T+83: Muddle Through Minnesota

Mile 2715: WAUSAU, WI

Note:  As our sense of urgency has increased, along with our fitness and mileage, it has become more and more difficult to keep up with the blog.  At the end of the day, especially those days with mileage well over 50 miles, it is hard to find the energy to focus my brain and write.  So here I am, in the middle of Wisconsin, Wes snoring a few feet away, telling the tale of our surprisingly unsatisfying trip across Minnesota.

Perhaps it was the let-down after our jubilation on the Red River and seeing so many signs of home.  We also think that our image of Minnesota did not correspond to the reality we traversed.  

We left early on Labor Day, following our out-of-date Adventure Cycling maps on a route taking us east through the Detroit Lakes area.   A few miles out of town, we were joined by a road cyclist in full regalia who rode alongside us for six or seven miles.  Road cyclists generally ignore touring cyclists; many times they don’t even wave or acknowledge our presence on the road.  They are out for speed and exercise; the load and rather plodding pace of a touring cyclist is an anathema. The first time a road cyclist joined us was two days before.  A super-fit middle aged woman turned around, crossed the road, and cycled with us a mile or so as we were heading into Fargo. This cyclist is a man in his mid-sixties, and we talk about our trip, then Wes and he move on to the economy. 

He is the owner of an appliance retail business in Fargo.  His business is just now starting to stabilize after years of difficulty.  He said he didn’t think he would be able to retire for years.  When he found out that we lived in Michigan, he railed at us about “what a rotten town Benton Harbor was.”  He couldn’t understand why Whirlpool let it deteriorate so much.  He was strongly anti-union, and blamed the union for the decline of Maytag.   When I tried to point out that unions don’t make decisions about how companies are run, he pooh-poohed me, and told a story how the union wouldn’t let the company use automation to put instruction packets in the washtub.  I tried to point out that the union’s goal was maintaining a job for a member, but that it was management’s job to deploy the employees wisely.  He wasn’t having it…from me…a stupid female who couldn’t possibly understand how things work in the big bad man’s world.  

Wes notes that a union worker is a professional worker.   Our fellow rider snorts at the idea, then sarcastically said he "respectfully disagreed."   Wes offers that being a member of the teacher’s union has greatly improved our life and his job.  To our great surprise, he says that his wife is a teacher and member of her union at the college where she teaches.  While he was glad she had good benefits and would get a pension, he surely did not think factory or government workers should get pensions.  That was what was hurting the economy right now. 

Just before he takes leave of us, he gives us hugely elaborate instructions about where we should cycle.  “Go down this road, until you pass this site, turn just past x street….” On and on, through five or six turnings.   Our eyes glaze over and we know we will never be able to remember what he is telling us.  He turns off and we breathe a sigh of relief.  We laugh that this is our version of the Labor Day parade.

The ride into the Detroit Lakes area is really pretty.  There are a lot of people out enjoying the beautiful cool and sunny day.  When we stop at a pub for lunch, not one person asks us about our trip.  This is a rarity.   A few miles down the road, I stop my bike and cross the road to take a photo of sailboats on the lake.  A truck pulling a motorboat stops just opposite me.  I start to scurry away, thinking I am creating a hazard.  The driver says, “I see you followed my instructions.  Are you enjoying your ride?”   I say, “Are you the guy who rode with us early this morning?”  He is.  We talk about how pleasant the ride has been.   Noting his boat, I say, “It looks like you are going to have fun this afternoon.”  He says, “Oh, I’m just taking this boat out of the water.  I’ll leave my other boat in for a few more weeks.”   As I return to my bike and we get ready to ride on, he issues another string of route instructions.   As we go down the road and have to negotiate a tricky series of turns, we remember and use his accurate guidance.

We are still feeling good when we make our way to the little town of Pelican Rapids.  About 3 miles outside of town, Wes has a flat.  As we pull out the tack, we note that there are places on his back tire where it is so worn that the green interlining is showing.  He will need a new tire before he has a blow-out.  The next bike shop is in Fergus Falls, which is about 18 miles away.  Should we try to make it there tonight?

This is where we make the first of many mis-steps in Minnesota.  We have already gone more than 45 miles, and the traffic is quite heavy with holiday makers leaving the resort communities of the Detroit Lakes area, so we decide to stay.  We ride down the steep hill to the town center.  Building after building is closed.  There were formerly three restaurants in town; all are now out of business.  The only place to eat is the McDonald’s within a gas station.   We wander up and down the streets, and note that there are only a few businesses beyond the McDonald’s open this Labor Day: a dulceria (candy store) with Spanish language signs, a halal butcher shop, and the Minnesota state liquor store.   The only motel is back up the hill, next to a formidable looking factory.  Back up the hill we go, get a room at the okay Pelican Motel and realize that we will be hearing the roaring of the condensers in the turkey processing factory all night. 

The next morning, anticipating a hot day, we are up before dawn and on the road just as the sun is starting to peak over the horizon.  We are hungry and out of food, but neither of us want McDonald’s for breakfast.  Surely there will be a mom and pop café on this tourist route into Fergus Falls.  We cycle through numerous small towns.  Nothing.  Also, my back brake is sticking and my various tweaks to get it to release are not working.  We finally stop at a little gas station to get something…at this point anything…to eat.  Wes gets a bean burrito, which upsets his stomach. I get a microwave breakfast sandwich which upsets mine.  McDonald’s would have been better. 

I mess around with my brakes while Wes grows more and more impatient.  The more I mess with it, the worse it gets.  Disgusted and tired of Wes’ complaining, I completely release the brake.  I will have it looked at when Wes gets his tire changed.   We cross a series of steep ridges and have to cross under I-94 to get to Fergus Falls.  About 3 miles (again!) outside of town, I look behind me.  No Wes.  I wait a while.  No Wes.  I make my way back up the hill (of course).  He is bent over his bike, taking everything out of his Bob trailer.  The trailer has a flat. 

As the sun starts to beat, we fix the flat and start down the hill.  Bump, bump, bump.  The patch didn’t hold.   Take everything back apart, fix the flat again.  This time we are super attentive to every step: really rough around hole, wait the full two minutes after applying the glue before affixing the patch, press the patch evenly on all sides, ensure the tube is not twisted when being returned to the tire.  This time it works. 

We arrive on the northwest side of town and have a long, somewhat confusing ride to the center of the town.  When we get there, we see it is one of cutest towns we have seen in a very long time.  There are lots of nice looking restaurants.  We are really hungry as we didn’t get dinner the night before and our so-called food from the gas station is long-gone.  I call the one bike shop in town to get instructions how to get there.  We think we should drop the bikes off, then get a bite to eat while Wes’ bike gets its tire and tune up, and I get my brakes adjusted.  

We leave the quaint downtown with its nice shops, charming restaurants, and lovely streetscape and start following the directions to the bike shop.  We are following a very rough road when I hear a SPROING!  I stop the bike and ask Wes “What the hell was that?”  We don’t see anything and keep going.   The route to the bike shop is taking us well out of town.  All along the way, we are passing marshes and the frog and turtle carnage on the side of the road is appalling.  We are nearly out of town and still have not gotten to the turn to the bike shop. 

It is now after 1pm; it is hot; we still have not eaten.   I call the bike shop again.   Keep coming.  You will see a highway, passing through an industrial area, take that road.  When you see a furniture store, we are in the next building.  There is a bike trail instead of the busy highway, so we take that.  About a mile down the road, I spot the furniture store and go up on the highway.  Wes is well ahead of me and disappears around the bend.  When I get to the bike shop in a nondescript industrial building 3 or 4 miles southeast of downtown, Wes is nowhere to be seen.   I try to call him.  No answer.  I have no idea where he went.  A little while later, he calls me.  He has gone back to the junction.  He makes his way back to the bike shop and we make arrangements for the repairs.   We ask about a place to eat and are disappointed to hear that the closest place is a Subway back at the junction, a walk of over a mile.  Any stores nearby?  No.  We have a pop machine and some Lance Armstrong endorsed energy bars. 

The older bike guy starts work on my brakes while we get high on the sugar from pop and energy bars.  We find out that the SPROING was a broken spoke and reason my brakes were rubbing was that my wheel was going out of true.  A little adjustment has become a much bigger repair.  There are problems with Wes’ repairs.   The bike tech is having trouble getting the antique friction shifters to reach all the gears.  Time is slipping by.  Our decision not to walk to the sandwich shop now looks foolish as we wait and wait. 

At about 3 pm, we finally get on the road.   The “little maintenance” job took two hours and costs more than $100.  We have been traveling since 6 am and have made 24 miles.  The only good news is that we are right next to the bike trail we will be riding on for the next few days.   The bike trail is nice.  It is mostly shaded and passes next to a variety of small lakes and ponds.  We are relieved because it is over 90 degrees.   We are going along fine and have travelled about 5 miles when I feel the thump of—yes, you guessed it….a flat tire on my back tire. 

There is a big slit on the tube, so we decide to change the tube, only to discover that the folks back in Medora gave us the wrong size tube. We are not happy campers.   We have to fix the flat.  We put the patch on and resume biking.  It fails.  Wes is thoroughly disgusted by this point and even more unhappy when he sees that I placed the patch incorrectly.   Bicyclists on the path are either giving us wide berth or asking if we need help, brave souls that they are.   We fix the flat again, for the 4^th time that day.

We finally get to eat around 5 pm at a small tavern in a cute little town just off the path.  Once again, no one speaks to us.  It is getting late and we have not travelled very far.   Our Adventure Cycling map doesn’t follow the bike trail, so we have no clue about accommodations or camping.  The next town of Ashby is about 15 miles away and the bike trail sign says that there is lodging there.  We get to town and is getting close to dusk.  We are directed to a bed and breakfast and discover it is closed.  I check my phone and discover there are a variety of resorts listed.  The first one is 10 miles away, well off our path.  The second is just two miles away, just off the path, and yes, they have a room. 

We hurry there just as the sun is going down.  The lakeside resort mostly has cabins, but they are not ready after the Labor Day rush, so we are put in the little old motel that is part of the property.   We stow our bikes and go to watch the beautiful sunset over the lake.   We sit in the swing and try to let go the stress of the day.   It is a beautiful spot and a lovely red sunset.  When it is mostly down, we go to the cruddy little room with a view of the propane tank, and discover the bed is a floppy, wobbly wreck with the cheapest, most plastic sheets and blankets imaginable.  Wes conks out, but I struggle and wrestle with the bed until I finally give up and pull out the camping stuff to sleep, and putting an end to this fairly rotten day on the bikes.

More mudding through Minnesota to come….

Posted from Ludington, Michigan!