T+103: A Lucky Break

Mile 3690: Fulton, NY

After a difficult and frustrating day, we find ourselves in a town as least as beat up as Detroit.   Having lost Nestle, Birds Eye, and Miller factories, this small town in upstate New York is full of poverty, degenerating businesses, and people trying to make a way out of no way.  We recognize the signs and will tell this story soon.  In the meantime, our trip across Michigan begins….

After we said good-bye to our friends in Ludington, we began following the Adventure Cycling map through the Manistee National Forest.  It exemplifies everything we both love and hate about these routes.  First of all, it is a beautiful ride, but it is far from efficient.  We ride 50 miles through all sort of back country forest and lakes.  It is a lovely ride.  But at the end of the day, we have only gone 25 miles towards the east.

Throughout the day, we have been on a quest to get a good paper map of Michigan.  This is apparently a rarity, now that many (most?) people use GPS on their phones or in their cars.   In the little town of Wolf Point, after visiting with the resident young Jack Russell and ancient Shepherd/Corgie dogs, we ask the proprietor if she sells maps.  For the fourth time that day, the answer is no.  A few minutes later, a customer who heard our request and denial returns with a high quality laminated map from his car.  He will sell it to us at cost.  We are happy to accept, even though we squirm a bit to see that it comes from Wal-mart.

After Wolf Point, we make our way to the Red Moose Inn, which is south of Baldwin, Michigan on the Pere Marquette River.  We are struck by the level of abandonment and disarray we see along the way.  This part of Michigan is not looking so good.  At the inn, the proprietor tells us that he is full up with salmon fishers, but that we will be housed in a cabin just down the way.   He shows us the way to the cabin in the woods by driving us over in a 2009 Cadillac with leather seats and just 50,000 miles.  He tells us that it is his son’s vehicle, and that it originally cost $54,000, but that his son purchased it for just $2700.   “Some depreciation, huh?”  he asks.

The cabin is deep in the woods.  Wes and I are at first disappointed, because we hoped to be on the river, but once we got inside, it felt so homey, we settled right in.  After a quick trip to a local grocery store, we played “at home” and truly enjoyed the evening.

The next morning, we jounce over sandy roads and make our way back to the highway.  On the highway, Wes immediately experiences difficulties.  His back wheel is not rolling right.  We try several strategies, including realigning the axle and adjusting the brakes, until it finally dawns on us that the reason the wheel is not rolling is because Wes has 3 broken spokes.  We are now dead in the water.  I make a few calls and find out that the closest bike shops are 57 miles away in Clare, 25 miles back to Ludington, or 30 miles the wrong direction to Cadillac.   I call the Clare bike shop.  They can’t help because they are short staffed and cannot come get us.  Sorry.  Maybe the folks in Ludington can assist.

While I wonder if this is how our trip will end, Wes drags his bike across the road, removes the BOB trailer, and turns the bike upside down.  I pull my bike across and watch while Wes begins to hitchhike.  He signals to the first car by, a new truck pulling a big silver ATV trailer.  Wes gives his best “6 second sell” to the passing vehicle.  When he was younger, Wes travelled many thousand miles by hitchhiking, which he says depended upon making a connection within the six seconds a driver sees you on the side of the road.

Sure enough, the truck turns around and comes back to pick us up.  The driver asks us if we need help.  We tell him about our situation and tell him we need to get to a bike shop, or at least on a main highway.   He jumps out, opens his trailer, where a brand new Polaris 4-wheeler is secured, and tell us to load our bikes in the trailer.  Wes and I pile in the jump seat of the truck and meet our saviors.  They are Karl and Nancy Nelson, owners of the Pronto Pup in Grand Haven, out on a rare day off to try out their new four-wheeler.  They saw the upside down bike, knew we were in distress, and thought, “Something is obviously wrong.  We’ve got room, and time.  Why not?”

Nancy gets to work on her I-phone trying to find a bike shop where we can get the spokes repaired.  She calls the shop in Cadillac and finds out they are open and can do the work.   They decide right then and there to drive us the 30 miles to the north to the bike shop in Cadillac.  While driving there, we have a chance to visit.   They were out that day headed to the ATV trails around Baldwin.  It was lucky for us they chose to drive the back way from Grand Haven.  They just purchased this new ATV and wanted to check it out before taking it up to the Upper Peninsula for its maiden backwoods trip.   They are taking their first break after a long summer selling their high quality hot dogs to the resort community.  Throughout the trip north, Karl takes phone calls and makes deals to provide hot dogs at various events.

It is very clear that Karl and Nancy and Wes and I are not people whose lives would normally intersect, but we are glad to tell each other stories of life and work, bills and choices.  We connect around the challenges of running small businesses and how important good employees are to business success.  This leads to a surprisingly frank discussion about many corporations misplaced emphasis on financial success instead of employee success.   Despite our obvious ideological differences, all four of us agree with the principal that secure employees are the cornerstone of a strong economy.  We also agree that such security is no longer the norm.

In Cadillac, Karl and Nancy drop us off, wish us well, and drive off to enjoy the rest of their day.  We take the bike in, and find out that there are FIVE broken spokes.  While the young men in the shop do the repairs, Wes and I head out to get breakfast and explore the town.  We have great handmade food at the Blue Heron, wander a few shops, and are generally amazed at the comeback in this town.   We had visited a few years ago; it is vibrant and exciting by comparison. 

By noon, we are back on the trail.  The bike shop guys recommend the White Pine Trail to us.  This is a Rails to Trails from Cadillac to Reed City, going through forests and small towns in western Michigan.  The first 17 miles are paved.  It is beautiful, full of big trees, small lakes, and wetlands, and we have a blast.  As we discuss the broken spokes, we realize that Wes probably broke his first spoke way back in Wisconsin on that rotten concrete road.   Sheesh. 

We visit outback towns like Leroy, Michigan and buy handmade baked goods.  The trail turns to dirt and it gets rougher and slower.  It is far less fun.  The next 20 miles are much harder work.  We pull into the little town of Reed City, where the White Pine trail intersects with the Pere Marquette trail.  We wander up and down Upton Avenue, stare at the Yoplait factory, and think to stay here.  At the local pub, the waitress is one of those types that drive us crazy.  They don’t know anything about the town, its amenities, or its services. 

We finally determine that the next motel is in Evart, 15 miles down the trail.  We head out on the smooth and lovely trail as the sun starts to sink in the west.   This is the Michigan not seen by the roads, lush and lovely.  We stop to see the Muskegon River and marvel at its pure beauty.  When we finally land at the Osceola Grand Hotel in Evart, Michigan, it is nearly dark.  We have been on the move since early morning.  We have almost seen the end of the trip, travelled 30 miles north, and ridden more than 60 miles on Michigan rails to trails through wonderful beauty.  Like the day before, we have only travelled about 25 miles to the east, but we are incredibly grateful, first to the Nelsons, then to the creators and sustainers of these beautiful trails.

T+91: Welcome to Wisconsin

Mile 3133: Imlay City, MI

The wild and scenic river of St. Croix delineates the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin.  It is a very different landscape than anything we have yet encountered.  In fact, it reminds me of a little finger of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  Steep hills, big trees, and unadorned water.  It is always refreshing to see water that is not completely ringed by summer homes. 

Wes and I stopped to take pictures at the scenic overlook, then zoomed down to the town of Taylor Falls.  It is a classic tourist town, and it is hopping.  The streets are full of Minneapolis day trippers here to see the St. Croix National Scenic River Park.   Wes and I consider stopping at one of the crowded coffee houses or restaurants for about 20 seconds, but the hub-bub is too much, so we push on. 

We walk our bikes over the bridge, which points out that the word “falls” in the 19^th century also meant any stretch of white water in a river.  The “falls” at St. Croix Falls are a stretch of about 50 yards of rapids in a beautiful tree lined canyon.  As people who were raised in the Rocky Mountains, we were amused at this fuss over the little change of elevation, although we do grant that the deep, tree-lined, river course is quite beautiful.  

We push our bikes partially up the steep bank and visit the decidedly much quieter town of St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin.  The streets are almost empty and there are no cars visiting the federally funded visitors’ center.  We wander up and down the street and are most intrigued by a small café that says, “Vegetarian and Vegan Food.”    We are so sick of bar food.   We don’t think we have seen the word “vegan” for over a 1000 miles. 

We are greeted effusively by the Indian host when we enter.  The place is not full, but the people who are there seem mostly to be young, mostly people of color.  We have not seen this crowd since we left the West Coast.    The menu is eclectic, but we are drawn to the northern India dishes.    We savor dishes made with beans and with exotica like eggplant.   We are sick beyond belief of fried stuff.   Fried stuff is the cheap and easy offering at 90 out of 100 American restaurants.   Why this is, especially here in the fertile Midwest, we cannot tell you.   In the land of corn and tomatoes, why is it impossible to get fresh corn and tomatoes at the restaurants we visit?

Afterwards, we make our way to the Wisconsin tourist information station, where I hope to get a state map.  We have already decided we are not going to take the ridiculous Adventure Cycling route, which would have us ride north to within 3 miles of the Michigan border (for several days), then turn south for several more to go the ferry at Manitowac.  Instead, we will make a dash across the center of the state, without all the ups, downs, ins and out, prescribed by the bicycle touring organization.

At the tourist information, Wes goes right in, but I get hornswoggled by an interesting trio of people.  They are all in their 70’s.  There are two women, each tightly gripping the arm of a slender, formerly red-haired, gentleman.  They ask about our trip.  After the usual responses to the usual questions, I ask about them.   He is a former pastor who had lived in Wisconsin for many years, then had a parish in Florida.  The short, grey haired woman clutching his left arm was also from Wisconsin.   The tall, willowy woman in the bob haircut is clinging to his right arm.  She is a former teacher from Florida, where she retired a few years ago.  The pastor’s wife died last year.  Now that he is alone, it seems that these two women have come to his aid.  I sensed a competition over this pastor, as each woman ever so slightly pulled at his arm as they talked about the places they have visited and planned to visit.  He looked at pleased as punch; his bright blue eyes twinkled beneath his light eyebrows.  When Wes returns with the needed maps, the talk turns to our travels.  Wes always encourages people to make plans for their cross country ride.  This is particularly amusing to our elders.  The former pastor replies, “In my younger days, I would have taken you up.  But now, I’ve got a bad back, and I just can’t get around like I used to.  I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have so many kind people around me.”   The women blush, and clutch their pastor a little more tightly.    We make our good-byes and go to get on the first of several bike trails we take in Wisconsin.
 

The nice folks at the information booth have given Wes a tourist map, and a series of small maps which highlight the very local bike trails, as well as the statewide network of bike trails.  One of the most famous trails starts here and goes north following the river and ending at Lake Superior.  We are to follow a short local route.   In a few miles, there is another route which will take us to our destination for the evening, Ashby.   The first route starts out badly: badly marked and bumpy, it is just feet away from a nice highway with a wide shoulder.  It is much steeper than the road and we cast aspersions about the trail designer.   All of a sudden the route ends.   Perhaps it goes into the state park and resumes, we wonder.   We ride into the park, talk to the attendant.  No, no bike route around here.  Sorry.

Feeling snookered, we return to the highway and travel down a series of ups and downs, with one very long, fun downhill.   We have a map leading us to a route called the 7 Lakes Trail.  It is a complicated set of instructions to get there and I am skeptical after the first snafu with the trail.  We ride up and around, through little towns, and into smaller and smaller roads.  I keep questioning Wes, “Are you sure this is not a goose-chase?”   We have already cycled more than 40 miles through the Hay Daze and St. Croix tourist enclave, the last thing I want to do is go wandering aimlessly in the Wisconsin hinterlands.

However, the instructions are good and my fears are unfounded.  We ride a 10 mile trail through truly lovely scenery.  There are in fact 7 lakes, as well as marshes, and farms, and cute little towns.  The day is getting late, however, and we are getting tired.  About 2 miles from our destination, the rain comes down.  We don rain gear and push on.  By the time we get the town of Ashby, the rain, though fierce for a few minutes, is gone.  We goggle at the fancy new bike center with WiFi at the terminus of the bike trail, and wander about town trying to find a motel.  There are only two.   We decide to take the closer, cheaper one, but I have a fit when we get there and see guys hanging outside and a big anti-meth poster just outside the office.  The proprietor can barely be pulled away from her Packers game to give Wes the registration form. 

The room is underwhelming, to say the least.  With wall paper from the 1960’s and in need of a good scrub, I am less than happy to be here.  We have to bring our bikes into the small room, not only out of fear of the rain, but also with some concern about theft.  I fuss about the cleanliness of the room, and Wes is irritated: “If you wanted to see the room before we rented it, why didn’t YOU ask to?”  The room is icky and worn, but not worth a fight.  We go next door and have good margaritas and bad Mexican food, then come back to the room and sleep surprisingly well.

The next day we are up early.  It is very foggy.  After a quick breakfast at the brand new restaurant across the street, we start following Highway F.  Wisconsin is the only state I have encountered where all county roads are named by letters instead of numbers.  There is limited visibility and this part of Wisconsin is a series of glacier-made hills and dales.  We ride up short steep hills, then right back down.  This goes on for some hours and is getting wearisome.  The agriculture in this part of the state is marginal.  We encounter much that makes us uncomfortable.  First, this must be some sort of center for puppy mills.  We identify them by the endless howling of dogs, the cyclone fences, and the multiple NO TRESPASSING signs. 

This is also the first time Wes and I have seen factory turkey farms up close.  One such: behind the sign “Welcome to Wesley and Debbie Nelson’s Farm”, we see a big warehouse, approximately 100’ by 24’.  Along the long side closest to us, there are at least 25 turkey pens.  Along the short side, there are four turkey pens with a center aisle between them.  Each of these 100 pens is about 8’x8’.  There are 8 turkeys in each pen.  Each turkey has about 1 yard square.   They are screaming and pecking and flapping, but they cannot turn around.  There must be at 1000 white turkeys in this single building.  A while later, we see another farm with 3 of these turkey torture chambers.   I don’t think that Wes will ever be able to eat commercial turkey again.

We make another corner, and I see several rows of what looks like large igloo type dog houses.  As we get closer, I see that these are not dog houses, but calf-cages.  Very young calves of just few weeks in age are chained to each of these dog houses with big industrial chains about their necks.  They can walk only a few steps.  This is a veal operation.  I look at their knobbly knees and big eyes and am repulsed at the cruelty to these baby animals.

By noon or so, we are ready for a break.  Wes is having issues with his bike (a trend that started in Minnesota and will continue all the way through Michigan).  The back derailleur quits working just as we pull into the little town where we hoped to take our break.  Unfortunately, this town is in the process of becoming a ghost town.  The pub is out of business.  Most of the houses are for sale or abandoned.  The only place that seems occupied also seems to be a puppy mill. 

We mess around with his cables and shifters.  We take his shifter apart, then have a hell of a time getting it back together.  In the end, we cannot get all the washers and spacers back in and still get the shifter to work.  We are frustrated, hungry, and a bit freaked out by our surroundings.   We didn’t think Wisconsin would be like THIS.  All our messing around with the shifter does not fix the problem, but Wes has no more patience.  He smacks the back derailleur in frustration.  Out pops the missing nut that holds the hook of his bike bag.  The derailleur now works.  We didn’t need to disassemble the shifter at all.  Mercifully, and inexplicably, the whole thing works better than before, so we stagger on.

A couple hours later, we pull into a beautifully situated farm town on a lovely river.  There is a “c-store” where we buy nuts, cheese, and other emergency supplies.  There are no restaurants, but we can get food at the tavern next door.  We do and it is wretched, though not as bad as the chicken-cheese-wild rice goo of the other day.  Back on the bike, I rail about the unconscionably bad state of American foodways.  How can we have ridden through 1000 miles of farmland and yet have been served so much adulterated and overly processed food?  Where is the respect for the food and the eater?

As the day goes on, however, the ride becomes more pleasant and more beautiful.  In one little farm town, I see a sign on a corner store announcing “home-made root beer floats”.  We pop in, have a truly delicious treat and encounter ebullient and talkative Wisconsin natives, who make us laugh and ask us about our travels.  Afterwards, we both don headphones to listen to our “stories” as the miles zoom by and the discomforts of the morning slip away.  We get to the freeway two miles from our reserved room, but have to circle all the way through the town of Bloomer then back out because cycles are not allowed to ride on the freeway in Wisconsin.  The extra six miles are a drag at the end of this nearly 70 mile day, but the town is well put together, with lots of social services.  

When we get to our motel, there is a big crew of youngish men drinking beers out on the porch.  They are very fascinated by us, and true Wisconsinites, start asking questions before we can even get the bikes parked.  They can’t believe we have ridden from Portland, Oregon.  We are surprised that they are a crew of traveling grain elevator maintenance men.  They will be out for months at a time, servicing the giant metal and ceramic containers we see every few miles.  It is a good, hard, dangerous job.   I didn’t realize such job even existed. 

These first two days in Wisconsin have been surprising in so many ways.  There is so much we don’t understand, but we sure do like the people.  We look forward to the rest of our whisk across the center of Wisconsin, but conk out immediately and sleep like logs.

 

 

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posted from St. Clair, 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!