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We left early on Labor Day, following our out-of-date Adventure Cycling maps on a route taking us east through the Detroit Lakes area.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+71: Dash across North Dakota, Part 1

Mile 2180: MOORHEAD, MN

After the difficulties, delays, and delights at the borderlands between Montana and North Dakota, both Wes and I are worried about time slipping by.   We plan to leave our lovely room in Medora around 6 am.  We climb out of the bottom of the badlands and travel about 12 miles to the incredible view at the Painted Desert viewpoint, when we hear a beep.beep.beeping of a car.  We turn to look and it is Terrie and Ricki, our original benefactors, coming to say goodbye and wish us well.  We exchange numbers and emails and hugs.  They drive off and we press on.

The route has us riding Interstate 94, which is both fast and kind of hateful.  The shoulder is very wide, but there is lots of debris. It is amazing what we see along the sides of the road.  More cans and bottles that you can imagine.  All manner of dead animals, especially deer, raccoons, and countless birds.  I have been keeping count of the number of single shoes I see: 38 thus far.  As we pass the fields of corn, soybeans, and wheat, we are also crossing fields of grasshoppers.  Some seem suicidal, jumping into our rolling wheels.  We note that grasshoppers are cannibals and can be seen eating the carcasses of their brethren.  There are clothes, and bags, and innumerable cell phone bits.

At Dickinson, ND, a rapidly growing boomtown with a giant plastic land on its outskirts, we hang out in various fast food joints while we wait for the temperature to drop below 90 degrees.  We agonize whether to stay on the interstate or take the route through the farmland.   At around 5pm, with temperature still over 90 degrees, we come to a crossroads.  Do we stay on the somewhat hateful but fast interstate, or do take the scenic backroads which are more beautiful and interesting, but much more difficult.   As the founders of a theatre dedicated to the creation of new work, which do you think we take?  The unofficial motto of Matrix Theatre Company, as we jokingly say, is  “We do it the hard way.”  You know we took the scenic route, though we were tempted by the fast and ugly route.

We head out, over hill and dale.  It is Sunday, and we did not pick up any food in Dickinson, assuming we can stop in the little town of Taylor when we get there.  By the time we are ten miles out of Taylor, we are out of energy.  We count the miles to the little town. When we get the town itself, everything is closed.  It is still another 15 miles to the next stop, where we plan to stay.  Running on empty is a damn good way to lose weight.   As we approach the little town of Richardton, we see for miles a beautiful double spired granite church building.  It is a Benedictine Abbey, tall and elegant against the evening sky.  It seems out of place in this land of corn and sunflowers.  We find out later, much later, that the Abbey takes guests.  (We are jealous when we hear this.) We get to Richardton on a wing and prayer and pull into the only thing open in town: the local tavern.  The only food is frozen pizza, which tastes damn fine at this point in the game.

When we pull up to our motel, we are happy to note that it is next door to the Hamburger Butcher Shop.  It is not what you think.  The name of the family is Hamburger.  We were lucky enough to have dinner with them in a crowded restaurant back in Medora.  This was three generations of a family who described themselves as German Russians.  The wife’s family name was Gaab and they come from land now considered part of the Ukraine.  Apparently, this part of North Dakota attracted many people from that part of the world.  There are four people in this group, mother, daughter and husband, and their son, Truman Hamburger.  Truman is all of 9 years old, bright and verbal well beyond his years.  He tells us of his entomology classes and his day being a bat boy for the Minnesota Twins.  He is fascinated by our trip and asks more questions than his parents and grandmother would like. 

Right after we make our payment, we open the door and there is Truman. He saw us ride by and came running out to greet us.  He runs back to tell his parents, who stop by and who treat us to coffee the next morning.  As luck would have it, both times the Hamburgers come to visit, I am in the processing of changing clothes.  Wes has to do all the relationship building.  We exchange emails and promise to be Truman’s pen pal. 

After Richardton, we cycle through ups and downs, mostly facing a pretty stiff wind.  We see an outcropping of phragmites near a railroad crossing, the first view of this invasive species we have seen since leaving Michigan.  At the next restaurant, we warn the locals about this bane of a giant reed, but they don’t have the slightest idea what we are talking about.  I still feel I should write the North Dakota Department of Environment.

When we cross the freeway, both Wes and I decide we have had it, and that expeditious and easy has its purposes.  The ride on interstate 94 is tedious and noisy.  However, the long hills are moderated and evened out for truck traffic.  North Dakota is an ocean frozen in time.  The waves rise to the west in north/south undulations.  We pull up a big hill, scoot down the other side, over and over. 

It starts to rain.  Interstate bicycle riding is even less pleasant when being splashed by giant eighteen wheelers.  We are very happy to stop at New Salem, where the most remarkable feature is a 30 foot tall plastic dairy cow on a bluff.  The room is great; we have a nice visit with touring motorcyclists.

The next day is an epic run through deep valleys in sharper and sharper undulations as we enter the Missouri River valley.   The river is massive at this point.   The bike route takes us through a series of parks, golf courses, and wetlands.  We are so happy to be in shade, real shade from real trees, the first in many, many miles. 

 We have ridden 40 miles before breakfast (truly lunch by that point), so we decide to stay, despite the relatively short distance covered. We need to do some re-supplying.  We visit the local mall (a complete shock); I get new shoes.  We get a room at one of Bismarck’s landmark motels, The Ramkota.   This is a big fancy motel, circa 1968.  We enjoyed our stay immensely and wondered if it was being outcompeted by the plastic-land motels and suites that have grown up around it.

The next day is one of the most difficult of the bicycle trip.  It is HOT.   We leave Bismarck early and have fun for the first few hours.  The landscape is challenging and there are few services.  There will not be a place to get anything until the little town of Hazelton, some 45 miles from Bismarck.  When we turn on to highway 89, also known as the Lawrence Welk highway, the sun is blazing, we have drunk most of our water and we still have 12 miles to go. We going south, facing directly into the sun and hot wind. I can barely go and Wes is getting further and further ahead of me.  At one point, he looks back and cannot even see me.  He circles back to see me struggling along the highway, plugging away, but moving slowly.  It is tough going, but what is the choice?  All we can do is plug away. 

We have dreams of a sandwich and cold drink dancing in our heads.  We make it to town completely beat and find out Little’s Joe restaurant is closed.  At the grocery store, we drink several juices and eat ice cream and are thrilled to find out they make smoothies. (They make the best orange crème smoothies in the world.)  All sorts of people come over and check on us.  They ask about our trip, but really, I think they are worried about the two red-faced and sweaty bicyclists in their midst.

I am done in.  I feel dizzy and need to lay down. I go outside to rest on a bench.  A paunchy fellow with shorts pulled up well over his capacious belly comes and sits by me.  He is a retired earth science teacher.  He tells us that North Dakota is quite anomalous, both geographically and hydrologically.  For one thing, much of this state’s water drains, not to the Mississippi, but to Hudson Bay.  When we leave the high perch that is Hazelton, we leave the Missouri River drainage.  We will come across an ever increasing number of ponds, pools, and small lakes, many of which are not fed by surface water.  In fact, Devil’s Lake, in north central North Dakota, is completely fed by underground waters and even so, has risen several feet in the past few years.  The town is now below the surface of the lake, which is held back by dykes.   North Dakota, by rainfall alone, should be a desert, unable to grow wheat, much less corn and soybeans.  However, it sits on a layer of clay which holds the water and which is fed by underground waters.  This is what makes the miles and miles of cropland possible…and why North Dakota is so much more lush and green than South Dakota.

He tells us that the Bakken Field, the source of the huge boom on the west side of the state, has enough oil for 75 years and when that is done, they have discovered another pool of oil beneath that one.  He has no patience for wind or solar energy.   When we point out that this would be prime territory for both, he laughs and asks, “And what good would that do me in the middle of winter, eh?  Without batteries, the whole thing won’t work.”  About that time, an elderly neighbor interrupts our conversation and requests his assistance to back up her car.  Even though we have learned a lot, we are relieved when he goes to help her.

To Be Continued…

 

Posted from Milaca, MN