice – I rescue the pie from its sad fate. This is probably the least selfish thing I do all week.

The lovely woman also gives us a handful of forks, so Ann and I camp out on the sidewalk, eating pie, making friends as we offer it as well to those sitting around us seeking shade. Now, I’m not saying pie is the great unifier or anything – though wait, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Would our government really be in such sad shape if they sat down and

worked things out over pie? I think not.

* * * * * * * *

One of the coolest things I see on this whole trip is in the town of……I forget which. It’s not important, because it could have been any town. During the ride I had seen cyclists wearing Team Flamingo jerseys – hot pink, and usually with a feather boa draped around their necks or somewhere on their bikes. So I’m walking down the main street of one of our towns, past a nursing home where the front patio is packed with the residents, most of them in wheelchairs, and while they probably came out to witness the RAGBRAI spectacle, right now they’re rapt with attention. All listening to a Team Flamingo woman who’s standing there……and playing the violin. Beautifully so, I might add.

I ask a nearby TF person if she’s been carrying her violin with her on her bike this whole time, and the answer, of course, is yes. And here she is, making the day of all these elderly people, who are

spellbound. It’s a moment that’s beautiful and perfect in its simplicity and wonder. I get a little teary and sentimental as I watch and listen, but then I yell FREEBIRD to break the spell, and all is back to normal.

Okay, so I don’t really do that, but pretend that I did. I don’t want my reputation as a bitter and cynical and mean person to be shattered or anything. I am NOT a softie, hear??

* * * * * * * *

That evening after setting up in Altoona I decide that this is the 2^nd best town in the world, after Griswold of course. The Altoona Rec Center actually has nice showers, with good water pressure and water that’s not freezing cold! And lots of them, rather than just 2. I know, the mind reels! So I’m in a happy frame of mind (hey, I’m easy these days – the other day the purchase of Blistex was enough to make me view the world as one big shiny wonderful ball of fun) when I go off to the concert venue to meet up with beloved Cancerchick Sally, who lives in this awesome town.

Before I go there, I stop off at the mobile internet computer trailer to check the weather – and cackle with laughter when I see that even now, still, at 7PM, there’s a heat warning: “Stay indoors!” And the heat index is still 109. Though they are predicting that later the “temperature will plummet into the 80s.”

I am not making any of this up.

I meet up with Sally, and after we hug, she tells me “oh my gosh, I’m sorry I’m so sweaty! We biked a mile to get here, and I was just dying!”

I just look at her. Seriously? Apologizing to ME, the original lumpen ball of sweat, that you may have an indiscernible drop of sweat on you somewhere? Because Sally looks fabulous, as always, while I’m sunburnt, with a white lip, bedraggled and droopy. It’s, umm, quite a look.

Sally is of course as delighted as I thought she would be with her “I heart Boobies” bracelet, as I know how she too supports cancer. Though I’m sad to report that I’m completely lame and soon head back to tent city, so I can get some fitful sleep before, yet again, waking up at 4:30 AM.

Are we having fun yet?

Iowa, less hellish today than yesterday

Tuesday

4:30AM

My alarm goes off, and I promptly shut it off. What the hell, it’s still pitch black out!

4:45AM

Luckily, we have a backup – Ann’s alarm goes off, and we spring into action. Okay, we get up, slowly, but we do get up. The sun will not foil us today, by golly! We get our stuff packed up and loaded onto the truck like the efficient camping machines we are, and are on the road as the sun is just peeking out. Aah, so cool, in spite of the usual 99% humidity….

7:30AM

Well, that didn’t last long. I do my usual vampire screech as the blazing sun comes out and starts burning my skin, thanks to the nasty sunburn. One thing I do have to say about being burnt to a crisp – it gives me faith in my fellow man, people, cyclists, whatever. Because there I’ll be cycling along, and hear “Hey, do you know you’re getting a nasty sunburn? Do you need some lotion?” over and over. Total strangers, trying to save me from my own stupidity. I think I’ve found the heartbeat of America, here among these blistering hot cornfields.

8-something

If there’s any one real tragedy about this week so far, it is this: the fact that it’s too damn hot to eat. All these awesome foods everywhere, and I manage to get in one decent meal first thing, and then…….nada. Just slushies. Sno-kones. Gatorade. Yes, I’ve basically transitioned to an all-liquid diet for the rest of the day. That truly sucks.

This is why in the town of Lanesboro I make a beeline for a table that says “Gatorade and water” on it. There are two adorable little girls sitting there, who are, unbeknownst to me, ready to hit me with the hard sell. Because I ask about the Gatorade, and their response?

Adorable Girl #1: That’s over there, but here look at these bracelets we have for sale! There are sparkly beads and these light up in the dark…

Me: Umm, but…..

Adorable Girl #2: And see these you can put on your bike spoke, and they’ll be all sparkly…

Me: I just wanted Gat…..

AG1: And did I tell you that these glow in the dark?

Sigh.

Me: You girls must have spent a long time making these, huh?

AG2: Oh yes, hours and hours.

Sigh.

Then I spy (of course) a bracelet that says “I (heart) boobies” on it. And I start chuckling, because we all know how I hate not just that word but that phrase, because really, what does any of that have to do with breast cancer, which is the supposed point? AG1 notices me looking at it.

AG1: Those are to support cancer.

Well. And who wouldn’t want to support cancer? I wind up buying a bunch of things from them, at some bargain price, and realize that this is why I’ll never be rich. Because so far this week I’ve spent my money on food and beverages, yes, but also donations to fire stations, buttons that churches are selling, pie I was too tired to eat, and so on. I might as well have Sucker written on my forehead. Ah well.

Today is still as insanely hot and humid as ever, and it’s a longer day, but somewhat less hilly, so I guess that all evens out in the wash. And heck, I guess by now I’m somewhat used to the feeling of biking in a sauna or furnace, plus there are certainly enough things to distract a person. Like the wonderful people – not just the cyclists, but the local people themselves.

Take the pig farmer, for instance. There’s a big sign – “newborn piglets up ahead!” – so of course I have to stop at this farm where yes indeed, there are a bunch of piglets in a little pen out front. People are swarming around them, taking pictures and such, and I get one in as well, but then I think of Kim, and WWKD. So I start grilling the poor farmer.

Me: Isn’t it too hot out for the piglets?

Nice Farmer: Oh, I only keep them out here for about a half hour, then swap them out.

Me: Oh, that makes sense.

NF: Plus pigs actually like it when it’s about 85 degrees – they like the heat.

Me: Oh, I didn’t know that! That’s good to know. So then I assume the piglets are well taken care of? Because you know, I saw that video……

“That video” is the one made undercover by the group Mercy for Animals, which shows the barbaric treatment of pigs and piglets at a massive pig farm. It’s horrible and disgusting, and after watching, I decided I wouldn’t eat pork unless I knew where it came from. Meaning, I’d rather pay a lot more for the occasional pork I eat, than eat mass-produced pork from those kinds of slaughterhouses.

The farmer knows exactly what I’m talking about, too.

NF: Oh yeah, that was terrible, there’s no reason for anything like that.

Me: It was horrible.

NF: We’re just a small family farm here, we don’t treat any of our animals like that.

Me: That’s good to know!

We chat for a while longer, and then what do I see? Yes, it’s Spoke Bracelet Guy! Omg, it’s like spotting the Yeti!! I bid farewell to my new farmer friend and go bounding over to SBG.

Me: Omg, it’s you! I’ve found you! You’re like the Yeti!

SBG: Umm…..

Me: My friends told me all about you – you’re a legend in your own time!

SBG: Well, that’s good! Of course I’m not quite as famous as the Pork Chop Guy…

Me: Oh, you just wait, my friend. I’ll write about you in my blog, and the ensuing fame and fortune, well….all I can say is, be prepared.

He seems suitably impressed – or scared, hard to tell which. But I do get my wrist measured, and then poof, a spoke bracelet magically is on my wrist, for a mere $6! This could very well be the bargain of the century. My life is now complete.

Well, except that I still have many miles to bike in the blazing sun. By my estimates, the last 15 miles of each day’s ride are actually around 118 miles, based on some warp in the time-space continuum and how long it takes me to complete them. So it appears that this week I’ve already ridden about 400 miles. I am such a stud.

Plus I’ve now come to the realization that not only am I really badly sunburned, but my lower lip? Yep, fried to a crisp as well. Which leads me to yet another stellar example of how wonderful the people of Iowa are – because there I am, going through the town of Paton, which is yet another small Iowa town of probably around 200 people, that has pulled it all together in spectacular fashion for RAGBRAI. Seriously, every single town we go through has put a ton of effort into greeting us all. It’s truly remarkable. It’s sad too, in a way, because with most of these historic towns many of these gorgeous old buildings are boarded up and there’s not much going on in terms of commerce. But the people? Salt of the earth. To wit:

Paton – I’m walking through an intersection and there’s a woman there, a volunteer, directing people as to where they can find food, drinks, etc. She seems like a good person to ask about my lip problem.

Me: Excuse me, can I ask you something? There wouldn’t happen to be a pharmacy or drugstore in town, would there? Because (and here I stick out my lower lip), mah wip is aww buhnt.

Nice Iowa woman: Oh no!

Me: Yes, it’s vewy painfuw…..

NIW: Unfortunately there’s no pharmacy here – there’s only about 2 stores in town, the closest big town is Boone.

Me: That’s what I figured, I just thought I’d ask.

NIW: But I think I have some Carmex in my car! Do you want me to go take a look?

So this woman is willing to go schlepping off to her car to see if she has lip balm for an idiot cyclist who managed to get horribly sunburnt on Day One of a week-long bike ride across the state.

Now THAT is Iowa.

* * * * * * * *

I ride my usual 240 miles that day, and that evening we head into town, with our first stop being a

Walgreens. Where it’s basically Idiot Cyclist Central, because everyone there? Yep, buying the exact same stuff. Sunscreen, aloe vera gel, lip balm. They have extra staff on hand to direct us (me) to the Blistex section. We stand in line telling our fellow cyclists where to find this or that lotion or gel. It’s a beautiful thing.

That night, I take my newly-purchased Tylenol PM and prepare for a night of, well, not quite blissful sleep, but something resembling sleep nevertheless. I mumble good night to Ann. Then…

BRAAAAAAAAP! BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

“What the hell!” I say as I sit upright. “Who’s the damn fool blowing an air horn in our ears??”

Nope, no air horn, but apparently our camping site is pretty much right next to the freight train line going through town. And it sounds like the conductor is having fun honking greetings to all of us RAGBRAIers.

My Cousin Vinny comes to mind.

I start laughing, a bit hysterically, but still, laughing.

I love Iowa.

Iowa, the Portal to Hell

Monday

5:15AM

Ann’s alarm didn’t work, so we don’t get up until after 5, dammit. Already late, sigh. It’s still dark out, but at least we’re starting out an hour earlier than yesterday, so that should help, somewhat. Maybe.

Random thoughts

· Okay, so we get a break from the sun thanks to a nice cloud cover, which doesn’t take away the fact that it’s still about 200 degrees and 110% humidity, but it helps. That is, until the blazing sun comes out again. At which point I start yelling “No! No sun! GO AWAY!” I feel like a vampire.

· So there’s one basic rule on RAGBRAI: ride right. Is this so fricking hard to remember? Apparently it is, because I wind up yelling at people a LOT. Okay, so it’s mostly (all) in my head, but the temptation is almost overwhelming. This is what I say: “Passing on your right!” Relevant subtext in my head: “Because you’re a stupid idiot who shouldn’t be so far over to the left! Dumbass!”

· To the guy on the Cervelo tri bike with the Zipp wheels: Dude. Let’s be real here. We know you’re trying to buy speed, thousands of dollars worth - but even if it’s so important for you to be 14^th in your age group instead of 18^th, this isn’t a race. No one gives a shit when you finish. Really. Zipp wheels, seriously?? Umm, not that I’m cranky or anything, roasting under the blazing sun – I just honestly don’t understand this. There’s a reason those are called race wheels, and it’s not for a 7-day ride across Iowa.

· In a similar vein, what’s with the people who start out at 5AM, zip through all the towns, only to finish by 10AM or earlier? What’s the point? If you’re not going to hang out in the small towns and check out the sights and chat with people, you might as well just stay home, put your computrainer in a sauna, and ride for hours on end there. Again, I don’t get this. Aren’t we all here for the pie?

· Day 2 of unrelenting hills. The next person who ever tells me how flat Iowa is will be promptly beaten with either a cudgel or a frozen ham. Whichever one I happen to have handy.

· Speaking of hills, our bucolic days 1 and 2 here are actually hillier than any day of riding on Ride the Rockies, which people speak of in awed and hushed terms about how much climbing there is. Suck it, Colorado, Iowa has you beat. I am strangely proud of this, feeling a kinship with my fellow Midwesterners.

We roll into our first town today, Elk Horn, and the first thing I see is a……windmill? And mermaids? What kind of alternate reality IS this? Turns out that the town is known for its Danish heritage, which includes the aforementioned windmill, and lo and behold, the selling of aebleskiver! My god, what a marvel! I jump into the aebleskiver line immediately, no fool I.

Okay, so the reason I know what these things are is because once upon a time I gave a friend an aebleskiver pan as a gift, not quite sure why, though said friend never made them for me as promised. So you can damn well bet that when I saw them being sold, I was all over that like a cat on a hot potato, as they say. And while standing in line for my Danish Pancake Balls, I start chatting with one of the many local volunteers, a guy wearing the town t-shirt, also sporting a Viking helmet and joshing about his beer gut. Fun times. Then he turns around, and on the back of his shirt is written……Mayor? Really?

Yep, he’s really the mayor. Seems to be doing a damn fine job of it too, as far as I can see.

Plateful of yummy aebleskiver later (where the guys making them are using everything from nail files to knitting needles to rotate the little balls), I explore the rest of the town, and lo and behold, what should I see but a guy sporting pink ribbon schlock! Ah, Cori would be proud. I accost him immediately.

Me: Excuse me, but do you mind if I take a picture of your jersey? My friends and I, we like to take pics of all the (tacky schlocky) pink ribbon stuff we see.

Guy: Uh, sure.

Me: Thanks! You know, we’re all about the whole breast cancer awareness (and what a fricking joke that is) thing.

Guy, looking puzzled: Uh, okay.

Hmm. I kind of suspect he has no idea about the BC connection at all, but only bought the jersey because it says “beer” on it….

The day grinds on, hotter and hotter, hillier and hillier, until drastic measures are called for. What does this mean exactly? Well, when I stop in one town and head into the Legion Hall for some pork chop on a stick, on my way out I spy through a doorway a…..meat locker? Could that be cold air? I take action, of course. Meaning, I step right into said locker, even though there’s already someone in it and it’s kind of a small space with basically just room for one person to walk into. He looks behind him, and I smile winsomely.

Me: Hey, so, how ‘bout them aebelskivers?

Him: Umm….

Me: I’m just, uhh, err……wanting to compliment the Legion on their fine selection of frozen vegetables! Yes, that’s it! Nothing like some fine frozen veggies, yes sirree.

Him, understandingly: Pretty hot out there, isn’t it…
Me: Oh……my……god……………….

Then later, somehow I’m finally nearing our overnight town, Carroll, albeit at a snail’s pace. Dripping with sweat, as I have been all day. I’ve never taken so long to bike this number of miles. Pedal pedal pedal.

Then….what ho? An oasis of water? Maybe?

Yes, just a few miles out from Carroll, the enterprising folks who live next to what’s basically a retention pond have set up a table to take the princely sum of $1 to let people swim. I debate this for about 2 seconds, then pull over. Mucky water? Hell yes. There are only a few people when I get there, but then, as is the case all week, as soon as I decide to take part, so does everyone else. I kid you not. The water is tepid, seaweedy, muddy on the bottom, not too deep…..and heavenly. I have several conversations like this:

Other person: This water is kind of mucky.

Me: Do you care?

OP: Hell no.

Me: Me neither.

You know it’s insanely hot when swimming in mucky water in full cycling clothes seems like a grand and brilliant idea. That night it stays so hot and humid that I get a Tylenol PM from Mary Beth so that I can get a modicum of sleep. I have honestly never been so hot in my entire life, for so long. My last comment of the evening to the girls:

Me, to Ann and Mary Beth: Why? Why?! Omg, the heat, the hills, the humidity! And then, number ONE on Miss Tasha’s Hierarchy of Cycling Suckiness: wind!!! Make it stop! Give me something to work with here!

Maybe Tuesday?