In honor and memory

I was going to add some commentary here, but....no. Let this speak for itself.

From The Onion:

God Angrily Clarifies 'Don't Kill' Rule

September 26, 2001

NEW YORK—Responding to recent events on Earth, God, the omniscient creator-deity worshipped by billions of followers of various faiths for more than 6,000 years, angrily clarified His longtime stance against humans killing each other Monday.

"Look, I don't know, maybe I haven't made myself completely clear, so for the record, here it is again," said the Lord, His divine face betraying visible emotion during a press conference near the site of the fallen Twin Towers. "Somehow, people keep coming up with the idea that I want them to kill their neighbor. Well, I don't. And to be honest, I'm really getting sick and tired of it. Get it straight. Not only do I not want anybody to kill anyone, but I specifically commanded you not to, in really simple terms that anybody ought to be able to understand."

Worshipped by Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike, God said His name has been invoked countless times over the centuries as a reason to kill in what He called "an unending cycle of violence."

"I don't care how holy somebody claims to be," God said. "If a person tells you it's My will that they kill someone, they're wrong. Got it? I don't care what religion you are, or who you think your enemy is, here it is one more time: No killing, in My name or anyone else's, ever again."

The press conference came as a surprise to humankind, as God rarely intervenes in earthly affairs. As a matter of longstanding policy, He has traditionally left the task of interpreting His message and divine will to clerics, rabbis, priests, imams, and Biblical scholars. Theologians and laymen alike have been given the task of pondering His ineffable mysteries, deciding for themselves what to do as a matter of faith. His decision to manifest on the material plane was motivated by the deep sense of shock, outrage, and sorrow He felt over the Sept. 11 violence carried out in His name, and over its dire potential ramifications around the globe.

"I tried to put it in the simplest possible terms for you people, so you'd get it straight, because I thought it was pretty important," said God, called Yahweh and Allah respectively in the Judaic and Muslim traditions. "I guess I figured I'd left no real room for confusion after putting it in a four-word sentence with one-syllable words, on the tablets I gave to Moses. How much more clear can I get?"

"But somehow, it all gets twisted around and, next thing you know, somebody's spouting off some nonsense about, 'God says I have to kill this guy, God wants me to kill that guy, it's God's will,'" God continued. "It's not God's will, all right? News flash: 'God's will' equals 'Don't murder people.'"

Worse yet, many of the worst violators claim that their actions are justified by passages in the Bible, Torah, and Qur'an.

"To be honest, there's some contradictory stuff in there, okay?" God said. "So I can see how it could be pretty misleading. I admit it—My bad. I did My best to inspire them, but a lot of imperfect human agents have misinterpreted My message over the millennia. Frankly, much of the material that got in there is dogmatic, doctrinal bullshit. I turn My head for a second and, suddenly, all this stuff about homosexuality gets into Leviticus, and everybody thinks it's God's will to kill gays. It absolutely drives Me up the wall."

God praised the overwhelming majority of His Muslim followers as "wonderful, pious people," calling the perpetrators of the Sept. 11 attacks rare exceptions.

"This whole medieval concept of the jihad, or holy war, had all but vanished from the Muslim world in, like, the 10th century, and with good reason," God said. "There's no such thing as a holy war, only unholy ones. The vast majority of Muslims in this world reject the murderous actions of these radical extremists, just like the vast majority of Christians in America are pissed off over those two bigots on The 700 Club."

Continued God, "Read the book: 'Allah is kind, Allah is beautiful, Allah is merciful.' It goes on and on that way, page after page. But, no, some assholes have to come along and revive this stupid holy-war crap just to further their own hateful agenda. So now, everybody thinks Muslims are all murderous barbarians. Thanks, Taliban: 1,000 years of pan-Islamic cultural progress down the drain."

God stressed that His remarks were not directed exclusively at Islamic extremists, but rather at anyone whose ideological zealotry overrides his or her ability to comprehend the core message of all world religions.

"I don't care what faith you are, everybody's been making this same mistake since the dawn of time," God said. "The Muslims massacre the Hindus, the Hindus massacre the Muslims. The Buddhists, everybody massacres the Buddhists. The Jews, don't even get me started on the hardline, right-wing, Meir Kahane-loving Israeli nationalists, man. And the Christians? You people believe in a Messiah who says, 'Turn the other cheek,' but you've been killing everybody you can get your hands on since the Crusades."

Growing increasingly wrathful, God continued: "Can't you people see? What are you, morons? There are a ton of different religious traditions out there, and different cultures worship Me in different ways. But the basic message is always the same: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Shintoism... every religious belief system under the sun, they all say you're supposed to love your neighbors, folks! It's not that hard a concept to grasp."

"Why would you think I'd want anything else? Humans don't need religion or God as an excuse to kill each other—you've been doing that without any help from Me since you were freaking apes!" God said. "The whole point of believing in God is to have a higher standard of behavior. How obvious can you get?"

"I'm talking to all of you, here!" continued God, His voice rising to a shout. "Do you hear Me? I don't want you to kill anybody. I'm against it, across the board. How many times do I have to say it? Don't kill each other anymore—ever! I'm fucking serious!"

Upon completing His outburst, God fell silent, standing quietly at the podium for several moments. Then, witnesses reported, God's shoulders began to shake, and He wept.

Asshole like me

Those who don’t know me well might think I’m seriously curmudgeonly and mean in real life. That I snarl at kids, elbow aside the geriatric contingent as we’re all filing into Denny’s for the blue plate special, look for flies so that I can pull off their wings.

Be all of that as it may, I do try to live my life as a good person – and at this point, I can only say: what the fuck was I thinking? What was the point? I’ve recited my litany of woe and bad luck enough here such that I don’t feel like repeating it, because quite frankly, it’s pretty damn depressing. Suffice it to say that my friends call me Schleprock, and have honestly suggested that I find a shaman or someone else who can help try to remove the curse that’s been hovering over me for years.

But through it all, my sunny nature has managed to soldier on and assert itself. It’s not in my nature to be mean and bitchy, though god knows I’ve tried. I’ve left notes for myself: “Be bitchy!” Yet somehow it never takes, kind of like my attempt to take up smoking so that I’d have at least one vice that would make sense with the cancer history. Nope, no luck with that either, sad to say.

But now? I'm done. Now with my rage and depression having no bounds, I’m finding that being bitchy is coming a bit more naturally. To those who don’t understand why I’m taking the garden thing so hard – though I think most people do – part of it is because it’s been one crappy tomato growing season after another these last years. Let’s start with 2008, though the years before that were supremely crappy too, mostly due to a horrible garden plot out by my mom’s in Huntley, a plot that was replenished every year with “mulch” from Stan’s House of Toxic Garden Stuff thanks to the Sun City gardening committee.

But 2008 – that might have been okay if not for that pesky cancer thing and, more importantly, the brain injury that had me not quite knowing what a garden was exactly. So the tomatoes fell by the wayside. 2009 was the Year Without a Summer. 2010, I went on the GAA (Great Alpian Adventure) in August, and missed the prime harvest weeks. This year though – ah, this year. I refused to go out of town for all of August, and there were tons of tomatoes, and there were still tons to be had because it was a late growing season.

Not to mention all the work that went into my garden. Those who think it’s fine for people to steal things from community gardens apparently think that gardening is an easy endeavor, just throw some seeds down and things grow like magic. Never mind the backbreaking work for months on end – especially this year when there was such crappy weather in spring that things needed to be replanted 2 or 3 times.

Plus I don’t get the “it’s okay if they were stolen by someone who was hungry and really needed them” mentality. I’ll remind those folks of that if they’re ever robbed, that the thieves must have simply needed their stuff more than they did. That’s okay, right?

So! Point being, I am now embracing my new life as Bitchy Person.

This means that all the things that once came naturally will be no more, from the basic to the more complicated. Holding doors open for people? Bam! Let their lazyass selves learn to fend for themselves. It’s a cruel world out there, folks. Open your own fucking doors.

No more letting people with just a few items get in front of me in the checkout line. What am I, the lowly paean to your kingly self? I don’t think so.

I will embrace asshole driving. Now I drive….assertively, shall we say. But I’m not one of those clowns who cuts people off or on the highway goes over to the on ramp in order to scoot ahead a few cars. Yep, now that’ll be me as well.

No volunteering at food pantries, or donating food to them in general. No volunteering for anything – what am I, Mother Fricking Teresa? Sheesh. I’ve got things to do here, people.

No more chit-chatting with random people, like the good folks of Iowa. Well, okay, I might still chat – but I’ll be glaring at them as I do it, a fulminating glare no less.

No spare change to the Streetwise guys, ever. I’ll become a lousy tipper – 15% and not a penny above. If there are free samples somewhere, I’ll be one of the cretins who load up completely, not leaving anything for anyone else. Hell, maybe I’ll take up extreme couponing, and start clearing shelves with aplomb? A girl can dream.

No more being so gosh darn nice about things, like today when I was stuck waiting for a prescription that should have been ready. Oh sure, I might have said “no problem” when the pharmacist apologized, but I said it with a steely edge that I’m sure will impact her for weeks.

Okay, so I’m sure I’ll still stop on my bike rides to help turtles across the road, even if they’re massive ungrateful snapping turtles that try to bite my wrist off. That’s just their nature, unlike people, who have a choice as to whether they’re going to steal someone’s months of hard work and labor from their garden.

I am also already formulating my Garden Protection Plan for next year, if I even do bother having a garden. Yes, this is the first year, after the last 9 years of crazy tomato growing and crappy seasons, that I’m seriously considering packing it in. But if I do garden again, you can be sure that somehow, some way……the Clanging Monkey Toy of Doom will be involved. Beware.

Garden, interrupted

My first post back after my long hiatus was going to be about my finding a group of cyclists I can hang with – that would be the Sun City Cycle Club, i.e. the octogenarian set. Then I was going to write about my most amazing awesome time in Portland, OR with my beloved Cancerchicks, Kim and Melinda, and we were also joined by Katie and Debbie for part of the time as well. I couldn’t love these girls more than if they were actual sisters.

Then there might have been something about the magnificence of The Kone, then more training tips for the little people, and so on.

But all of that came to a screeching halt today, when I went out to my garden in Skokie for the first time since getting back from Oregon. The last time I was out there was last Tuesday, and at the time there were so many tomatoes, billions of them, that I pleaded with my Tomatoettes to go there and pick some so that they wouldn’t rot on the vine. Even though I was going out there every 2-3 days to pick them, there were still billions. So many that I gave baskets to friends, my doctors, charity auctions, neighbors, my mom and all her friends, the folks at Starbucks, and so on.

We’re talking a lot of tomatoes.

The pattypans, I have to say, were an underperforming lot, but there were a couple of those, and a few zucchini too. But the tomatoes, the glorious tomatoes! Ah, they were beautiful. Literally hundreds of pounds of them, waiting to be picked.

And so they were. But not by me.

Because I went out there today, and as I was walking closer I thought hmm, how odd that I don’t see millions of tomatoes as I usually do. Then I got to the plot, and saw….nothing. Not a single fucking tomato. No ripe ones….no green ones even. The plants were completely stripped bare, and it looked like the lazy POS scum-sucking douchebags just clipped the vines, as I guess that was easier than picking them individually.

I wandered up and down every row, in shock. Noticed that the zucchini and pattypan plants were trampled, and of course, no squash. But the tomatoes! I should have been picking tomatoes for the next 2 months if the weather had cooperated, but now? Nothing. There’s nothing. It’s all gone.

While I usually don’t see anyone when I go there, today there were a couple of women from the neighboring plots – one of them was sweet and offered me some of her tomatoes, and the other almost got her head cleaved open by a shovel wielded by yours truly. Because quite frankly, when you’re totally devastated like that, the following platitudes aren’t helpful:

• “That’s the risk of a community garden”
• “Gosh, I’ve already picked so many this year, I don’t know what to do with them any more!”
• “I just love gardening, it’s a fun hobby for me” – after I mentioned how much hard work and time and money I had put into the garden

Because yes, the risk of a community garden is that some lazy-asses come and take stuff, but we’re talking taking a few things, not an entire garden plot of stuff. And yes, I’ve picked a lot already, but I should have been able to pick a hell of a lot more. And yes, I too love gardening, but I also like enjoying the fruits of my labor, dammit. You know, after spending months growing plants, hundreds of hours planting and weeding, thousands of dollars on supplies.

I should have been able to enjoy my own fucking tomatoes. Even if I just gave them away.

And now I can’t. And for that, I hate people. I hope you tomato thieves burn in a fiery hell, slowly and painfully. I hope you’re cursed by the money you made selling my tomatoes. I hope your lives become like one long Stephen King novel, where the clanging monkey toy portends all kinds of doom.

As for me, I’m going to go cry now; my sadness at the garden destruction is overwhelming. I put my heart and soul into my garden - it's one of the few bits of happiness in my life. To me happy is The Kone, riding my bike, friends and family, the garden. Because I sure as shit don't have a hell of a lot else going for me. And now the garden.....is gone. And did I also mention that now the IRS is saying that they made a “mistake” in the papers they gave me before, and now I supposedly owe them over twice as much? Yep, happy happy joy joy.

If I ever have anything resembling the slightest bit of luck some day, the shock of it might truly kill me.

The Year of the.....what??

I knew that after the glorious conclusion of the exalted RAGBRAI, it would be too hard to go back to cold harsh reality in one fell swoop. So, forward-thinking person that I am, I made plans to go to the Indiana State Fair with some of the Cancerchicks, namely Cori and The Rack, Melindy, and Angela, who actually lives in Indy and on whose doorstep we’d be showing up.

Now, I knew that this year’s State Fair would have a tough time living up to the Glory Year, that is the Year of the Tomato, in 2009. Ah, I remember it as if it were yesterday – the world seemed a shinier, happier place, bright with optimism and hope. Yes, we can!

But then, tomatoes have that effect on people, being the fun, whimsical, even jaunty little fellows they are. Who doesn’t love a tomato, really? Other than Communists, that is. So clearly that year they had a lot to work with, the State Fair Decorating Committee. And decorate they did! Everywhere you looked, tomatoes! Tomato plants tucked into planters, tomato sculptures, tomato needlepoint, tomato souvenirs – I still cherish my tomato coin bank and tomato coaster.

Thus, you can imagine that I was a bit skeptical when I read that this year was going to be the Year of the Drab Soybean. What the heck can you do with a soybean?? But I thought, those Indianans are a crafty, wily bunch, and they’ve had years of experience with this. I’m sure they’ll come up with something.

So off Cori and I went in her Taylor-Swiftmobile, still cheekily decorated after she took her daughter to the concert the night before (aka “Honk if you love T-Swift!”), into the warp in the time-space continuum that is I-65 that goes from Chicago to Indianapolis. Consider yourselves warned when you too travel this route, that the actual miles driven twist and expand somehow so that 3 hours seems like 9, and every 50 miles seems like an eternity. If I’m ever told I have just a week to live, I’m going to spend that week driving back and forth on I-65….because it will seem like I’m living forever.

We do finally make it, lo after some 5 days of driving, and hie ourselves off to the fair, where my first mission is to find some kind of food-on-a-stick, the staple of all fair food. But first, pictures! There to greet us in all his soybean glory is Bennie the Bean, so of course we seize upon this photo opportunity, and Melinda posts the pic of the 2 of us on Facebook.

The reaction is immediate.

Kim: Umm, why are you guys posing with a boob?

Jan: I’m with Kim – that really does look like a boobie!

Me and Melinda, in unison: We know.

Things continue along in this vein, with us taking pictures and our worldwide fans exclaiming at how this year’s theme seems to be designed just for us! The only thing better than the beans are the beaver shots we’re taking for Angie. Apparently Montreal is the beaver capital of the world or something. Who knew?

It’s pretty obvious though that the poor State Fair Decorators became a little disheartened and discouraged by the task at hand. Again, tomatoes = jaunty and fun. Soybeans = staid and bean-like. Drab, even! The little rotunda in the middle of the fair that was so cheerfully festooned 2 years ago with tomato memorabilia is a mere shadow of its former self. We go into one of the buildings and the crowd is clustered around the – what else – Red Gold tomato booth, clamoring for a bit of cheer and extravaganza. I discuss the situation with the Red Gold guy behind their counter.

Me: Ah, tomatoes. No wonder you guys are being mobbed – not much competition there with the soybean, eh?

Red Gold Guy: Everyone does love a tomato.

Me: Yes, I fondly remember the glory days from 2 years ago, the Year of the Tomato at the fair.

RGG: Sigh, I was here for that. It was magnificent.

Me: It was, wasn’t it? I feel bad for the poor folks tasked with the soybean decorations. There’s not much there to work with, is there….

RGG, diplomatically: Soybeans are…..challenging.

The day continues in typical fashion. We make fun of Cori for buying salad on a stick, which consists of basically lettuce. I break a child’s heart by winning the squirt gun game, even after he has his mother whispering tips into his ear. “Aim high!” Alrighty then, lady. There are no whimsical soybean coin banks. No coasters. No tomato plants growing the Nipsy Russell. The best we can find are buttons that proclaim this the year of the soybean, and when I pin it to my shirt I look like I have a third boob. You can tell that even the can sculpture people were gripped by malaise, nay despair. For Tomato Year, the Canstruction exhibit had the most amazing things made out of cans: ferris wheels! The Starship Enterprise!

This year? A truck. A box. No really, a box. Not that I blame them.

Still, we do what we can, and head over to the Pioneer Farm area to see what kind of a ruckus we can stir up. This is the kind of place where I always get myself into trouble – and today is no exception.

Because of course the first thing I make a beeline to is a stand where two adorable urchins in gingham dresses are selling…..something. Turns out it’s sorghum. What the hell is sorghum, you ask? Even now, I have no idea.

Me, to genuine farmer standing there at the booth too: What do you use sorghum for?

Farmer, who starts channeling Forrest Gump: Oh, lots of things! You can put it on pancakes, or on cornbread, or on toast. Goes with apples, or bananas, or even pears. Peaches! Bananas, melon…..here, we’ve got a sheet that tells you all the things you can do with sorghum.

Me: Do you make all of it yourself?

Farmer: Ayup.

Me: Well, I...

Farmer: Got lot of vitamins and minerals too, nothing better for your health....

Sigh. How can I look at these jars with the little homemade labels on them proudly pronouncing that this is sorghum from Pumphrey’s Farm, and not buy some? I can’t, of course, so off goes a jar of sorghum into my bag, to add to the whipped honey and all the other homemade stuff I’ve bought. Which is one of the reasons I love the IN State Fair so much – they have actual vendors like this, rather than the WI State Fair which just seems to have a lot of people selling sham-wows and the like.

(Though it’s perhaps a bit telling that later, back in Huntley, when I try to pawn the sorghum off on my mom by acting as if I was all generous and such in buying it for her, she’s having none of it: “Sorghum? What the heck is that?” Again, sigh.)

We manage to leave the fair having partaken of an inadequate amount of fried food, though all were in agreement that the fried green tomatoes (of course!) were the best. That evening at Angela’s, we have tomato sandwiches (of course!), which are delicious, and then sadly, Cori and start heading back to IL the next day.

Where we see for ourselves just how cursed I-65 is. Because I glance over at one point, and see what appears to be a burned out truck, over on the far

shoulder. Then we see two police cars blocking off the road. Then we see a backup of cars. Which turns out to be…….Twelve. Miles. Long. And there’s an exit right before the accident where cars are being funneled off, but the next exit isn’t until 10 miles away, and there’s no one there telling these poor people that they should get off NOW before they get stuck for hours.

Because I look this up on Cori’s iPad…….and that road has been closed since 3:45AM. And it’s now 1PM. Nine. Fucking. Hours.

Oh my god.

And it’s still closed.

And I’m getting confused trying to find THIS story because there’s a story about another accident on

I-65 that happened on Wednedsay, aka the day we were headed down to Indianapolis – and that one shut down I-65 for about 11 hours.

And we missed that by about 15 minutes.

Oh. My. God.

Both of those accidents happened at a point where traffic was slowing down due to construction, or where traffic was moving down to one lane, and a

truck plowed into those who had slowed down so heed these words – if you’re ever traveling on I-65 and

traffic slows, be looking into your rearview mirror and be prepared to bolt off the road, just in case. Apparently there’s something about the stupor of driving on I-65 that makes people forget that oh yeah, I might have to slow down or stop at some point. Then of course Saturday night was the horrible and tragic stage collapse at the IN State Fair – so I’m kind of feeling like Cori and I somehow left a trail of calamity in our wake.

We did manage to bring joy and happiness to one small corner of Indiana, however – this was when we stopped at the Fair Oaks Dairy, to break up our 10-hour car ride back home. This place is known for its homemade ice cream and cheese, though I’ve never seen the actual making of the cheese. This time though there was an actual convict-looking person behind the glass in the dairy-making section, so I guess that’s a start.

Anyway! We’re perusing the cheeses, and a chipper young man is peddling cheese samples: “Try some cheese! Gouda! Gouda is known to help fight cancer, so get some cheese and prevent cancer!”

Cori and I look at each other, grinning.

Me: Sorry, it’s too late.

Cori: We both have had cancer. What can cheese do for us?

He looks stumped for a moment. But then:

“Get your cheese here! Help prevent a second round of cancer!”

We then suggest that they should wrap the cheese up in pink and pink ribbons and really push the cancer-fighting thing, and the girl behind the cheese counter loves this idea.

“Hey, that’s a great idea! Especially in October or whatever month it is, we can do a whole display of pink! Really push the cheese and the cancer thing! Omg, that’s brilliant! I should SO get a raise for thinking of this! Where’s our manager? Hey, I should get a raise for this great idea I came up with!”

Thankfully the deliciousness of the cheese and subsequent ice cream makes Cori and I forget the fact that our idea has been stolen and we’ve been shuttled off to the side, like chopped liver. But if you stop at the Fair Oaks Dairy in October and it’s a vision in pink, well, you’ll know why….

Afterthoughts

We load up the car, and Ann and I set off for home, with her having changed out of her cycling clothes, and me, not.

Ann: Aren’t you dying to get out of your bike shorts?

Me: No, I think at this point I’ve become one with my shorts. It’s all very zen. Plus, I’m too damn tired to bother. And I’m just so glad to be not on a bike, that what I’m wearing doesn’t even matter. Ah, bliss.

That night, I unpack my stuff at my mom’s, as I contemplate calling in a hazmat team for my dirty clothes, which have been added to a plastic garbage bag all week. In the heat and sun. To the point that now, I think they’re composting.

I then pick up The Kone, for a joyous reunion, and head to bed. Round about 7PM. Hey, what’s wrong with that??

The next morning

6AM

The Kone has clearly become unaccustomed to our usual routine, which dictates that HRH sleeps in as long as Momma sleeps, so I get up early to take him out. Amazingly enough, I step outside and yes, my immediate thought is this: hey, it’s a perfect day for a bike ride! Really. Not hot yet, not at all windy, some cloud cover. Of course, I can only muster up the energy for Kona’s walkie, so I tuck this thought away and go back to bed.

I don't think I could bike another mile if my life depended on it.

9AM

I deliberately cut up my bagel with cream cheese and lox into small pieces so that I can eat it with a fork, careful to not have it touch my puffy and burnt lower lip, and then after finishing this exhausting feat, I slump my head over to rest it wearily on my arms. So. Tired. And. Exhausted.

Mom: So would you ever do this ride again?

My head pops up in surprise. “Well of course, why wouldn’t I?”

My head goes thunking back down to the table, as I mumble “of course next time I’ll train by putting my bike in a sauna, and camping out in the backyard in a sweltering tent with someone blowing an airhorn into my ear at regular intervals. Oh, and nothing but slushies as fuel. Yep, I’ll be so ready. And pie. Lots of pie……”

* * * * * * * * * *

To speak of RAGBRAI as if we were hot on the trail of world peace out there, well, maybe that’s not quite so. And yet. There was something heartwarming and amazing to see, about this incredible sea of tens of thousands of people doing what they love, riding their bikes, through these small Iowa towns that went all out to greet us, putting an incredible amount of effort into this. Everyone got involved, from the church ladies baking their pies and cinnamon rolls, to the fire stations cooking up pancakes and burgers, to the American Legion and other groups, being so sweet and tolerant about all these sweaty, stinky cyclists in their midst.

Then there were all the people who sat out there with their sprinklers going for us to ride through, the kids handing out Freezer-pops as we rode by, the massive flags put up in every town to soar above us, and even the Iowa State Patrol manning the intersections, who all had music blasting from their cars. Rock on, Iowa State Police!

I filled out my survey form for RAGBRAI, and when they asked if there was anything I’d improve or anything I thought wasn’t great, I couldn’t think of a thing. I know, me! The mind reels. The only annoyance was in the cyclists who refused to ride right and created dangerous situations at times – but I’m not sure what else the ride organizers could do about that other than reminding people oh, say, constantly, as they did. You just can’t fix stupid.

I’m not quite sure what I’ll remember most about the week, because it was such a blur of insane heat and humidity and yet total awesomeness. But one memory that does stand out is this – after I had stopped in one of our pass-through towns and was pressing on, I was doing my usual routine, of looking at the houses to see if there was anyone sitting out front that I could wave to, as there often was. Then I saw an elderly woman looking through the curtains at the spectacle outside her house, and so I waved to her. As soon as she saw me, she waved back, as excitedly as if the Pope himself were riding past. That is, if the Pope were a complete idiot, which apparently he’s not because I didn’t see him riding across Iowa the last week of July.

I’ll also think about how amazing it is that something like this can bring in much-needed cash to these small towns, as so many of these groups were raising money for things like a new roof for the church, equipment for the firefighters, a trip for the band. All great things that I was happy to support, just as I always tried to buy things from local sellers rather than some of the places that set up at every festival or country fair. This led me to trying smoked grilled peaches in Colfax, and a most excellent sno-kone in Elkhart, and buying more water and popsicles than a person should be allowed in a lifetime.

And yes, it was insanely hot and humid. Crazily so. This was in fact the 2nd hottest RAGBRAI week in the 39 years that this ride has been going on. But really, that just made it more epic - plus, I'd rather have insane heat any day over rain. Not only is rain sucky and dangerous for the cyclists, but it would have been horrible for all the townspeople to have all their efforts rained out. So heat? Yeah, bring it.

Something like this can’t really compare to the majesty of cycling in the Alps, or in the lush countryside of Mallorca – but then, it isn’t a fair comparison. RAGBRAI is indeed unique, and it stands on its own merits. If you love cycling and country roads and, well, all kinds of Americana in the unlikeliest of places, then this is the ride for you. And if it restores your faith in humanity a little tiny bit along the way, so be it.

And in the end, what’s the only way I can sum it all up? Yep, you guessed it.

Best. Week. Ever.

Davenport or bust!

Saturday

Whee, here we are, Saturday, and it’s time to pack up the tent one last time. Anyone who doesn’t understand the pure joy of that has never been camping for a week – in a different spot every night.

I tell Ann I’ll meet up with her in the town of West Branch, Land of Superlative French Toast, and off I go.

For the rest of my life, I’ll have a love-hate relationships with this small town in Iowa. Because it’s here that my superstar camera, which survived the calamitous fall from my bike at 40 mph, decides to stop working after I take a picture of a house and some flowers. Damn.

And yet, it is here, in this same small bucolic town that I meet a fine couple, the Petersens, who finally are able to show me what Iowa is all about.

That is, lying.

Okay, okay, maybe not. But this is how things unfold. I find the French toast church, and am gratified to see a long line, especially since this place is a block off the main street, and let’s face it, us cyclists, we’re a lazy bunch. Bike 500 miles across Iowa? Sure, but don’t expect us to walk a few feet to the other water fountain or porta-potty.

So I’m standing in line, and start chatting with this lovely couple in line ahead of me, who are in town to pick up their brilliant daughter. Why brilliant? Well, because she started the ride the day before, and after the long hot brutishness of that day, decided to have her parents pick her up in West Branch instead of slogging the rest of the way to Davenport. Hell, if I could get someone to do that for me, I probably would as well.

We’re talking, and then their daughter shows up, and she’s lovely as well, and after we get our food they invite me to join them at a table, which I do. Where the Petersen daughter (I don’t think I ever got her name – if I did I don’t remember it!) tells us that this heat in Iowa is worse than any time during the 2 years she was in the Peace Corps……..in Kenya. Yes, that’s how hot it is.

These are instantly my favorite people in the world, because really, what’s better than someone who validates your notion that you’ve been suffering more than anyone in the entire history of the world has suffered, that very week as you’ve sweated your way across an entire state in the grips of a massive and unrelenting heat wave? Nope, nothing better. I’m just sayin’.

And then Mr. Petersen makes the inevitable comment, as we start talking about the rest of that day’s route into Davenport.

“Oh, it’s not hilly from here on out.”

I look at him skeptically. Any and everyone who’s told us this during the week has been a) wrong, or b) delusional.

“I’m skeptical,” I tell him.

“No really! I promise! Oh sure, there are a few rollers, but that’s it, at least until you get into Davenport.”

Hmm. I want to believe them, I really do, but I’ve been burned sooo many times before. Still, they do invite me to stop on by if RAGBRAI ever goes through their own town of West Liberty – “we’re in the phone book!” they tell me. So at least if they’re lying I can track them down and have words.

Of course, they can track me down as well, since I tell them about my blog, but I assure them that any reference to "Iowa" and "hell" in the same sentence relates ONLY to the heat.

Which is true.

But I look at their nice, genuine, open faces and am lulled into a false sense of security. Plus, these wonderful people have watched me as I cut up my orange slices into small pieces and carefully ate them without having anything touch my lower lip - as I explain to them “Ah buhnt ma wower wip” – and are too polite to tell me that I’m completely retarded. So that’s a big plus in my book.

That is, until I set out again, and not 5 minutes later? Yes, a big hill. I shake my head sadly. “Et tu, Mr. Petersen, et tu??” I ponder what it is about the Iowa heartland that causes this kind of rampant fibbing – is it learned as children, when they’re describing how tall the corn is? The Margaret Mead in me wants to study this further, to get at the root cause of this proflig……oh. Oh, never mind. It’s flat all of a sudden. Thanks Mr. Petersen!

Iowa has one last kick in the teeth for us, however, in the form of a fierce headwind, the entire way back. Thank god there are still fun stops along the way, like the lovely town of Walcott, where I sit down next to the hand-carved glockenspiel to listen to some festive German music and rest my feet. I get into a discussion with a woman from the providers of said glockenspiel, the American Schleswig-Holstein Heritage Society, as she’s surprised that so many cyclists are so fascinated by this.

Me: Well, not only is it cool-looking and has fun music…but you’re also set up nicely in the shade here! That’s in great demand these days.

Woman: Oh, then I guess it’s a good thing we moved it from where they originally put it, out there by the ball field in the blazing sun.

Me: Trust me, that was an excellent idea.

Then I notice that I have a message from Adrienne, who wants me to call Melindy to make sure everything is okay, since our Cancerchicks haven’t heard from her since the night before. Which leads to probably the only time I’ll ever have a chance to say this in a conversation:

Me, to Melindy (who’s fine): Hey, it’s Tasha! I’m still in Iowa! Sorry it’s kind of hard to hear, but I’m sitting right next to the glockenspiel!

Eventually, after sitting there for a while and bobbing my head in time to the music along with everyone else, I set off again for Davenport. Where yes, it does get hilly again, but we’re almost at the end! Whee! But, boo. But, whee! But……wait. Shit, is that something wrong with my bike? It’s suddenly shifting like molasses, slow and clunky. Do NOT tell me there’s something wrong with my bike just 2 miles from the finish? I keep looking down, puzzled, trying to figure out what’s going on. Then I realize.

It’s so hot the tar is melting.

On that oh-so-appropriate note, I toodle on into Davenport, where our route takes us right to the riverbank, to dunk our tire in the Mississippi. Which I figure I might as well do, since I’m here and all. I do, and it’s pretty cool, and then more thanks to Mr. Petersen reminding me that St. Ambrose University is at the top of a big hill that’s around 12 blocks long. Because that’s where the charter company is dropping off our stuff, and so instead I get directions directly to the parking garage where I left my car a week ago.

Which takes me along the bike path that meanders along the river, and is a lovely way to end the week…..until another RAGBRAI cyclist heads into the path right in front of me. I do what’s usually considered the helpful thing in such circumstances – I scream – and she lurches out of the way.

Her, weakly: Heh heh, sorry about that….

Me: It’s okay. It’s been a really loooong week…..

Her: Yeah, and can you imagine if it would have ended like this, an accident at the very end…

Me:………on the bike path no less!

We both laugh, a little maniacally. Ah, the camaraderie of RAGBRAI lives on.

Ann did not have the benefit of the Petersens, and so after I get the car and happily drive up the hill to St. Ambrose, I meet up with her there some time later, cursing the route that ended on a big uphill. There’s clearly something to be said for chatting with the locals….

Next up: the aftermath….