It's A Hill
Get Over It
Tom Hanks is making a movie about RAGBRAI. It's going to be called Sorest Rump. Anonymous
What I'll remember most about our ride across Iowa is not the heat, humidity, endless hills, or hordes of people. It's the kindness and generosity that I experienced mile after mile between the participants, support squads, and local Iowans who opened their hearts, their homes, and their lives to us so we could find out who and what we're made of.
What I discovered was astounding.
It was a modern-day Woodstock on Wheels, where our common experience was both physical and spiritual, born out of a laborious challenge, a communal sense of accomplishment, and an absolutely insane desire to participate in a RAGBRAI at least once in this lifetime.
Over 20,000 registered cyclists participated in this year's ride across southern Iowa. We road across the film-famous Bridges of Madison County to the tornado-stricken town of Greenfield. We cycled from Glenwood through Winterset onto Ottowa, ending in Burlington exhausted, proud, and ever so grateful.
At 4:00 a.m., an oversized Urber arrived at our home in Campbell, and to the driver's credit, he looked unphased as we loaded five large bags into his pristine car. In our defense, two of the bags held the carefully packed frame of our tandem bike, two were filled with biking gear and regular clothing, and a fifth bag stowed our sleeping bags, blow-up pillows, helmets, biking shoes, tools, and such.
After spending a week weeding down my supplies to the bare minimum, I still brought too much. I'M NOT A MINIMALIST, but I am redefining my understanding of what is essential and what is not. Toilet paper being near the top, along with sunscreen, deodorant, and cash. Lessons learned: jewelry, blow dryers, and more than two types of footwear are unnecessary.
Our flight itself was miraculous because little did we know that the next day, a routine update to Crowd Strikes software would shut down airports, hospitals, and small businesses across the United States.
We landed in Kansas City, Missouri, a night early because we wanted to explore our old neighborhood, where we bought our first house, birthed a couple of kids, and made fabulous friends over 34 years ago. As we turned onto Mastin Drive, I kept thinking the trees grew and the house shrunk.
Isn't that always the way?
My cousins Mike and Gail and my sweet niece Ellie arrived the next day, and we gathered for what I'll call the Last Super before RAGBRAI. Our excitement was palatable, but my nerves were so raw that it felt like someone had sandpapered the surface of my skin. I'll admit to an unexpressed fear hovering in the back of my mind.
It went something like this, "What the fuck am I doing?"
Early the next morning, we drove two hours to Glenwood, MI. After finding our camp, we checked in with our tent service (Out Of Staters), who slapped permanent wristbands on all of us (which got us a tent and a shower) and directed us to our temporary canvas homes.
Rob and Suzette, long-time friends of Mike and Gail, arrived, and our little RAGBRAI team was complete.
Rob says to me straight away, "I ordered the audio version of your book. I listened to the whole thing, and I wanted you to know that I liked it very much."
He doesn't know this because I don't let on, but I'm ridiculously pleased that he enjoyed the book. I say, "Oh my, thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it." I know my response needs a little work, but I resisted jumping for joy and hugging him to death.
Larry's first challenge was to reconstruct our bike with my skillful (?) assistance. It's a process, not a contest. We always seem to run into new problems, and this time was no exception, except 5 people were waiting patiently for us to complete our task. Gail took a time-lapse video of the process. I attached it for your enjoyment. There might appear to be no harsh words or rash displays of anger when you're moving that fast, but believe me, they were cleverly embedded.
As soon as our bike was functioning, the five riders (Mike, Ellie, Rob, Larry, and me) headed to the Missouri River to do the traditional front tire dip, signifying the beginning of the event. It's a thing. It was an easy 16-mile round trip to the river, but when we arrived, we realized we would have to carry our tandem down a steep, muddy slope to get to the water's edge. Our proof of the traditional dipping was duly photographed, along with the mud-caked shoes and an eerie feeling that this was a sign of what was to come.
Tradtional back tire dip in the Missouri River (spots on my legs are psoriasis, any suggestions welcome)
Of course, on the way back, we stopped at a brewery for a cold one and parked our bikes in a cornfield—so Iowa.
Each night, you head into the hosting town, where the central square is inundated with food trucks, booths with bike clothing, supplies, and repair stations. Did I mention the food trucks? They are unbelievable. Epic, really, but you have to be patient, compliant, and considerate. It takes a lot of organization and fortitude to serve 20,000 people.
Larry and I split a specialty grilled cheese sandwich with smoked bacon and tomatoes. There's nothing like guilt-free eating for an entire week, so don't judge me.
There was no shower service on the first day, even though we rode 16 miles in the heat and humidity. Lovely. We went to wash our faces and brush our teeth in the evening, and again, there were no facilities. So it's a water bottle, your toothbrush, and a splash of water on your face before bed, and by bed, I mean a one-inch air mattress and sleeping bag.
Can we offer up a communal groan?
RAGBRAI requires a lot of self-talk: "You can survive anything for a week. You'll never see most of these people again. Who cares if you have toothpaste running down your chin? It's not the destination; it's the journey, and don't forget all that shit about what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Yeah, none of that helped.
At least I have the Ritz to look forward to at the end of the week.
Okay, not to be indelicate, but the bathroom situation was rather tricky. Literally thousands of people were camped around us, and there were six portable toilets—SIX! They ran out of toilet paper by 8:00 p.m., and the collective waste products of highly active people (or maybe we're all full of shit) was on the rise.
Are you getting my drift?
I forced myself not to pee in the middle of the night, which, at my age, is miraculous. There are so many reasons, but let's just agree that walking 100 yards in the dark in my pajamas to an overfilled, stifling hot potty that might be inundated with spiders and no toilet paper is not ideal for Cheryl.
Did I mention we're staying at the Ritz at the end of the week?
Our first evening in the tents was as interesting as the bathroom situation. They left the overhead floodlights on all night, so it sort of felt like a Russian prison, where no one is allowed to sleep. The tents are erected in tight rows, closely woven together, each row only a few feet apart. They aren't soundproof, excessively private, or posh.
Oh, and the generators for the large mobile bunkers were blasting all night. Then, this guy's musical alarm started blaring at three in the morning. He couldn't figure out how to turn the thing off, and people were not very patient with his incompetence. His tent was right next to Ellie's. It was one of those nights.
Once the early birds wake up, there's really no point in trying to sleep. It's loud and contagious as people break down their tents and prep their bikes for the daily ride. Larry managed to secure two cups of coffee, and after that, I wiggled, okay, stuffed myself into my biking gear for day one (think tent, small space, big girl). I emerged from my castle, rumpled and sweaty, with a serious urgency to pee.
The potty line was 25 people deep. Dear God, there was no toilet paper, and yes, the waste was now 4 inches from the rim. If you're the curvaceous type, well, enough said. I had to use all of my leg muscles to hover over the excrement—a talent I never knew I had.
Thank God day one is a short day in terms of cycling, only 40 miles. Our team decided to head out early and eat breakfast at the first town—the best-laid plans. After about 5 miles of riding, we were all separated. If Larry and I weren't on a tandem, I don't think we would be able to find each other all week.
Hum?
We realized we forgot to bring our wallet when we stopped for pancakes in the first town—rookie mistake. The vendors only take cash. We rode through town after town, stomachs growling, when we realized we did have Apple Pay on our phones, so a few stops later, we found a vendor that accepted that sort of payment.
Can I just say a dry pulled pork sandwich from the Gas Station tasted like a gourmet meal?
After finding our campsite, we dumped the bike and headed to the main tent to gather with our team and enjoy an ice-cold beer. Oh, I'm now a beer drinker. Who knew there would be no wine until the Ritz, so as they say, when in Rome…
I iced my sore knee for a while, and then I went to shower. More surprises: They do not supply shampoo and soap! I know. What the hell? Larry and I scavenged through our toiletry kits and found one tiny decaying bar of soap. So after I almost walked into the men's facility—it's confusing—I washed both my hair and body with bar soap.
There were no mirrors anywhere, or plugs, so I had to imagine that my hair dried perfectly and my freckled skin looked soft and dewy. I didn't look in a mirror for an entire week, air-dried my hair every night with my fingers, and brushed my teeth in front of God and my tent community with a water bottle.
It was rustic, okay, insanely rustic, and sort of a introverts nightmare.
I might have mentioned that I'm staying at the Ritz in six days, so I'm considering this experience a short self-induced purgatory, and I'm going to pretend it's cleansing my soul.
Cyclists on RAGBRAI make their way out of Glenwood, through Silver City, and into the Day 1 meeting town of Henderson on Sunday, July 21, 2024 (my mom's birthday) in Mills County, IA.
The days sort of blur together, although I kept notes of the highlights on my computer each night. If I were to summarize the entire week, it went something like this.
The mornings are challenging, but I grew to love them. Our alarm wakes us at 5:00 a.m., and against the wishes of our sore muscles, we rise up and greet the day. Everything is wet, deliciously cool, and yet sticky like a Slurpee.
Larry slips out of our canvas home and sprints to the main tent before they run out of coffee. I ignore my urge to pee until I have a few sips of coffee, then I throw a sweatshirt over my pj's, grab my roll of toilet paper, and get in line for the porta potties. Ellie is always somewhere in the line. After which we brush our teeth beside our tent, slip into our biking gear, pump up the tires (the first two mornings, we had flats, which added to the fun), fill the water bottles, make sure we have our sunglasses and wallet, before heading out for the day around 6:00 am.
I'm pretty sure I will not be able to fully describe the experience of cycling down an endless road with gently rolling hills lined by lush corn fields and thousands of fellow riders. I watch the luminous sun conducting a sunrise symphony through the thick clouds every damn morning, which creates these extraordinary shards of light as if a mobile outdoor cathedral.
It's surreal.
I have this sense of belonging to something so much more than me and 20,000 participants. We've become part of the landscape, a miraculous evolution, connected in some way to each other, to God (you can call it life, love, creation--I don't care what), to the air we breathe, our hearts beating in unison, listening to the crackle of the growing corn, the sound of rolling tires on the hot pavement, train horns in the distance, laughter, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude that we get to do this thing, this really challenging thing, this rolling Woodstock if you will, and my joy can not be contained.
Okay, I get it, you're reading this, and maybe you think I have a touch of sunstroke. You might be right, but like most things in life that are radically transformational, they're not only hard to describe, but they are impossible to recreate for someone else. The best I can do is ask you to go to that place when your life was forever altered and, from that memory, ride along with me.
Every day, the pattern is the same, and yet, somehow, I've adjusted to the situation with unexpected ease. I'm assuming somewhere in my DNA I had relatives who lived in caves, and those instincts are kicking in.
Each morning, we're baptized with the same images, only slightly altered for our enjoyment. The motion, the surge of people, the collective energy is contagious and I start mourning the passage of time: one day down, then two, and three.
So my nickname is now Wilma, as in Fred's wife from the Flintstones, because I love eating a pork chop sauteed in butter and seared on a charcoal grill. No knife or fork, just my teeth, the meat, and an infusion of flavor that defies description other than orgasmic! I'm not kidding. Every day, Mr. Porkchop plants his barbeques at the top of a steep hill with a bunch of shade trees and feeds the ravenous riders of RAGBRAI.
Every town is a new experience but always the same. Charming children line the streets so they can touch your hand as you pass. Some will hand you a freeze pop, they host lemonade stands, and will spray you with a garden hose if you say, "Yes, please!"
Food trucks line the streets every morning, offering Chris Cakes (all-you-can-eat pancakes, sausage, and coffee), pulled pork sandwiches, burritos, ribs, steak, hotdogs, hamburgers, ice cream, beer, beverages, music, and lots of porta potties. Not to be outdone, the church ladies offer an assortment of homemade pies, cookies, and pastries.
You can get a massage or a tattoo, buy bike supplies and deodorant, then explore the local museums and attractions. There are photo opportunities, psychics, pigs to pet, pots to throw, and water stations to quench your thirst or cool you down. It's Iowa, anything goes. There was even a mechanical bull set up in one town (which Ellie road).
Screenshot
But I have to say, the water slides are the best way to lower your body temperature, and Ellie is known to stop at every single one.
There are unlimited opportunities to donate to charities, college funds, sporting events, and more. With endless streams of people, we are forced to walk our bikes through the small towns, maybe sit in the shade while we eat, slip off our bike shoes for a spell, and listen to a local band playing in the town square.
Then you're on the road again.
I can't explain the enchantment of the Iowan landscape. Cyclists snake along the meandering highways, which gently slope up and down like a roller coaster. The roads are all in amazingly good condition. I assume that's because the farmers need a way to transport their produce easily.
There's a lingo that you have to learn while you're on the road. If there is a car up ahead (which is unusual), everyone yells, "Car up," and those words echo along the highway with the approaching vehicle. If the car is coming from behind, it's "Car down," and if there are ruts in the road to indicate a stop is coming up, you stick out your hand, shake it around, and yell, "Rumble." I always wanted to learn a second language and now I have.
We've all heard about the cornfields of Iowa, but it's hard to appreciate how a place can be covered by thousands and thousands of acres of lush green crops. It's all soft rolling hills, dotted with whimsical farmhouses, scenic silos, rustic barns, striking water towers, majestic trees, and an extraordinary array of flowers. I found it all ridiculously appealing. By the way, all the riders pee in the cornfields—it's a rite of passage, so to speak—and imagine how it fertilizes the corn.
One afternoon, when the wind kicked up, I noticed some of the camp crew running around driving second stakes into our tents. Then, the camp director came around and told us where the storm shelters were located, just in case.
Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
It petered out within a few hours, and I slept soundly knowing I wouldn't wouldn't wake up in the land of Oz, my tent pitched on some vengeful witch with a death wish.
Our little team has its own unique philosophies, which we frequently share with each other and have become known for.
Notice the photo bombing attempt bombed?
Ellie advises, "You have to stop and ride every slip and slide just to cool off." Dr. Ellie recently graduated and started her first job as a Dentist a few weeks ago, but told her employer, I'm riding RAGBRAI at the end of July, and I'll need a week off right after I start. Bold, I know, but they must have really wanted this talented young lady, because they approved her request on the spot. Ellie is vivacious, kind, and slides gracefulling into the most challenging situations. If I need a crown, she's my queen.
Larry's motto is, "You have to stop for ice cream at least twice a day." He claims, "It's for a good cause." And besides, this is a guilt-free eating zone, add a little donut and umbrella.
Cheryl's is obvious: "I'm getting in the coffee line. Go on without me if I take too long (wishful thinking)." One day, on the way out of town, I was still enjoying my coffee from the back of the tandem because I don't have to steer, but as we were approaching a small hill, I overheard someone say, "Look at her. She's not pedaling; she's sipping her latte as if this was nothing."
Larry says, "Someone's talking about you."
"I hear them, but I'm too polite to respond."
Mike says, "You have to stay hydrated, or you'll boink." It's Missourian slang, and by boink, he means you'll pass out. It's Mike's word of the week, which we've all adopted but bastardized the usage because that is what we do. He says, "You'll boink if you don't take your electrolytes." "Don't get overheated or you'll boink." You get the idea. It's boinkers.
Gail walks up to our little group one afternoon and says, "I learned something very important. When you leave your bike in the sun, your tire can explode. And Mike, your tire just exploded." Gail is our support person. This ride would not have been possible without her. Every day, she has all our equipment ready so we can charge our phones and watches. She does our smelly laundry, welcomes us into camp, offers us treats, shows us where everything is, and takes responsibility for my computer every day. She is always happy, and supportive, maintaining a sense of calm for all of us. It feels a little like when I was a kid and arrived home from a long day at school, and there was mom, fresh cookies on the counter, and ice-cold milk in the frig.
Rob is a comedian at heart and an independent soul. He's our one-joke-a-night guy. One afternoon, out of the blue, he asks, "How many men does it take to please an Amish woman? Two men-a-night." (Get it? Mennonites) He's the first one to leave every morning and the first to arrive back at camp, and enjoys no shower lines and clean potties. Smart man. Oh, and he likes my book!
Suzette announces, "I'm going in search of the covered bridges of Madison County today. I'll take some pics for you all." She and Gail offer SAG support for the team. They pack up the camp every morning, transport our gear, meeting us at the next campsite at the end of the day. It's an essential part of the process, and I'm ever so grateful for these two generous ladies.
One afternoon, back at camp, Larry made a splash with several of the women. This is one of the only events I've ever attended where the men outnumber the women 5 to 1. So when our service set up the showers, they accommodated this ratio by dedicating three shower trucks for the men and one for the women. But as usual, the line for the women's showers was 15 deep, and there was no waiting at the men's.
I'm getting annoyed because Larry walked right up to the truck and into the shower, with no delays. I wasn't the only one becoming annoyed with the organizers, who thankfully decided they would dedicate another truck to the women after this one last guy was done.
You guessed it. That one last guy enjoying his long hot shower was Larry, and he was taking his damn sweet time. The women were getting more and more aggressive about this guy who was literally standing between them and a hot shower. What the hell was he doing? Reluctantly, I had to admit it was my husband before he came out and said hello to me.
When he finally emerged from the steaming truck, all the women were yelling, "Larry, what took you so long?" The poor guy didn't know what the hell happened. It was like he suddenly had 15 wives, so he did what he does to me when I'm grumbling. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. But his reputation was marred for the rest of the week, and you could hear the women tease him when they passed, "Oh, there goes Larry, the shower guy."
The first few days we road 40-45-miles, followed by two days of 80-plus miles, then a 60-mile day followed by another 80-plus, and the final day just shy of 50. We traveled a total of 440 miles across Iowa from the Missouri to the Mississippi Rivers.
We saw one bad crash. A guy veered into the gravel accidentally and fell hard. He was instantly swarmed by several bikers who called for an ambulance and tried to stanch his wounds.
There were two guys rollerblading the entire way and one guy biking backward—lots of incredible costumes and team jerseys. Our Tight Butts and Sweaty Nuts jerseys did not go unnoticed. Each day is jersey-themed: college, nationality, associations, teams, etc. It's a great talking point and a way to make connections with people.
The guy riding next to me said, "Well, there's another organ donor."
One morning, this old guy standing on the street yells to Larry, "You know there's a beautiful girl following you?" (He may have been blind)
Larry yells back, "I know, I can't shake her."
It was sort of funny at the time, but now I'm not so sure.
The day I wore my Swedish jersey, several people tried to talk to me in Swedish and I had to admit, I don't speak the language but enjoyed the camaraderie with fellow Swedes. When they found out it was my great-great-grandmother who came over, I was considered diluted but still a Swede.
Larry and I have always made it our policy not to drink and ride, but every day, there is this inviting beer garden station about 3-5 miles outside of our destination, so we allowed ourselves this one indulgence: one light beer and a half hour to sit in the shade before we finishing the day.
I believe it was after the beer garden when Larry's phone slipped from his hand while we were riding, tumbling down the street behind us. Usually, when you drop something, it's lost because you can't stop in the middle of a wave of people to retrieve it. That would be mayhem. But we quickly pulled to the side of the road, and I ran back to where the phone had boinked (as Mike would say) in the middle of the street, and all the bikers were yelling to the people behind them, "Phone down. Phone down," until a wave of people opened up a tiny window of space for me to make a quick dash for the phone. It was a heroic save, in my opinion. The device was miraculously unscathed, Larry was traumatized, and I made a few notes on my phone about my heroism which was clearly exaggerarated.
With thousands of people camping in the same location night after night, I am constantly amazed that there were no fights, no drunk people, no tensions or issues. I know it's sappy, but it's as if we knew we were all in this together, and kindness has become the dominating force.
There is also no internet. I think the capacity gets overwhelmed when 20,000 people descend on the small towns each day, but a surprising gift from that phenomenon was I was off social media for an entire week. It was freeing. And guess what? I didn't miss a thing. I also noticed how everyone left their politics at home, and it was a relief not to hear a single political argument for an entire week.
The sunburn and saddle soreness will not linger, but the memories of completing a physically challenging adventure will last forever, and that's why this novice rode.
Somehow, I was free for an entire week to be myself, unadorned, unkept, and unruly like the day I was born, and of course, I considered the obvious: Who the hell am I without all the normal distractions of life?
What did I learn, you might ask? I've learned that I can ride long distances, even at my age, and my muscles will grow stronger with use. I saw how my endurance gradually improved as I pushed myself beyond all those self-imposed boundaries. It was the same feeling I had when I became proficient at snow skiing and suddenly realized I could get down any mountain, even a black diamond.
I had to ask myself again and again, what are you really doing, Cheryl? Does it translate? As I tried to imagine how this experience would continue to carry me long after I returned home and my life got back to normal.
But as we know, nothing lasts forever, especially our stagnant views on what is and is not possible.
The magic of RAGBRAI slowly dissipates as the participants scatter like dandelions in the wind, the tents are packed up, and the buses drive away. The small towns return to a new normal after being touched by a wake of 20,000 people cycling through their lives. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but the culture of Iowa has worked its way under my skin, the dust embedded in my hair, and the grit is now lodged in the nooks and crannies of this well-worn body.
I will never forget how the childish wind taunted me, mile after mile, whispering in my ear, "What does it all mean?"
In my silence, the wind smirks, "So she has eluded you?"
I feel my panic rise as if bile with each rolling hill, spiraling on the steep descents because now I know the journey has come to an end. As we near Burlington, Larry reaches back and grabs my hand, and I feel my eyes swell with tears as the vast Mississippi River comes into view.
"We did it, babe, we did it."
My haunting prolepsis has traded places with a confidence born out of an experience with the unknown. Oh, how I long to return to that first morning when my heart was wide open, riding on the narrow wheels of courage, not knowing how the tale would end. I might never fully understand the full meaning RAGBRAI, but I believe clarity arrives on its own, like the wind, she can't be held. I realize now my only purpose is to be a receptacle of hope, in communion with my fears, but holding space for that which I thought was impossible. Oh how deliciously wrong we can be.
I'm Living in the Gap, heading to the Ritz, tethered by an itch for another Ragbrai…
I can't explain how I've missed your lives and your posts but at the same time it was magical to experience a few weeks without technology. It's freeing, as if someone has absolved you from all your responsibilities and forced you to just live in the moment. I look forward to reading and liking your posts but I'll refrane from commenting until the laundry is done and I've had time to snuggle with the granddaughters. Love to all, Cheryl
Grow Damn It is available in paperback, on audio, and Kindle! Don't miss out on the audio sale!
No comments:
Post a Comment