Miles: 68.6

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  1469.8

Weather: Sunny, Hot

Hillbilly Insults: 1

Roadkill: 16 (1 Chucken, 3 Frogs, 1 Turtle, 3 Raccoons, 8 Unknown)

Bugs Swallowed: 0

Mean Dogs Chasing: 1

Animal Rescue: 0

My thirty dollar motel room in Le Roy, MI is just an afterthought attached to a bar. It smells of sulphur, New York subway piss and mold.  It's not worthy of a guard shack at a Romanian gulag, but it's my home for the night.  Ah, how I pine for my fifty dollar palace at the Vista Villa! Hoping not to step on used condoms buried in the foul recesses of the filthy shag carpet.

The terrain was nice today. A few farms, but mostly tree lined roads through the Nordhouse Dunes Wilderness within the Manistee National Forest.  This stretch through the center of the state is dotted with very small towns that cater to weekend fishermen.

I'd forgotten about the Michigan Militia survivalist nuts until I stopped for a rest in the town of Free Soil.  The main strip of this place was the most blatantly arrogant and distasteful display of dumb patriotism I've seen in a very long time.  I counted 23 flags on six houses and one store. Three flags were POW/MIA, two were Confederate and one was plain white with a crucifix in the middle of it. A right-wing radio fantasy theme park!

I did a double take when a black lawn jockey caught my eye.  I went back to snap a picture of "The Faithful Groomsman."  I worked fast because I suspect the hounds around here are trained to smell "Jew Blood."  I quietly entered a little gas station, bought a soda and got out of town.  I worked all winter in Augusta, GA and not once did I find anything as overtly racist and dopey as the dreck on display here. I put on the headphones and turned up the Public Enemy--"...I smell a riot comin' on!"

It'll take a few days, but I don't think I'll see such displays when I cross the border in Ontario.  I can't imagine a Chipewyan lawn dwarf on a Canadian farmstead.

Well before web streaming and BitTorrent piracy, I would bargain hunt for movies on DVD.  The goal was to pluck cinematic gold from digital dung heaps in unorganized Wal-Mart bins, used record store collections and pawn shops.  I'd attempt to scour long and hard enough to find titles costing ten dollars or less that werr worthy of an Indie film festival. I came across great stuff: Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension, Repo Man, The Beast. A public demanding formulaic Hollywood crap over creativity, plot and character development made it easy for me.

Similarly, but much more difficult, I've been trying to find lodging under fifty dollars in the cities and towns I end up in. I don't seek out offers to stay with strangers and accept only if affirmatively prodded. I mailed home my tent and sleeping bag yesterday to dump more weight. It's a credit card tour the rest of the way.  Addituonally, Katy's going to join me for the final push and I don't want to subject her to insects and unknown hosts. 

I've failed to find a place that doesn't reek of mildew and sweat for under 50 bucks until today.  In one shanty, I slept in my sleeping bag on top of the mattress as a buffer between me and bedbugs/roaches.  Alas, I stumbled upon the Villa Vista this morning and I have a tiny immaculate room. The older couple running the place let me check in at 9.30 a.m. and I slept like the Chessie kitten all day long.

It's evening now and I decided to see the latest scary movie, "The Conjuring."  One reviewer says, "All the contorting girls and pea-soup vomit in the world can hardly compete with a blood-stained sheet and a well-placed doll."    If that's true, I'll be up all night wondering when that waterlogged Japanese horror archetype is going to crawl out of the flatscreen in my room. It'll help me get an early start tomorrow!

(Note: I'm posting this after I've seen the film. The only conjuring going on is the theft of my ten bucks! This movie is only scary if you grew up with ridiculous Catholic superstition and if you believe in witches. Thanks for nothing Hollywood. If you want to make a scary movie, focus on a creepy priest and the millions put into covering up his pedophilia. Oh wait a sec, I'm confusing reality with improbable gore fantasy.)

Last night on the deck of the ferry under the stars, I began to peacefully doze off.  It was as close to getting back to the womb as I can recall. Tonight, I expect fright will negate all that calm.  Life's a roller-coaster.

Miles: 78.4 (Part 1)

Miles: 56.3 (Part 2)

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  3156.6

Weather: Sunny, Hot

Hillbilly Insults: 0

Roadkill: 19 (6 Birds, 2 Turtles, 1 Raccoons, 3 Skunks, 7 Unknown)

Bugs Swallowed: 1

Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Animal Rescue: 1 (Turtle)

Two! Two!! Two days in one!!!

"And like my dog was on the back of the bike trailer freaking out and we were like, you know, dude, no way, no fucking way we are gonna take this 40 mile detour-- with 200 pounds of gear back through fucking nowhere North Dakota!  Like a truck, we needed a truck. You know, like, to haul all our crap because I didn't care the road was closed to us. So, this dude outta nowhere comes up and knocks on a giant truck behind us and saved out ass. Made the guy haul us up the road," exclaimed Michael whom I met through Forrest, the tattoo artist in Mantiwoc, WI. 

Michael was weaving his tale on a neighborhood street in Manitowac. His audience of five had his full attention. It turns out that Michael is a touring enthusiast. After I was introduced and explained what I was doing, we both started lamenting about North Dakota. Michael knew all about it.

An idle mind is the Devil's playground and as I clocked distance in the heat, I told myself I could go slow, make the 120+ miles and have plenty of time to get across the water.  So, I forged ahead to Manitowoc.  Twenty miles outside the city (I'd underestimated the distance), , I had a slow leak in the rear tire and couldn't find the culprit. I was on the side of the road, bike upside down, tube out, tire in hand, and an enthusiastic group of three youngish guys whom had done some touring stopped with a truck and offered to get me near downtown.  I was tired and took them up on the offer.

I'm sure moms everywhere would be proud of me for having trust in mankind and remembering my Christian values. Reserve judgment about people. Have faith and all that jazz. It's this attitude that makes doing laundry with carnival workers, chatting with farmers and offering energy bars to hitchhikers such a joy.   

I got plopped on the main suburban drag and started my way downtown with vague directions to the Broken Spoke bike shop.  It was 5:40 p.m. and most local, reputable shops close at 6 p.m., kind of like barber shops.  As I pedaled on a deflated tire, I wasn't seeing the place. So, I ducked in the Sticky Tattoo parlor to ask for directions.  That's when I met Forrest Marsh. He told me where to go but wanted to chat me up. He was genuinely curious about my travels but I was antsy.  I told him I'd be back and he gave me his number probably thinking I'd disappear.

The Broken Spoke is a narrow space with three floors. As I walked up the stair ramp with my bike at 5:55 p.m., I could see the long face on the mechanic shutting down for the day.  Often doing thankless tasks, mechanics have to deal with homeless guys looking for free repairs; ignorant and demanding suburban soccer moms; 'roid monkey Lance wannabes and people that want their rides overhauled in a few hours. At first glance , I bet I looked like a poseur. 

I explained my situation and with just a twinge of reluctance, Ryan took pity on me. Better known as "Possum," Ryan and I hit it off right away talking about winter biking, the Surley Pugsley and old lugged road bikes.  I spent a better part of an hour with Possum as he showed me the parts graveyard on the third floor and his Green Bay Packer homegrown fixie.  

It took the eyes of an expert to find the itsy-bitsy, mouse hair of a wire that had barely protruded through my tire and wore a hole in the inner-tube. 

I thanked Possum and headed back for the tattoo parlor.  I had time to kill and entertained the fleeting thought of getting some ink so that I'd fit in better back home in Bend, OR. I feel square amongst all the ubiquitous hipster moms and dads sporting devils, Bettie Boops and tribal bands on their athletic bodies. The idea passed as Forrest shut down early and we motored for some Thai food in an old converted bank.  

If Forrest is reading this, I apologize for the following description.  I'm sure he's tired of it, but the readers must know that he resembles Seth Rogan, if Seth Rogan was still cool and not so rich.  It isn't his looks so much as his voice and friendly mannerisms.  Forrest is an intelligent guy with a lot of life experience at a young age.  He grew up in Wisconsin and Alaska; went to art school; took a few hitchhiking trips; toured around on bikes and got around Iceland working on farms, kibbutz style.  

After dinner, Forrest took me around the waterfront, to visit his girlfriend Alissa and his pals, the most animated of which was Michael.  Michael reminded me so much of my sister's boyfriend: California friendly, wildly gesticulating and high energy. I was reminded of my advanced age when Michael said, "I'm totally getting into the Gin Blissoms and 90's bands, man! Behind those pop songs is hard assed music!"  He did a little air guitar for effect.

Alissa let me take a shower in her well appointed craftsman style house and I took off for my trip aboard The Badger. It's an old car ferry formerly run by the C&O Railroad.  The Badger is a Wisconsin boat and its sister, The Spartan, sits moored for spare parts on the Michigan side of the Great Lake. At its peak, this car ferry system ran 205,000 rail cars across the water yearly.

I found lounge chair on the starboard deck and stared at criss-crossing satellites and  the Milky Way without interference from light pollution.   I fell asleep and dreamt of Kate Winslet and a frozen Leonardo DiCaprio.

Miles: 103

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  2982.2

Weather: Sunny, Hot

Hillbilly Insults: 0

Roadkill: 20 (8 Birds, 3 Turtles, 3 Raccoons, I Snake, 5 Unknown)

Bugs Swallowed: 3

Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Animal Rescue: 0

Today's ride was pure yeoman's work.  Wisconsin's beautiful asphalt sizzled under the blazing sun and the 8000% humidity made for a crotch soaking experience--not ideal for saddle sores.  It's also hilly here.  It's not official yet, but this day has to qualify in the top five for total elevation gain.  Despite the challenges, it was a great slog.

I hit the road before 10 a.m. after my morning ointment ritual. That's pretty good for me since I always loiter with the locals. I procrastinate because the worst part of the ride is settling in for the first few miles finding new pressure points to aggravate and struggling with catatonic legs.

I stopped in Cornell after being tipped off that I'd fiind the exotic Wisconsin cheeses I crave at Dylan's Dairy.  It's a little cafe with big taste. I ordered a salad and made a special request to have some aged cheddar and horseradish cheese shredded on top. I was not disappointed. It was going to be a long day, so I ordered a homemade chocolate cherry malt on the side. It was delectable and necessary as I suffered a major caloric and glycemic deficit by day's end. 

40 miles later on 64 Hwy, I took a long pit stop at the Gilman Cenex gas staton. It's the town hub, like so many places I've patronized.  I filled a cup full of my favorite energy drink, cherry Slushpuppy, and sat at a round table with a rotating cast of old farmers.  These guys are all comedians and give me reason to stay, chat and enjoy air conditioning. 

One standout, the 93 year old patriarch of "Hopeless Dairy, Inc." was a kick in the pants. I wish I caught his name.  He was spry, sharp and cantankerous in the most entertaining way.  While we were making fun of the PC gluten free/organo/local movement, I asked what his secret to long life and good health had been. He explained that he just ate seasonally off of the land his whole life:  rabbits, squirrels, fish, beets, carrots and whatever his family grew or raised. He also described fantastic hikes in the woods where he'd disappear for weeks at a time using nothing but rivers for navigation. The local forest is gone now, due to decades of logging.

I had a 60 mile goal, but felt "inspired" to go further since I'd been listening to the audiobook, "The Secret Race" by Dan Coyle and Tyler Hamilton. It's about the euphoric era of pro cycling between 1999 and 2008. Americans were silly with enthusiasm for Lance Armstrong and the Philistines on the U.S. Postal team.  Just like baseball, the fans, the sponsors and the governing bodies looked past he statistically improbable success of these "heroes." Armstrong and his feats were lauded as miracles.

That decade of cycling mania was special for me.  An American tifoso, I attended the 2001 Tour with a press pass arranged by my Reuter's pal, Greg. I had access to the peleton and looked ridiculous with my "Kansas City Post" credentials and Best Buy consumer camera.   It was a time that I was on cloud nine personally and professionally. I later discovered that the Lance Era was also a period marked by an intimate scandal in my own life. The ugly truth of camouflaged doping was a metaphor, of sorts, for a lot of things I naively loved.

So, this fascinating book conjured old anxieties and gave me an artificial adrenaline boost. Fueled by adrenaline, and a wee bit of rage, I chose to ride in the dark to Merrill, WI.  I called on a roach motel and was given horrible instructions that added a mildly annoying few extra miles.

It was after 10 p.m. and the only joint open for food was Wichita, KS-based Pizza Hut. Kansas Pizza is a contradiction, but I didn't care.  I asked if the delivery guy could bring me a lot of ice and a two liter bottle of Diet Pepsi. The friendly gal on the other end of the call obliged and left a nice note on my "pizza" box. I guzzled the brown elixir like a parched dog. I wouldn't dare drink the water from the mildewed sink in my motel bathroom.

Not a bad day. 

Getting close to the ferry for Michigan.  It will be an important milestone, but I'll sure miss this great Wisconsin asphalt.  Smooth and creamy! The baby's bottom of road aggregate.

Miles: 56.5

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  1961.9

Weather: Mostly Sunny, Hot

Hillbilly Insults: 0

Roadkill: 13 (5 Birds, 1 Turtle, 2 Raccoons, I Cat, 1 Deer, 3 Unknown)

Bugs Swallowed: 0

Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Animal Rescue: 0

Wisconsin is pretty and the asphalt is smooth. They obviously have the same kind of winters as Minnesota, so I'm wondering why the roads are so much better. 

I'm in search of unusual cheeses, but haven't spotted any. I did enjoy fried cheese curds at the Main Street Cafe in Bloomer.  They also had litany of pies that rival the glorious stuff we had in Montana.  As well, there are no "fake" pies like the Saskatoon Berry the Canadians tried to foist upon us. (Saskatoon is just bland blueberry.)

It was the first really hot and humid day of the trip, but otherwise uneventful.  I stopped for lunch at Kistner's Korner, run by Jayme.  She's a bundle of energy and told tales of past cyclists and snowmobilers that she's gone out of her way to assist.  Jayme, don't be surprised if you find a couple of lobsters on your doorstep in a few weeks!  If you can't make it to Maine, perhaps I can bring a bit of it to you.

It was the first really hot and humid day of the trip, but otherwise uneventful.  I stopped for lunch at Kistner's Korner, run by Jayme.  She's a bundle of energy and told tales of past cyclists and snowmobilers that she's gone out of her way to assist.  Jayme, don't be surprised if you find a couple of lobsters on your doorstep in a few weeks!  If you can't make it to Maine, perhaps I can bring a bit of it to you.

(Days 41-43 will be posted later)

Miles: 65.3

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  2045.8

Weather: Mostly Sunny, Warm

Hillbilly Insults: 1

Roadkill: 6 (3Birds, 1 Turtle, 2 Unknown)

Bugs Swallowed: 1

Mean Dogs Chasing: 1

Animal Rescue: 0

"There are two seasons in Minnesota, Jon.  Winter and construction, " said Marcia as I complained of the detour to her house the other day.  Roadwork detours were so frustrating today. I rode around in circles for 30 miles trying to escape the of metropolitan ring of Minneapolis.

It was sweet relief when I reached the riverfront town of Stillwater, MN.  What a fantastic place!  It's bicycle friendly and I discovered not one, but two, café/bistro/bike shop/coffeehouses right across the street from one another.  I didn't discriminate and ate at both of them. Had a lovely couscous and quiche combination at the Bikery,  then met the owner of the Chilkoot Cafe and Cyclery, Lee Stylos.  An entrepreneur and mechanical savant, Lee was able to eliminate the annoying squeaking on the bike I've been dealing with for a 100 miles. It's been like Chinese water torture.  Much thanks, Lee.

My goal today was to get into Wisconsin and determine which route I would take eastward to Manitowoc.  As I mentioned in my last post, I think  there is a more direct route than  what the Adventure Cycling Maps offer.  From Stillwater, I took County Road E to County Road A and stopped in New Richmond, Wisconsin.  I plan on connecting to County Highway 64E across at least half of the state. It appears that it's a nice road with little traffic, according to locals.

stopped at Walmart to get a few items still in cycling wear.  My road shoes are quite slippery on linoleum and concrete which makes shopping a hazardous task.  Fortunately, no danger would befall me as the discount gods bequeathed several available electric scooters in the shopping cart area. These retarded steeds are used mostly for voluntary invalids, malingerers and morbidly obese people.  I took the liberty of riding one and it exceeded all of my gleeful expectations of annoyance to other customers. 

It was a thrill to get hypocritical stares  from people clearly offended by my mode of transport.  Wearing full kit representing the now overpriced University of Iowa, cleats adorning my feet, I sputtered from aisle to aisle.  I'm no model of fitness, but it was clear that the "Little Buddy" I was driving wasn't necessary for an average middle-aged man. But hey, no one thought to give the stink eye to the guy weighing 413 pounds grabbing a case of cola when he stood up off of his. He could walk.  Nay, he should walk!  

If I got a dirty look, I would immediately hit the reverse lever on my three- wheeled tortoise which would initiate that beeping sound you hear on large industrial vehicles.  I would also try to "accidentally" bump into things, or people, and say, "Excuse me, I'm kind of new at this."

I've taken a solemn vow to always use the scooter when I Walmart from now on.  If Walmart is 'Merica, I want the full immersive experience.  I apologize in advance to my lovely wife and adorable children because of the trauma they'll experience when they need consumer crap from our nation's discount leviathan. 

Miles: 65.8

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  498.8

Weather: Mostly Sunny, Warm

Hillbilly Insults: 1

Roadkill: 6 (2 Birds, 2 Chipmunks, 2 Unknown)

Bugs Swallowed: 2

Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Animal Rescue: 0

Sometimes,  I like to bite the heads off gummi bears and make believe I'm Godzilla.  I've been a big fan of the radiated, giant Komodo dragon my whole life.  My  home office/game room is adorned with several Bandai vinyl figures depicting "Gojira's" changes over the years.

Second only to Godzilla, I've had a fascination with giant robots popularized by Japanese cartoons like "Battle of the Planets" and the live action "Johnny Socko."  This is the stuff I grew up with before "anime" was in our lexicon. 

When I was in junior high a local television staton in Kansas City, KCTV 5, would showcase "Monster Week" every few months.  The title was a misnomer, since it wasn't horror they were broadcasting, but Kaiju movies Monday through Friday.   "Kaiju" is the Japanese term for a strange beast or giant monster.  

I had a problem because the movies would start at 3 p.m. but school wouldn't let out until 3:15 p.m.  I just hated missing the set up of these masterpieces.  So, I'd ignore my teachers all day and toiled at drawing crude apocalyptic scenarios with Godzillas, King Kongs and atomic weapons in my Mead composition book. 

I'd  race home, flip on the television and impatiently wait for it to "warm up" for an eternity.  I'd marvel at guys in rubber suits smashing Toho movie sets.  This was the pre-DVR era and Betamax was considered legitimate. So, every moment of these movies was a treat for me and the memories are probably more vivid than the actual film. 

Video games had not yet crippled the imagination in the early 1980's.  as a late bloomer and no athlete, I had a lot of time to create elaborate shag carpet battlefields replete with plastic soldiers cowering behind Lincoln Log defenses while under attack by cheap K-Mart toy dinosaurs and a large rubber shark. I imparted the shark  with death ray laser vision by shoving a pen flashlight in his innards. 

All of this childish play was abandoned during my  "Dungeons and Dragons" era which was ultimately abandoned for my goal of getting on the varsity debate team. How did I ever get a date or lose my virginity?!  It's a miracle of miracles. 

I'm chewing up the pavement and put nearly all of Minnesota behind me in three days. I did this, in large part, to fulfill a guilty pleasure.  I wanted to be in Minneapolis on my birthday, July 13th, so I could treat myself to a big movie theater with an eardrum busting sound system.  See, it appears that I wasn't alone in my prepubescent fascination with Mechagodzillas, Planet X, Rodan, Ghidorah and the destruction of Tokyo.  A chubby Mexican guy, about my age, wrote and directed a much anticipated film about giant robot Jaegers versus alien Kaiju.  

Guillermo Del Toro's "Pacific Rim" opens in wide release on Friday and I believe he did this just for me on my 46th.  This might be the best birthday present since my first girlfriend, Michelle, took me to see "Tron" when I was 13.  It was her birthday too.  It was perfect until she tried to make out with me and I was mortified.  I knew from my Jewish mother that it might lead to heavy petting and then "mono," which might as well have been AIDS to a guilt-ridden kid like me.  

If anyone is still reading, don't let my glee and wistful reminiscence prevent you from going to see this summer blockbuster.  Del Toro is no lightweight.  A true auteur, he made "The Devil's Backbone,"  "Pan's Labyrinth," "Hellboy" and "The Orphanage."

took a leisurely pace today and stopped in St. Joseph for lunch at a great little diner.  This is where the Lake Wobegon Trail pavement ended. I had to brace for my reentry into traffic and went back to battlefield mentality mode.  Highway 10 has a wide shoulder and will take me straight to Minneapolis, but it might as well be an interstate with all the trucks and speeding cars. 

A couple of items about Minnesota: too many Catholic Churches and no one can articulates distance in miles.

As I passed one small town after another, the first thing I'd see above the tree line was a water tower followed by a Romanesque church.  No matter the size of the town, the churches were huge.   I'm amused when the Holy Apostolic Church preaches the virtue of poverty from gilded altars. 

I asked several people how far it was to "this town" or "that town" and the universal response given was in minutes, such as, "Oh yeah, ya know, eh, that's about 45 minutes."  Minnesotans measure distance by the time they spend in their cars. II guess it makes sense since they travel West to North Dakota all yhe time. The landscape is a blur and the mile markers are meaningless. 

Stopped in Big Lake, MN and ordered a fine pulled pork sandwich at Thee Friendly Buffalo.  Dakota was my server and chatted with me about the ride.  I used all the pedaling as my excuse for inhaling my food and swilling excess amounts of iced tea and diet soda. 

Tomorrow, Minneapolis and Kaiju!  

Miles: 107.4

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  1377.9

Weather: Mostly Sunny, Warm

Hillbilly Insults: 0

Roadkill: 15 (6 Birds, 2 Chipmunks, 1 Fox, 1 Raccoon,  3 Turtles, 2 Unknown)

Bugs Swallowed: 2

Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Animal Rescue: 0

Leon Trotsky's inventive epithet about Joseph Stalin being an "outstanding mediocrity" is a delightful way to aptly describe so many things!

Applebee's.  The Chicago Cubs. North Dakota. 

After running a successful chain of fried chicken joints in America, Trotsky lived a leafy suburban exile in Mexico City. His insult caught up with him when the offended Man of Steel sent an assassin to put an icepick in his head in 1940.

I've been thinking about Trotsky today because I was listening to the audiobook, "Stalin in an Hour" and was impressed with another quote of his:

" Let a man find himself, in distinction from others, on top of two wheels with a chain and his vanity begins to swell out like his tires. In America it takes an automobile to produce this effect."

I admit to having an elitist attitude when I'm on my bike, even though I know that a car, truck or SUV could render me roadkill. No matter, today I shouted with glee, "Two wheels good!  Four wheels bad!" 

My nod to Orwellian farm animals was inspired by a triumph of state sponsored socialism: The Minnesota Central Lakes and Lake Wobegon Trails.  This converted railroad bed is over a 100 miles long, 15 feet wide and is paved with an asphalt aggregate that's as smooth as glass.  It parallels Interstate 94 from Fergus Falls to St. Joseph, MN.  Motorized vehicles are banned from it, with the exception of snowmobiles in the winter.  Cпасибо tоварищи!

Halfway through it, Minnesota has been great. 

I was turned onto the trail by Andrew, Gretchen and Honeybear last night.  I strayed from the Adventure Cycling Northern Tier Route for several reasons.  This path is safer, gets me close to Minneapolis to see friends, and will set me off on a more direct eastern route to my ferry stop in Manitowoc, WI.  

(Fellow Adventure Cyclists take note:  I think this route is preferable to the ACA maps if you are crossing central Michigan, as I am. Otherwise, it looks like folks going to Escanaba or under the Great Lakes should stay on task. It just seems silly that the ACA map for Manitowoc makes an unnecessary bell curve through Wisconsin. Perhaps the scenery is great, but I didn't want to add a few hundred miles to the trip. From Pelican Falls Take 59 South to Fergus Falls. The road has a wide shoulder. It's too convoluted to write here, but just ask somebody where City Park is and that will give you access to the Central Lakes trail system which feeds into the Lake Wobegon trail system all the way to South St. Cloud MN.)

I've met a lot of cyclists that like to get up at the break of dawn to start riding. They finish early and fuss about for the rest of the day obsessing over maps and bicycle parts.   That touring style resembles a job. I leave notoriously late for long rides. 

Over a decade ago, I did Cycle Oregon with Adam Roberts, my brother in shenanigans, and  his father Steve, whom I consider a mentor, dear friend and third grandfather to my kids.  Adam and I, being the jackasses that we were/are, would start each day by waking at 9-10 a.m., scrounge breakfast from support staff while the feeding stations were closing and then pack our tents in an empty campground. The last task in our casual start was hygienic recon. Adam, an Air Force Captain (now Major) would go scout surrounding buildings for a clean toilet.  He had a knack for finding us pristine latrines amidst the offal left by hordes of fecally challenged riders. After our bathroom ritual, we'd hit the road around 11 a.m., which is blasphemy on such events.  We'd spend a couple of hours catching up to middling groups on the route. 

Our tour "strategy" drove Steve batshit crazy for a few days, but we broke him and that wild stallion is now one of the most mellow cyclists I know. Don't get me wrong, Steve is still strong as an Ox on the bike, but he isn't in a rush anymore.  By the end of Cycle Oregon, we beamed with pride as Steve would inquire about the stealthy clean toilets he aimed to pollute.

I'm rambling about my lax commencements because I was off to a late start today, by my own superfluous standards.  I got stuck in the small town social network of the Pelican Rapids McDonalds.  It's the default cafe for kibitzing in this town and its quite a nice place with the new Ronald-Euro interior design. 

I was chided, as usual, about my funny shoes and asked what the cleats were all about by good natured retirees.  These men are obviously daily patrons.  We talked for quite a bit and one of them, Roland Jordahl, asked if he could take my picture.  I obliged and he took out this camera with an enormous lens, while I posed like a swimsuit model. 

Turns out that Roland is a nature photographer.  His professional pictures of birds, in particular, appear in magazines and all over the web.  A few hours into my ride, I had an email attachment on my phone with a hi-res attachment of me, half-in and half-out of the drive-thru. A stunning masterpiece. 

I had loitered for a long time and was about to leave when this jovial woman, Milly, started an exchange with Roland about smoking and how she wasn't quitting now because she's terminal.  The combination on my bike lock is "Milly," the nickname of my daughter.  I shared this and then spent another hour and a half speaking to Mildred and her friend, Darryl.  

They were both lovely people and it turns out that Darryl is fighting cancer and past demons, just like Milly.  If I had rushed out of the place, worried about a schedule, I would have missed reading Milly's abstract memoir full of pen and ink drawings.  It was moving and her attitude about mortality and morality is inspirational.  The fellowship with her and Darryl was the best part of my day. 

About 25 miles away in another town, I heard a car honking at me from an intersection. By coincidence, it was Milly. She stopped and we said goodbye again, for the last time. Safe passage on your voyage Mildred.  If you find time, please write about your wild times in Europe!  Don't spite the rest of us mortals. 

My concerns about leaving late made little difference as I logged 107 miles on the buxom Fargo today.  I'm tired, but was fortunate to have a tailwind. 

A bit sore, I might lag into the next stop with a goal of making Minneapolis by Thursday to see good friends.  I'm making my "Minnesota Nice" pal, Theresa, drive up from Iowa to see me for a total immersion experience in Nordic culture. 

Miles: 61.2

Total Elevation Gain (ft): 1486.2

Weather: Sunny, Warm

Hillbilly Insults: 0

Roadkill: 7 (15 Birds, 1 Snake, 6 Chipmunks, 2 Skunks, 1 Turtle, 1 Badger, 6 Unknown)

Bugs Swallowed: 1

Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Animal Rescue: 0

Trees!

Minnesota must have lifted the arbor ban imposed by Eastern Montana and North Dakota.   The land of 11,842 lakes has not disappointed, thus far. Relatively cool and mosquito free, I'm having a charmed day. 

The Gopher State is frequently cited as the most progressive state

 In the country.  Take that Oregon and Vermont!  It rubs raw the Glenn Beck crowd with its five million inhabitants benefiting from a good economy, a good educational system and top-notch healthcare.  It must be the Nordic European influence:  funny accents, naturally conservative but politically liberal.  As a result, Minnesotans never met a tax they didn't like.

"One of my best friends, Theresa, is an Iowan, but exemplifies what is referred to as "Minnesota Nice."  It's essence is wrapped in a set of attributes that include smiling stubbornness, forced politeness under stress, unbounded humility and passive hostility when rage is justified.  I love it when Theresa uses the word “different” to mean inferior or ghastly. 

I arrived late in Pelican Rapids and met 

Andrew, Gretchen and Honeybear, the proprietors of Riverview Flowers and Gifts.  They were very accommodating and had me over for a drink and friendly conversation.  Minnesotan affability looks to rival Montanan congeniality and North Dakotan graciousness.  It must be all the suffering through Siberian winters that makes Northern Tribes happy to be alive in the summer. 

The land o' lakes appears to be a perfect a slice of Americana as can be.  Yet, Americana is often a scary, terrible thing.  Think Michele Bachmann.  We shall see, we shall see. 

I've had serious love affairs with several road bikes and cheap flings with others.  A serial monogamist with those favored, I reminisce about the 90's era Nishiki Beta with Spin wheels; the piss yellow anodized  aluminum Giant TCR; a Colnago Dream Reflex with an exquisite carbon rear end; the supple steel Ritchey Breakaway portable; and the fully stacked SRAM Felt Z-25. 

I have my toss-abouts, as well.  The expensive carnage pile of my torridly brief cycling affairs is gratuitous.  Here are five notable strumpets I've been thinking about while preparing the Fargo for a few days of storage.

I gave away my clipless virginity to a shabbily constructed Giant Perigee with an embarrassingly 80'a minty green paint job.  She was interestingly alluring at the time with Biopace chainrings, like Pat Benatar with fingerless gloves and big hair.  Nevertheless, she never stood a chance of winning my respect.  I abandoned the Perigee without emotion when I graduated from law school.

My Giant MCR was loyal through many arduous qualifying events for Paris-Brest-Paris, but had serious physical limitations when it came to my insatiable shifting desires.  A growing frigidity locked up the rear derailleur, which made me despise the beauty I once found in the MCR's matronly frame.  It became a freakish blue abomination to me with that monstrously experimental monocoque frame.  The bride of Frankenstein!  I cannibalized her parts and what remains now collects dust in a storage shed.

I found brief respite in the flexible saddle of a saucy, tarty Slingshot.  After a while, I grew weary of all the flexibility in many riding positions.   It was like dating a contortionist and the novelty wore off.  The tension cable acting as a down tube made this ride too anorexic and taboo.  A good friend of mine took a shine to the bike and eloped to South Dakota with her a few years back. The luster obviously faded with  him, as well.  Teddy Ballgame pawned the Slingshot on my wife to haul back to Oregon when she paid a visit to see his family last week.  I'll probably give the Slingshot a makeover.  Rehab, a few facelifts and collagen injections will turn this spindly hag into a winsome cyclocross beauty.

A Nubian Princess broke my heart  by messing around with another man a few years ago.  My Felt F1X defiled her honor and was caught in flagrante on a hot summer day in 2007.  I hoisted her off a garage hook after I spied a boarder of mine fondling her saddle.  I desired to wash, lubricate and ride this neglected steed when my intentions were extinguished by the evidence of deception before me.  I bristled at the discovery of the Felt's top-tube with a massive ding upon it!  Attempts to camouflage such a corrupted maidenhead were futile.  When I confronted the perpetrators of my trust, I found that the FX1 had been doing street time as a commuter bike for my "guest."  A lowly commuter damaged by an uncaring and abusive paramour!

 "Et tu, Brute?" I whispered in her head tube as I shackled the frame in my dungeon of shame. 

Of course, I took pleasure in a commuter bike of my own.  A comfort bike, the Giant Halfway serves limited duty to this day, but was once my notable escort.  I needed companionship while on an assignment in Brussels and employed this elegant specimen.  Each day, atop the bike, I'd leave work and stride past the Mannekan Pis and take in a movie from time to time near the old World's Fair Atomium Park.  Life was whimsical and annoying French accordion music played in my head. 

A folding bike, the Halfway easily slipped onto the train with me, parked petite beside cafe tables and was nimble transport with its slight figure and 20" wheels. They'd fit perfectly in a champagne glass!  It was a perfect European romance with no hope of a future.  The Halfway wasn't built for long hauls of any sort, but stirs the Belgian chocolate cockles of my heart whenever I'm offered a continental breakfast waffle.