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.
Stillwater, MN is nestled along the river and is an inviting place to stay.
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.
Bike cafes and Lee working on the Fargo.
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."
A Minnesota Kaiju!
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.
Dakota at Thee Buffalo.
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!
My first day in the Fightin' Sioux jersey.
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.
Nice lake views off of the Central Trail.
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.
No cars and very few people. Too bad we don't have trails like this cross-crossing the whole county like they do in Deutschland.
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.)
The McD Fab 5 and me.
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.
The artist, Roland.
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.
Milly and 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.
A pen and ink from Mildred's memoir.
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.
Traveling with one less bag. Hope "going light" doesn't burn me later.
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.
Shameless plug for Great Northern Cycles in Fargo. Neat shop housed in the old train depot. Excellent staff with 27 years if experience.
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.
Note: If you're a regular to this blog, notice that this is the fourth post made today. I've uploaded days 27-30 today. It took me a while to catch up. Miles: 52.6 Total Elevation Gain (ft): 634.6 Weather: Sunny, Hot Hillbilly Insults: 0 Roadkill: 7 (2Birds, 2 Snakes, 3 Unknown) Bugs Swallowed: 1 Mean Dogs Chasing: 0 Animal Rescue: 0
Not far from my final North Dakotan destination I had a problem. My rear wheel, under the weight of the engine and gear, coupled with who knows how many hundreds (1000s?) of miles began to give way. Two spokes became loose, like spaghetti, and were about to unravel. It's a testament to the strength of the wheel that I didn't even notice it until a water stop when I casually felt up the bike. When I hit the weak spokes, I panicked and them sighed in relief that nothing happened while I was in the open prairie.
I thought I was prepared. I packed the multi-tool, the chain repair kit, but no spoke wrench! Murphy's law. I couldn't hand tighten the spokes. Just as I started to risk dumping more miles on the injured Fargo, I got a neighborly lift into the city by Marvin, husband of Teddy. Just like those other 44 North Dakotans that inhabit this state, they were as friendly and affable as can be. The details would bore you, but Teddy put in the request to Marvin and the dude abides. (Sorry, it's Fargo, so I can't resist throwing out a Coen Brothers nibble.)
Marvin didn't seem remotely inconvenienced on a lazy Sunday to take a stranger to town. He was a great storyteller and we got on just fine. He's in his 70's but in fantastic shape. Marvin accords his health to ignoring all warnings about butter, eggs and "real food." This is a guy that lived right and ate what hippies think they're buying when going "local."
Marvin isn't a fan of the oil boom here and told me about the negative impact it's had in rural areas afflicted with the fallout from greed. I wanted to spend more time with him and buy him lunch, but he shook my hand shortly after he dropped me off. Once again, people like Teddy and Marvin are making me a softy.
Marvin and Teddy, thanks!
Although it's not the "real" sabbath, Sunday is THE day of worship in 'Merica. However, one god trumps the Judeo-Christian deity on Sundays, even in god fearing country and that god is money. And I say, can I have a hallelujah?! Praise baby Jesus and Allah on his winged horse for unfettered capitalism!
I had a big mechanical issue that needed to be fixed today and traditional bike shops are not open on Sundays, but Scheels is, and it's the A-Bomb.
Family owned Scheels has called Fargo home since it opened in 1928. It had modest growth over the years, but this sporting goods retailer built a 196,000 square foot shopping leviathan on 45th Street just north of Interstate 94.
It's so big that it features the indoor "Scheels Wheel," a 45-foot, 12-car, 1950's Ferris wheel. There's a large cafe, masonry murals, an homage to Roger Maris and an archery range. Most importantly, they have a complete bike service shop with "Barnett-certified technicians" open on Sunday! Sunday!! Sunday!!!
A genial kid named Aaron took my bike and put me at the head of queue. He went beyond my request and cleaned and lubed the chain and warned that I'll need a replacement in about 500 miles. Aaron's help was typical of the type of the service I received at the store all afternoon. Yes, I am raving about this place.
It's apparent that Scheels puts a premium on customer service and training staff to be knowledgeable about inventory as I later confirmed with my new friend and Scheels associate, Cassandra. On top of that, the store gives back more than 10% of its profits to local charities. Look out Sports Authority, Dick's, REI, Bass Pro! If Scheels plops down in your cat box, you're gonna lose a lot of litter. I purchased a Fighting Sioux cycling jersey and was told that I chose incorrectly. Fargo is home to rival North Dakota State and the University of North Dakota is the state's lesser red-headed stepchild. Fitting, I surmise, since an Indian is their mascot. I explained to my critic that my choice was based on the sale price and that I needed to represent the aboriginals I've been writing about while excoriating the White Man.
I got help from the Cassie choosing a compression shirt. She asked about my bike and I told her about the ride. When I was checking out, I was pleasantly surprised that she had my mechanic's fees waived and her manager, Josh, gave me a Scheels cycling shirt.
"Anyone going cross country on a Fargo, in Fargo, gets my support," he said. Cassie said she was inspired by the effort, so offered her waiver. I really was touched by these people. It won't go unnoticed and I vow to visit and shop here again.
I did get to take Cassie to dinner to thank her. Plus, I found she deserved a bit of recognition as it was her last day at Scheels before starting a career at mega-giant US Bank. It was a bonus for me as I got a local tour of downtown Fargo. It's going through a revitalization and has all of the proper affectations: fixie bikes locked outside coffee shops, an independent movie theater, converted lofts, buskers playing the hurdy-gurdy and third party Libertarian activists loudly soliciting ballot petition signatures. I always wanted to see this place. One of my favorite writers, Chuck Klosterman, is from here and he aptly describes it in his article, "Fargo Rock City." This stop was a nice way to finish the lonely march through North Dakota.
I'm heading to a nice event now. My widowed father-in-law is getting married to his widowed high school sweetheart. It's a quaint story of unrequited love, now "requited." I'm very happy for him.
Fly out of Fargo July 2nd. Back on the bike July 7th or 8th depending on my mood and posterior recovery. Then I've been told that the scenery improves when I cross the river into Minnesota.
Waiting for my flight, I've been staying at most sterile Hilton Homewood Suites. My chamber looks like the bedroom set outside of Neptune from 2001: A Space Odyssey, and I love it.
Miles: 73.6 Total Elevation Gain (ft): 1122.0 Weather: Sunny, Warm Hillbilly Insults: 0 Roadkill: 26 (6 Birds, 9 Snakes, 2 Frogs, 1 Badger, 3 Chipmunks, 1 Rabbit, 1 Turtle, 3 Unknown) Bugs Swallowed: 1 Mean Dogs Chasing: 0 Animal Rescue: 1 Turtle
I'm riding through Southern Saskatchewan, or as some call it, "North Dakota" and wondering why anyone would live here. Don't get me wrong, I am truly happy for the 46 friendly people that call this home, but their frigid winters, boiling summers and spring floods would test the patience of Job.
If you are one of the 46 that can stand North Dakota, it must be great. Wind blown plains, eternal miles between small towns and, winters on a scale that shame Minnesotans surely must have a unique charm. Ya know, come to think of it, it's Nebraska, without the decent college football.
No matter, the people are great. The state is doing well (oil shale) and unemployment is low. I've been without the company of Kathleen and the kids for several days. I've had a lot of time in wide open isolation to consider the most monotonous and isolating kind of potentially fatal weather imaginable out here. I marvel how the pioneers endured this place as I huff up hill into a 30 mph wind gust. At least I've got pavement, a steri-pen for water and a smartphone (without coverage). How did the strong men and women of the 1800's make it with woolen clothing, cholera and Dr. Semmelgeiss' Snake Oil?
I conclude that I'm a dandy wuss with my petty complaints of heat, wind and saddle boils. I persuade myself that I'm in heaven until a rabid looking badger hisses at me from the side of the road. I yell, "Go home!" and mutter, "Honey Badger don't give a f***," remembering the Internet meme which can be seen here: http://youtu.be/4r7wHMg5Yjg
The badger ruined my brief self-delusion of being in a quaint paradise. Now, I feel like I'm in some post-apocalyptic landscape. I rarely see traffic, never a cop and the main streets of towns are abandoned. I'm pretty sure the state tree is the telephone pole and wait...what's that? That huge white thing in the sky. It's a...pelican. In North Dakota? Puhleeze! No way. Pelicans thrive in the wetlands, here. That's right, pelicans. I thought I was suffering heat stroke hallucinations when I scanned a small choppy lake and saw this giant white "pigeon" soaring just a few feet above me. What the hell?! I did a double take. This was the first of dozens and dozens of pelicans and seagulls I would see.
The aptly named "American White" is a pelican unlike its ocean dwelling relatives. It does not plunge-dive because its American, fat and lazy. The literature says that Whooping Cranes are often confused with the American White, but I found that unbelievable. The crane is easily distinguished because it flies idiotically with legs and neck extended, like a rubber chicken.
I realize that my descriptions seem dubious, but I checked the digital oracle and what I write about the weather is true, at least for the state as a whole. The record low in North Dakota is − 60F and the record high is 121F. To put that in perspective, the temperature delta here is 181 degrees which is more than the difference that separates freezing and boiling. Both temperatures were recorded in 1936. That's also the year that Jesse Owens defeated Aryan Supermen in the Olympics. Yet, such an historic feat gets the silver medal compared to whomever endured the Great Depression and biblical climate around here.
Miles: 66.1 Total Elevation Gain (ft): 1217.8 Weather: Sunny, Hot Hillbilly Insults: 0 Roadkill: 14 (4 Birds, 3 Snakes, 4 chipmunks, 3 Unknown) Bugs Swallowed: 0 Mean Dogs Chasing: 0
What's the modern reward for vanquishing the Indians that provided us with a modicum of challenge and danger?
The new F-word. Fracking. Peak oil be damned! We have the technology to extract America's energy juice from the tiniest crevices. Oh sure, there's some minor side-effects like despoiling and poisoning the earth, but the short-term economic and political gain is a whopper!
I've been diverted south from the original Northern Tier route because of dangerous truck traffic around the Williston Deposit in the mistakenly branded "Bakken Oil Field."
So, this entry is a one-fingered salute, of sorts, to the Bakken for slowing my reverse Manifest Destiny. The added miles are good for physical fitness but hell on the psyche. The Bakken formation is a whole crapload of rock. Its formation lies below 200,000 square miles of subsurface in Montana, North Dakota, Saskatchewan and Manitoba. It's named after Henry Bakken, a farmer in North Dakota who owned the land where the formation was initially discovered. In 1951 oil was struck, but technical difficulties made it too hard to produce. Ever since, greedy bastards have been working non-stop, like squirrels on a birdhouse, to get all that black gold flowing. They had plenty of incentive as various estimates place the total reserve at up to 24 billion barrels. In 2008 new rock fracturing technology ("Fracking") brought a boom to the region. In 2010, oil production rates had reached 458,000 barrels per day, outstripping the capacity to ship the stuff out of the place. One nasty byproduct of Fracking is the release of millions of gallons of natural gas. This seemingly positive windfall is, in fact, an Al Gore nightmare. The gas is flared off for a lack of infrastructure to make use of it. I've been in Watford City and the night is lit up like Kuwait after Saddam Hussein spitefully retreated his army in 1991. Americans love to lionize and label anyone in the the military a hero. It's a bit ridiculous, because a lot of us know real jackasses that joined up not for the call of liberty, but for all sorts of pedestrian reasons.
Military worship is ingrained in us at a young age. Eisenhower's fear of the military industrial complex is now a reality and it has a big marketing budget. Those flyovers at football games ain't cheap. So, our collective guilt for allowing imbecilic jingoism and dunderheaded invasions is soothed when we get sappy over a few minutes of choreographed symbolism before a big sporting event. Unable to admit being wrong, we justify foreign policy disasters or tacitly ignore them by making stars out of corporate country music clones. They croon impossibly romanticized tunes about patriotism, drinking and adultery. Then there's the July 4th mass mouth breathing under fireworks and three day weekends where we shop at big box stores and ignore the lesser news feeds of men and women in uniform getting blown up.
If anyone is bristling with contempt for me right now, I apologize for my belief that I am right and you are wrong. I support the troops wholeheartedly. That's why I think they should have never been put in harms way for our expensive unjustified wars for the last decade. What I I call flag waving nationalism is dissent in the face of a torrent of public negligence and government stupidity. This is a meandering way of saying that all the focus on the military robs our attention from the civilian champions that keep our cities, suburbs, churches and gas guzzling hybrid vehicles churning. I'm talking about roughnecks, hookers and meth dealers. These unsung "heroes" sacrifice their own comfort for the rest of us. They act symbiotically to make their lifestyle bearable so that we may reduce our dependence on foreign oil and maintain our precious carbon based economy.
I'm fully aware that I'm a hypocrite, contrarian and jackanape. Just because I self-righteously ride a bike doesn't mean that I don't also enjoy the comforts of my FJ Cruiser and my and my fourth Scion xB. I'm no consumer slouch. Ha! I'm composing this post on my nifty iPhone--designed in California, mined in third world hellholes and manufactured by Chinese indentured servants. I merely want to give credit where credit is due, hero-wise. Presently, it's not the troops putting down nefarious enemy combatants keeping us safe, it's the aforementioned sex, oil field and narcotics workers on 18 hour shifts making it all happen. So, the next time you guzzle a frozen latte or wolf down a cheeseburger and sneer at a vagrant, prostitute or someone slinging from the comfort of your car, SUV or minivan, remember that you're looking down at patriots that simply haven't made the pilgrimage to North Dakota, yet. What did you do for your country today?
I got a late start out of Hazelton because I stopped at the only small market in town and had the lunch special: cheeseburger and baked beans. I sat down with the other patrons, Fern, Bernice, James, Katie and Joanne. They're all part of the Main St. Market Singles Club. That's what I call it, anyway. James, in a thick German accent explained how he was the bachelor amongst all the women in the place, either widowed or waiting for Mr. Right. They were all locals and I could tell they must've thought I emerged from a flying saucer in my spandex and noisy cleats. I think I'd pass as a pretty good Klaatu and my bike could play Gort, if I threw the LED lights on it. Hazelton is a perfect setting for another "The Day the Earth Stood Still" remake.
I got on the road and the sun was shining beautifully on the rolling hills, but the wind wasn't cooperating like it was from Bismarck. This wasn't a brutal headwind, but an insidious crosswind that drains one slowly. It's like a heavy Belgian ale. The few times I've had some Trappist monk brew, I feel pretty good until the 25% ABV hits like a ton of bricks. I had that feeling about four hours into the ride. About that time, I stopped in a town I cannot recall the name of. It had a Maid-Rite diner. I choked down a grilled cheese sandwich with a strawberry lemonade shush chaser. I was just finishing up, when "THWAAAAP!!!," an elderly woman caught her foot on a stool and face planted on the concrete floor with lightning speed.
I thought she'd be knocked out, or worse. 82 year-old Eileen Geislel was in the process of getting up when I jumped on the floor and put my arm around her. She was bleeding and probably had a broken nose. I didn't want her to move too much in case she needed to be immobilized. After a while, we got her in a chair and put an ice pack on her face. She said she was fine, but I asked that one of the many friendly cackling hens in the place to take her to the ER, just in case she had a concussion.
The sound her head made hitting the floor would make pro-linemen wince. Eileen, you're a soldier and I promise to send your war photo in the mail when I'm done with the ride, since you don't use the Internet. I got to Gackle and was put up by Jason Miller, of Miller Honey Farms. These are the folks behind the cyclist brand favorite, Honey Stinger products. My kids love the stroopwafels, but you gotta lose Lance Armstrong on the packaging. That guy's a dope!
I never met Jason, but chatted with him on the phone. He was out of town, yet he leaves his home open for touring cyclists. With his wife Ginny, they've turned their basement into "The Honey Hub of Gackle: A Cyclist's Respite."
What a great place. Free lodging, wi-fi, a hot shower, linens and beds. Perfect. I was tempted to stay two nights, but Gackle turns into a zombie movie set after 8 p.m. and I have fantasies of making Fargo before my self-imposed July 1st deadline. Thank you Millers and Honey Hub! You can check out the relevant details for this gem on Adventure Cycling's Northern Tier Addendum online information. Enderlin tomorrow. Long stretches, no water stops. Will be packing lots of fluid in the Platypus bladder.
Miles: 47.5 Total Elevation Gain (ft): 1397.7 Weather: Sunny, Warm Hillbilly Insults: 0 Roadkill: 11 (1 Bird, 4 Snakes, 3 chipmunks, 3 Unknown) Bugs Swallowed: 0 Mean Dogs Chasing: 0
My last day of support and company with my family ended today, but not before we enjoyed a movie and the gluttonous orgy of stupidity that is Golden Corral. How does this swill trough make money?
I inhaled eight glorious yeast rolls with my two steaks, multiple sides of meat and assorted deserts. Thank you, thank you strip mall civilization! You have my gratitude for the bounty provided and about to be shat from wholesome American guts!
Our irresponsible binge was capped by my feral children exuberantly misbehaving. Felix threw a shoe at his sister like an angry jihadist and Camille started to bite her toenails. Katy mused about what proud parents we are as we sternly admonished the kids and laughed maniacally at each other. This dinner odyssey was meaningful in ways that few people can understand. I know now that my piecemeal multicultural family is fully assimilated in mainstream culture. Mission accomplished. The nice thing about coming off the prairie to a city with a Wal-Mart is that I can usually find a decent bike shop. I met Jared at Epic Sports and he took loving care of the Fargo. She had been mothballed during my dalliance with the Colnago.
I needed a minor tune-up and my pedals swapped out. I've decided to go with my old Look pedals for the rest of the trip. Touring purists will make church lady, pinch-faced scowls at the bizarre hybrid style I've created by wearing racing cleats and shoes on the lumbering Fargo. It's just that the Scott shoes are so comfortable, I can't return to the Shimano SPD/Flat pedals. They were giving me unnecessary nerve damage. If I decide to stop and walk around somewhere, I'll just slip off the Scotts and pull my New Balance Minimus out the dry bag. Sorry Shimano, I need a big platform and your product felt like a red hot ball-peen hammer bashing my feet.
Jared took good care of everything and continued the streak of human kindness I've experienced since my departure from Astoria. He's a pretty fit looking mountain biker and warned us against eating at the "Alien Cafe." I thought it would be nice to take the kids there, but Jared's description made Chucky Cheese sound like Nobu by comparison.
I procrastinated in an air-conditioned movie theater waiting for the winds to die down after thr family left for Elk Point, SD and then onto Kansas City to visit friends. I watched Angelina Jolie's husband thwart zombie hoards. George Romero did it best 50 years ago. It's time to warehouse the undead trope for a few years.
Hit the road at 7:30 p.m. and after a bit of climbing rolled into the Hazelton park campsite in the dark. It was a perfect cool evening. I snuggled into my tent sleeping bag and tossed and turned. Gave up on sleep and watched the ignominious "Fast and Furious" on my iPhone. It was worse than I imagined and not worthy of the small screen.
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