T+89: Hay Daze

Mile 3010: MIDLAND, MI

We head out the next day with the idea that we should make a run for the border of Wisconsin, with the hope that the weather and luck would cooperate.  Fat chance. The wind continues hot, dry, and strong from the southeast.  The route has us going south, then east, south, then east.  Thinking I can outwit the wind, I have us turn on an alternate road, only to find that the bridge we needed to cross is out.  We wander, half lost, through farm roads, hoping we can make our way back to the route in a few miles.  We finally do make our way to the tiny town of Dalbo, but miss what is considered an essential stop on this route…the Adventure Cyclists’ Bunkhouse, where one of the founders of the organization has created a respite for cross country bikers.    We have been wrong so often today, there is no way we are backtracking up the hill to visit that respite. 

At Dalbo, we decide we have had enough of beat-up back roads that jar our bones and add extra miles.  We decide to follow Highway 95, a major cross state road that will take us through the Cambridge and North Branch.  It is Saturday.  This is farm country.   How busy could it be?  The answer is a lot.  It continues hot, and we are getting overheated, so we stop in a nice old tavern in Cambridge for a cold drink.  We better find a place to stay.  I start the search.  I call everything in North Branch, which is on Interstate 35.  Sold out.  I move up and down the Interstate, calling various establishments with 15 miles.  Sold out.  We try websites of motels in Cambridge.  No availability.  As a last final shot, I call the closest motel, just to see if the desk confirms what the website said.  The young voice at end of the line confirms that they are sold out, but….they just had a cancellation on a jacuzzi king at a high price.   Eeeek.  We take it.

When we get to the motel, we ask the impossibly young desk clerk, “What on earth is going on?  Why are there no rooms within 50 miles?”  It’s Hay Days, she says, certain we have an idea what that means.  What is Hay Days?  Why it’s the biggest event of the season around here.  People come from miles around, but especially Canada, to race their snowmobiles on alfalfa hay.   There are hundreds of contestants and many thousands of spectators.  Haven’t we ever heard of Hay Days?  It used to be here in Cambridge, but it got so big, they moved it over by North Branch.

The Crossing Motel is jumping, with all sorts of families bringing in bikes, and kids, and coolers.  There are groups of men drinking beer after beer on the porches outside.  Most of the cars do indeed have Canadian license plates.  A good many are pulling trailers.  There is a lot of noise up and down the halls.  It is clear that not only is the motel full, most rooms are full to capacity as well.  We decide to do our laundry as we have had to end our ride so early.  As I make my way down the hall, I look in one room and see a harried set of parents, luggage strewn everywhere, two kids jumping on the beds, and the cry, “What do you mean you don’t know where the tickets are?”

As luck would have it, the dryer fails to dry.  The perky young desk clerk, who also has to do the entire motel’s laundry, volunteers to dry our clothes in the industrial dryers.  She takes our damp clothes and tells me to check back in twenty minutes.  I do.  Still not in the dryer; things have been hectic.  I go again in another twenty minutes, then another, then another.   At this point, I figure it won’t get done until after things have quieted down for the night, so Wes and I decide to take advantage of the Jacuzzi.  We have just settled in when there is a knock at the door.  Wes answers it, wrapped in a towel.  The flustered desk clerk stammers,  “He…he…here’s your laundry.”

The next day we head out and the road is packed with Hay Days traffic.  We don’t think we have ever seen so many big pickup trucks pulling snowmobiles on trailers, or carrying them in their beds.  There is an edginess in the traffic, with lots of revved-up motors and unsafe passing, as individuals in the big string of traffic try to get to the race just a little quicker.   All along the way, anybody who has got anything to sell has got it out along the road.   There are garage sales, art sales, bake sales, innumerable snowmobiles, motorcycles, four-wheelers, farm equipment--a multi-mile yard sale.  Soon there are parking hawkers, trying to encourage drivers into their ad-hoc parking lots.  The prices climb from $5 to $10 to $20.  Finally, we are to the big cut hay field where the races are taking place.  We can hear them long before we can see them.

Off in the distance, we see numerous circus-size tents set around two hills which form the grounds.  One hill was for seating. The other, much lower, is the race track.  There are thousands of trailers, trucks, tents, and various kinds of transportation equipment between the race track and the road.  There are police on the roads directing traffic and shuttles running back and forth.  People are rushing about in a high state of excitement. 

Wes and I are flummoxed.  We had never even heard of grass snowmobiling 24 hours ago.  Of course, it is our special kind of luck to be cycling through its premier event.  A few miles past the agitation and noise of thousands of snowmobiles circling in a cut alfalfa field, I spot a little shop that says, Amelund Mercantile: Coffee, Housewares, Baked Goods, Fresh Eggs—Since 1910.  Looks like our kind of place. 

We go in and meet Anna.  She is a registered nurse who works in Minneapolis, but who commutes back and forth to her hometown to care for her elderly parents and this store.  She has just purchased a domestic espresso maker and is interested in getting our feedback on her efforts.  The building has been the center of this little Swedish community since its founding.  There are lots of interesting dishes and odds and ends.  I wander about, picking up plates, looking at embroidery, trying on wool jackets.  I feel a little homesick.  

A young, tall, heavy-set woman of about 19 comes in to share news with Anna, but upon seeing, stops in her tracks, apologizes and very nearly leaves.  Anna tells her it’s ok, that we’re just having coffee.  She blushes, self-conscious around strangers.  However, it is not long until we are busily chatting.  She loves the Hay Days and all the excitement it brings.  She tells us that it brings in 250,000 people over the whole week and that there are contestants from Alaska and Washington State, and from every province in Canada.   

She is less excited to talk about the economy around here, especially about something as boring as farming, which she has done every day of her life.  We talk about the drought just north of here and she tells us they will only get three cuttings of hay this year.  Finally, she pulls Anna aside and whispers the news she came to share.   Anna returns to us and tells us they are planning a baby shower.  She tells us how worried she is about this little town surviving.  Most of the young people have moved to Minneapolis, just as she had in her younger days.  She expects to stay at her job as a union nurse a few more years, then she will be back full time in Amelund and in this little store.  She shakes her head, “Keeping my family and this little town together, that’s what it’s all about for me.”

She points out the prettiest way to return to highway and watches us go, waving and smiling.  We felt honored to meet her.  This was the Minnesota we had expected to meet.  We are glad we did.  Ten miles down the road, we cross the St. Croix River and enter Wisconsin.  Immediately, the energy and the story changes.  But that’s a story for another day.

..........................

posted from Midland, MI

T+89: The Good, the Bad, and the Odd in Minnesota

Mile 3010: Midland, MI

After leaving Sauk Centre, we continued on the Lakes to Marshes path until it intersected with the Lake Wobegon Path, which has two arms.  The first continues south until just outside Minneapolis/St. Paul.  The second turned north and went through farmland and crossed the upper reaches of the Mississippi.  We took the northern route.

All throughout North Dakota, we had become expert at spotting the water towers (or water balls, as I like to call them) of towns towards which we headed.   Seeing that water ball provided a boost of energy in the last three or four miles of biking before a break.  (air conditioning! cool drinks!)  In this part of Minnesota, we see church spires first.  The further south we go, the larger and more epic the Catholic churches become.  In many parts of our trip so far, Catholic churches were absent or tiny.   

Covered bridge on Lake Wobegon Trail

At Albany, we turn north and follow the Lake Wobegon trail through cute little villages surrounded by corn fields or marshes.  We start to notice that the marshes are dry and the corn looks parched.  It is hot, but the wind is at our back because we are going north, so we tool right along.  We are heading to the town of Little Falls, where we cross the Mississippi and then turn east again to cross the state.  About ten miles from Little Falls, we enter the hamlet of Bowlus.  It has a very sweet town park; Wes wants to stop in the shade and drink some water.  We start to pull into the picnic area when we look across the street and see Jordie’s Trailside Café: Coffee and Homemade Desserts

Everyone who knows Wes will recognize the he has spent nearly every day of his life for the past five years at Jordi’s Café con Leche in Detroit.  There is no way we are not going in this cute brick café.  Inside, we drink glass after glass ice tea with lime and visit with Sonya, the daughter of the owner, Jordie.  Sonya hauls out notebook after notebook of notes and records of long-distance bicyclists who have stopped by on this route.  They have a particular fondness for this type of traveler and have maintained relationships with several for many years.   Sonya, laughing, tells me I have to go see the men’s bathroom.  It is a completely over the top shrine to the Twins baseball team.  All the wall space is covered with player photos, pennants, schedules, and posters.  There must be at least a dozen stuffed animals in Twins uniforms.  

The whole place is very frilly, funky, and comfortable, with real tablecloths, real but unmatched dishes, and a stream of folks in and out to say hi.  Sonya asks where we are staying.  Before we can answer, she says, “Why don’t you stay here?  Lots of cyclists camp in the garden around back.  We’re having a pasta and pizza buffet tonight.  It’ll be fun.”   Wes and I look at each other.   We are pretty far from our mileage goal, but this place is pretty special and a night without a hotel cost would be good, soooo….

They show us to the garden.  It is magical.  They have created a water fall, with pools full of koi, surrounded by rocks and teaming with all sorts of flowers.  There are numerous little angels and cheerful signs.  Why the effect is not cloying, I can’t comprehend.  Instead, it is pretty, and peaceful, and welcoming.  I set up shop on a covered, rocking picnic table.  Wes grabs a newspaper, finds a nook, and settles into to one of his favorite pastimes. 

Two older bicyclists stop by to see if Jordie’s can cater their next big ride.  They are fascinated by our trip and equipment and we are fascinated by them and their bikes.  They are both well into their 70’s, seemingly a pair, although they strongly emphasize that they do not live in the same town.  They belong to a bike club whose youngest member is 55 and whose patriarch is 85.  “On the Tuesday rides, he’ll stay with the pack and make sure everyone is doing all right, but on the Friday rides, forget it!  Nobody can keep up with him.”   They are both small, slight people.  The woman is about my size.  They are riding Giant road bikes.  She offers to let me give her bike a try.  I step on her tiny clip pedals, press a few strokes, and cannot believe how far I have gone.  The pick-up and pull on this bike is astonishing.  It would be easy to maintain a pace of 15-20 miles an hour on this thing.   I am jealous.  Of course, there is no way this light and powerful bike could pull or carry a load.   But we surely could make better time if our average running speed was greater than 10 miles an hour.

All the food at Jordie’s is handmade, mostly by Sonya.  This includes the pizza dough and some of the pastas.  None of the food is very fancy or elaborate, but it is delicious and thoughtfully presented.  We choose to eat in a little alcove of the main dining room, where we can watch the steady stream of locals come in, get hugs, eat pizza and pasta, and gossip.  This is obviously a community center.  While in the alcove, we see a little shrine and read a framed and mounted newspaper article with the headline, “Jordie’s Trailside Café opens in a muted affair.”  The article tells that the brick building, now so cute and ruffly, had been a longtime railside bar, owned by Jordie and her fiancé Mike.  Drinking apparently got the best of Mike and he died from his alcoholism.  Jordie decided she would never serve anyone another drink of alcohol, closed the bar, and with the help of her daughter created the café which would be dedicated to hope and wholesomeness.  Now it is a haven of poetry, music, gardening, and homegrown food, with a constant throng of diners, visitors, and gardeners.

We have a nice sleep on the grass to the sound of the little waterfall.  We have a hard time dragging ourselves away the next morning, staying for breakfast and watching a several groups of construction workers come into this frilly place for their sausage, eggs and homemade bread.   We push off on the bike trail, headed up to the Mississippi River.   While riding, we visit with two middle-aged women on slow, heavy bikes, who like so many women when they hear of our long ride, exclaim, “Doesn’t your butt get sore?”  I tell them yes, it does and give them advice on managing the pain.   I think they are shocked at my strategies and realizing that discomfort is part of the package.

At the bridge, Wes stops to get his video camera to film this most momentous of river crossings.  He is effusively disgusted to find out that his GoPro camera has no charge even though it has not been used since the last charge.  This is a real irritant with this device.  I can see that these good farm women from Minnesota are very uncomfortable with this display of emotion.  They hurriedly make their goodbyes and rush off as fast as their slow, comfy bikes can take them.

Once again, the dear little Veer phone saves the day and we are able to film the river crossing.  On the other side of the river, we realize we have made a big mistake.  This trail ends on US Highway 10, a super busy divided highway, full of trucks and cars going full speed.  We have gone about six miles too far to the north and now have to travel on the shoulder, facing a stiff headwind, to get back on the right track.  It is really awful cycling.

We spot a road to the east and decide to bail.  We wander through back lanes and finally make our way back to where we should have been, having wasted 12 miles and a bunch of energy fighting the wind. 

Back on track, we head east, climbing and falling through a series of back roads where the crops are becoming increasing burnt.  There are whole fields of dead and dry soybeans; corn stalks with little, bent heads chatter in the hot, dry wind pouring in from the southeast.  We are in the farm lands of central Minnesota and seeing firsthand the effects of the severe drought in this region.  It is the first topic of conversation in every shop or bar.   There was too much rain in May and June; planting was delayed.  There has been no rain since late June.   Most farmers have no capacity to irrigate. All they can do is watch their crops thirst to death.

There are very few cafes in this part of the state.  Here and in Wisconsin, food is available in almosy exclusively in taverns.   We stop for lunch in a non-descript bar in Ramey, MN.  The customers are a group of farmers.  I hear one lament, “Last year, I was getting 360 bushels of corn to the acre.  This year, I will be lucky to get 60.” 

There is one young woman working.  She is the bartender, store clerk, and cook.  We ask about the special and she tells us it is chicken wild rice soup with a grilled cheese sandwich.  Sounds good.  Twenty minutes later she returns and we know for sure we are not at Jordie’s.   The soup is a gloppy combination of barely heated cream of chicken soup, Cheez whiz, and cold wild rice.  The sandwich is probably Kraft singles on margarine soaked Wonder bread.  It is a rare day when Wes can’t eat, but this is one of them.

 We fight our way down to the town of Milaca, where we have another odd experience.

The town has two choices for lodging.  One is a Motel 8 out on the highway.  The other is the Phoenix Hotel in town.  The Phoenix is a mixed used re-development of the former high school.  In addition to small retail, some condos, and a Pizza Hut, the high school is now a convention center and hotel with an almost hidden entrance.  The layout is peculiar, and our room is through a twisty turny hall on the second floor.  The hotel clerk tells us not to leave our bikes outside, they will surely be stolen and that there is plenty of space in our room.  We clonk our bikes and BOBs up the elevator into our odd room which has a giant bathroom foyer upon entering, then two beds with two televisions around the corner.  

We settle in for the evening and I tell Wes I would like a glass of wine while I work on my blogs.  Wine and beer are only sold in state liquor stores in Minnesota.  We are told the store is just six blocks up the street outside the hotel.  We set out walking, and the blocks and sidewalks soon disappear. Then there are no streetlights.  We walk on and on.  No store.  This feels more and more like a goose-chase.  We walk all the way out to the highway.  No liquor store.  We give up and buy ice tea at a Hardee’s and walk back, having never seen the store.  By the time we get back to our twisty-turny room, we’re done.

We hope for better day and a passage into Wisconsin the next day.  However, this is Minnesota and nothing goes quite as planned for us in this state …but that is a story for another post.

...........................

posted from Midland, Michgan

T+84: The Ghost at Sauk Centre

Mile 2842: Ludington, MI

The Muddle through Minnesota continues:


Wes on the Lake and Marshes Trail



The next day we return to the Lake and Marshes trail, which is a 100 miles rails-to-trails conversion.  I realize that complaining about such a wonderful thing as a paved and marked bicycle trail is sheer ingratitude, but we find the mile after mile of flat grades next to cornfields rather boring.  We tell stories and play games to pass the time.  One such game: which letter of the alphabet begins the name of the most states?  It takes us quite a while to figure out that N and M are the dominant letters, each with 8 states.  (N: Nevada, New Mexico, Nebraska, North Dakota, New York, New Jersey, North Carolina, New Hampshire,  M: Montana, Minnesota, Michigan, Maine, Massachusetts, Maryland,  Missouri, Mississippi.  It gets worse.  The next tier is A’s, I’s, and W’s.) In our boredom, we have become characters in a Samuel Beckett novel, playing mind and number games to occupy the time.

Another thing that occupies our minds is trying to figure out where we will stay.  As the trip has transisted into more of an inn-to-inn ride, we spend our breaks peering at motel websites, trying to figure out where to stay.   Sometimes there is no choice (as in the only motel within miles), but often we do have a choice.  Often, we choose horribly.  In general, we choose the individual and local over a chain.  That, too, introduces a level of chance which sometimes works in our favor, sometimes not.

When we read the website for the Palmer House hotel, I was intrigued because it was a restored historic hotel.  As I dug through the website, it became clear that it was selling two other attractions.  The town of Sauk Centre is the hometown of Sinclair Lewis, and his Main Street is very much based on his experiences there.   The second is that the hotel is often featured as an active haunting site and was recently the focus of a television program.  Guests can pay extra money to conduct paranormal research in the hotel.   Every bit of that sounds more intriguing than a chain motel on the freeway, and it is just off our bike path, so that is where we will stay.

We stop by the house where Sinclair Lewis was raised.  It is a big two story Victorian, with a large wooden sign out front.  It says that Lewis was a sickly child that everybody teased and who was not as popular as his doctor father and adored elder brother.  It acknowledges that he received the Nobel Prize for literature.  It says that after his success with Main Street and Babbett,  his talent declined and he ended his life impoverished and alone in Italy.  I guess when you diss your hometown in Nobel prize winning literature, they don’t feel any obligation to respect you as they simultaneously promote you.

The hotel is a big brick edifice in a downtown struggling to stay viable.  The proprietor who effusively greets us looks like a barely reformed hippie, and she tells us we can store our bikes and gear in the alcove of the dining room, which is closed for the night.  They will be serving dinner in the bar.  There are about 20 rooms available, all the second floor.  We choose a slightly bigger one, then climb the steep stairs, walk down the expansive and antique-filled hall, and enter our oddly designed room.  While all the furnishings are nice, often antique, the layout is peculiar.  There are essentially three rooms: an L-shaped foyer and bathroom in front, and a small bedroom in back.

We go into the nearly empty bar.  It is well appointed, with wooden tables and big comfy couches.  The solid oak bar stretches thirty feet and is backed by an enormous mirror and elaborate set of cabinets.   It is dark and relaxing-- exactly inviting for the travelling salesmen for whom this establishment was designed. 

We are chatting with the bartender, when a slightly sketchy looking man comes and sits next to Wes.  He is burly, with long, formerly black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.  The conversation begins with the usual pleasantries, as strangers find out about each other.  e isHe

 He is originally from Michigan, but left long ago to join the army, and has been living in Sauk Centre for many years.  We ask about his army service.  He tells us he first did heavy artillery maintenance during Desert Shield in the 1990’s.  I ask if he retired from the army, and he launches into the following story. 

After serving in Kuwait, he was sent back to Fort LaJeune, where he became a sergeant grade 7 in the heavy equipment maintenance division.  When he was in Kuwait, he only served with men who served or serviced the front line, but stateside, he had to serve with a platoon of females.  (He peers intently at Wes while saying this, looking for a specific response which does not come.)   He tells how he got hauled up in front of the commander for talking about their asses.  “All I said was that they needed to get up off their asses and get to work!”  The commander sympathized and told him he needed to better communicate with and understand the people he was supervising.  He decided they needed to practice a bivouac, so gets the group of about 20 women to go set up a full camp on a football field about 3 miles from their barracks.  After a full week of work, they were supposed to camp for the weekend on the field. (He didn't mention what they were doing for bathrooms and showers.) 

Apparently the bivouac goes badly.  One of the women, Shaniqua, he emphasizes while again peering oddly at Wes, has tampon problems and leaves the bivouac to go back to her place for a shower.  This apparently starts a trend.  Soon, the whole group of women leave and return to barracks.  He says, “If it had been men, we’d a gone out in the woods, and they never would a left.” 

I try to point out that camping on a football field in town would seem ridiculous to many women.  That is not the response he wants.  He repeats, again, how Shaniqua caused the big problem.  He leans into Wes, looking for sympathy, looking for agreement.  Wes doesn’t play.  He stares at us with big eyes, pushes his unfinished drink away, and stalks out the door. 

When he leaves, the bartender says.  “He’s really a nice guy…and one of the best cooks in town. He comes in here most every night.” 

We return to our room shortly thereafterward and have a nice sleep.  The next morning, after sheepishly retrieving our bikes from the now open dining room, we set off.  We may not have seen a ghost at the Palmer Hotel, but we surely encountered a spirit from the past.

……………..

Posted from Midland, MI

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!

T+76: Dash Across North Dakota, Part 2

Mile 2427: MILACA, MN

The story continues….

The only place in the town of Hazelton to get any prepared food is at the Cenex gas station, so we make our way back there, order some food and are completely ignored by the men’s coffee klatch.  The same can’t be said for another long distance bicyclist who straggles in from the heat.  We smile as he goes through the drill with them: “Where you coming from?  Where are you going?  When did you start?  How many miles a day do you make?”  After their questions, we invite him to sit at our table. 

Jeff at the Honey Hub in Gackle, ND
 

This is Jeff Banascek, riding alone across the country.  He began at Anacortes, WA and is following the Northern Tier route, but will end his trip in Washington, DC.  He has never taken a long distance trip before and we are surprised that he has chosen such a big trip for his first effort.  He is on and off the phone, in conversation with his wife, who is serving as Mission Central, making reservations for him, providing guidance on the route, and tracking his every move with a special app that allows her to see where he is.  He was a longtime employee for US Cellular, who just shed hundreds of employees, including engineers like him.  So even though he has only been married a few years and has a young son of just 17 months, they have decided that his break in employment is the time for him to fulfill his lifelong dream.

We compare notes on the trip, commiserate about the monster passes in Washington, moan about the brutal heat and lack of trees, and generally enjoy each other’s company.   The only “accommodation” in Hazelton is camping the city park.   Jeff, feeling as overheated as we did when we first arrived, decides to stay there.  We decide to push on another 26 miles to Napoleon…the next place there is a motel.  However, we promise to reconnect in Gackle, where there a remarkable man named Justin has created a bicyclist’s respite.

Outside of Hazelton, we begin seeing a series of potholes, ponds, and lakes full of the most amazing variety of birds:  many different kinds of ducks, geese, terns, great blue herons, egrets, even pelicans.  There are two big lakes just outside of Napoleon.  We arrive at dusk, and the amount of life in the air as we pass between the lakes and their surrounding marshes is amazing.  There are dragonflies zipping about, frogs plopping in and out, fish rising in numerous concentric circles, swallows zooming around.  Terns are circling furiously in some sort of feeding frenzy.   It is really exciting for two weary travelers who have ridden 74 miles to that point.

The next day we rendezvous with Jeff at Gackle.  Jeff reports that he spent a miserable night at Hazelton, with a very local big rain and wind that kept him up most of the night.  We are all staying at Jason Miller’s Honey Hub: A Bicyclist’s Respite.  Even though Jason and his wife Ginny have left to return to California, they keep their basement and garage open for passing bicyclists.  It’s good thing, too, as there are no motels in town.  With the temperatures way up in the 90’s, a cool basement respite is just that.  We wash clothes and visit.  Jeff is awkward about sleeping in the same dorm bedroom as Wes and I, so sleeps on the couch. It doesn’t look too comfortable. 

We find out more about his life.  He is married to a Sesali, which is a variation of the name Sisalu, which the Indonesian government forced this ethnic Chinese family named Li (or Lee) to adopt.  They were Christians in that very Muslim country and after threats and violence, were able to seek asylum in the US.  The ended up moving to Iowa, where Sesali graduated from college and eventually met her husband through Match.com.  These two are pretty connected technologically.  Not only are they on the phone quite often, they are jointly plotting each move with various computer applications.

Jeff is following the Adventure Cycling maps less and less.  He tells of us a 100 mile bike trail in Minnesota that he is taking and that is included on his map, but not on ours.   I was more than a little bemused to find out that we had be sent 3 year old, out of date maps.  Jeff was going to bee-line to Fergus Falls, where he would have a rendezvous with wife and child.  He couldn’t see the point of going north only to go south.  In the meantime, we all still had to make it out of North Dakota. 

We were up and gone before Jeff was awake, but lost valuable cool time by stopping for breakfast at the slowest café we have seen.  One grizzled man was the entire staff.  The café was full of people: a very large men’s coffee klatch---and a table of women!  While we wait and wait to order, then to eat, we visit with the locals, who ask about the trip and are surprised to learn that a national bike path now goes through their town.  One says, “I wondered why we kept seeing so many people on bikes these days.  Useta be a right rare thing.”

About 30 miles outside of town, we stop in the shade of a rare tree to drink some water and eat an apple.  A youngish woman with blonde hair comes over to investigate.  She tells us that they are preparing her parents’ dairy farm for auction after 40 years of operation.  A corporation has purchased the land and will turn it into crop production.  She seemed quite emotional about the whole process and would have continued talking, we guess, but took her leave when none other than Jeff rides up.  He has caught up to us, despite leaving hours later, once again proving that we are the slowest bicyclists on the route.  He tells us that his wife has booked a room in the next town, and that if we want one, we better hurry because it there was only one room left.  I go to make the call….but, of course, no service.  We have to trust to our luck.

We get to the little town of Enderlin after a run of 77 miles and then have no luck.  No room at the Inn.  There is an old hotel we could try.  I call.  The owner is gone for his birthday; there are no rooms available.  When we see it later, we are relieved.  It is a wreck, with broken windows and torn curtains.   Camping is preferable.  Jeff offers us floor space in his room, but we know he has not had good rest for two nights and he has seldom gotten a room, so we demur.  We make a camp in the city park, next to the inevitable train tracks.  Jeff stops by our camp after dinner. We visit a bit, say our good byes and wonder if we will ever cross paths again.  Probably not. We put our tent on the gazebo, and it is a good thing we did because there was a big windstorm that knocked down branches and blew over garbage cans in the night. 

The next day we are faced with a choice.  It is the beginning of the Labor Day weekend.  Do we go to Fargo/Moorhead?  Or should we leave the route, and take the longer freeway ride to Wahpeton, ND, like Jeff is doing.  Wahpeton is south and much closer to the bike trail in Fergus Falls, MN.  We choose Fargo because we have some bike maintenance to do.  We ride down in the nearly flat valley of the Red River.  The air is heavy and it feels like we are riding in a lake bed, because we are.  Many of the businesses in the little towns are already closed for the holiday.  It is hard to find a place to buy food. 

We make it to Fargo, and get the new bike shorts I need.  My bike shorts are now much too big.  They are like wearing a big wet diaper and are rubbing me raw.  Wes has also finally consented to bike clips.  I told him one million times they would make it easier for him.  I think Jeff’s gentle mockery of riding without clips turned the tide. 

They also give instructions how to get to our motel in Moorhead, via linear bike path on the Red River.  When we get to the Roger Maris memorial park and begin taking the bike trail, we are both super excited.  We see a grey squirrel for the first time on this trip; we ride under oak trees and crunch their many acorns, the first hardwoods since we left!  We pass groups of young men who look Ethiopian and see women in hijab.  It feels like home! 

We miss our turn and end up going much too far on the trail, then getting lost as we try to find our way back.  By the time we get to the not-so Grand Inn, we have covered 66 miles that day.  The line of customers in the motel are all people of color, and the young Bengali behind the desk is none too efficient.  However, the room is great and cheap, and we so excited to have made it to Minnesota.  We have covered 215 miles in the past three days. We are tired and will need a day to rest.  But we have made it across the plains before September 1.

We had been so afraid of that passage across the Great Plains.  Even though we still have lots of farm land to go, we are now half-way across the nation.  We are proud of ourselves and relieved that we are done facing those miles and miles with no trees, no shade, and no water.  We try to remind ourselves that Minnesota is north of Iowa, but still, for the first time on this trip, we feel certain we can make it all the way.