A Week in the Corn - My Long Distance Bicycle Ride Across Iowa

I’ve always thought that someday I could muster the will and the endurance to participate in an infamous week long bike ride across Iowa. Originally created and continually sponsored by the DesMoines Register newspaper, the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa tracks across the state from west to east for over 400 miles over seven days. The route changes every year. For this year, the route crosses the north-central part of the state for approximately 500 miles starting in Sioux City and ending in Davenport. 

I meet Dean, former co-worker and long time pal, near the bus staging area at St. Ambrose College in Davenport. Earlier in the year, he planted the seed in me to participate in this event. Well, the idea took root and here we are.

After parking our cars in the long term lots, we’re soon on a coach bus for our shuttle across the state to our starting point in Sioux City. Up and down I-80 we see cars, vans, campers, and converted buses all decked out with carriers and platforms full of bikes. It seems half the state is making its way to Sioux City to participate in this annual event. One bus, full of bikes and people, is stopped at a porno store. Many of the passengers are loitering in the parking lot. Maybe the driver has to go in and pick up a little something.

We’re in our Sioux City camp about six hours later. The place is crazy with people, bikes, tents – it’s like a carnival atmosphere. It is a carnival atmosphere. Everyone is buzzing about readying themselves and their bikes for tomorrow’s start of the ride. We bring our bikes to the bank of the Missouri River where we, and many others, take part in the ceremonial dipping of our rear tires in the water. We all hope that in one week, after a successful ride, we will be dipping our front tires in the Mississippi River in Davenport.

Retrieving the bikes from the transport trailer 

Hmmm. Which one is mine?

And now, let's find my bag

Day One, Sioux City to Storm Lake, 74.3 miles (published), 76.6 miles (actual)

The sun has barely risen when I get up at 5:15 and ready myself. In the early morning light, a fellow cyclist climbs up on a platform with her trumpet. She plays reveille, loud enough to wake those still in slumber. Many have already set out. Others, like me, are still in camp having coffee, using the kybos, packing up our gear, and putting air in our bike tires.

The typical long line for the morning kybo visit

For those of us renting tents from our charter, we need to vacate no later than 7:00a.m. The charter staff needs the time to break down camp, collapse tents, close up the food trucks, collect our baggage, and re-setup everything in the next overnight town in time for our arrival by early to mid-afternoon. I make the habit of being on the road by 6:30 and in camp in the next town around 2:00p.m., depending on the day’s mileage.  

Our tent city looks like a Civil War era army field camp

Townspeople line the streets on our way out of town, like they are watching a parade. However, this parade is not one that consists of floats or marching bands. Instead, it consists of a moving city of 15,000 bicyclists who are setting out on their first of seven days pedaling across the State of Iowa.

The townspeople applaud and wish us good luck. Local school cheerleaders perform their routines as we pass. City police officers stop cross traffic and thank us for visiting their town. Once out in the country, Sheriff Deputies and State police officers take over traffic duty. Many of them have giant speakers on the top of their squad cars blaring music. “Don’t Stop, Believing,” by Journey, is one the songs. I won’t be able to get the tune out of my head for the rest of the day.

There are signs everywhere. Most of them advertise one vendor or another, what they’re selling, and how many miles it is until you get to their roadside stand or in-town booth.

Many of these vendors, I find out, pull up stakes at the end of the day and re-position themselves at a new strategic location somewhere along the next day’s route. I’d say over two dozen of them do this, their signs and fare becoming a familiar and, in many cases, a looked forward to sight during the day’s pedaling. The ones selling pork chop sandwiches, turkey tenderloins, and root beer floats with homemade ice cream are some of the ones that I will frequent on more than one occasion during the week.

Other signs are placed along the route with sayings and slogans designed to inspire or cheer us up. Some of these are placed sequentially in a Burma Shave sign-like fashion with funny limericks. Here’s one:

When you signed up for this ride

Friends and family asked you why

You thought, and you paused

Then you answered: Pie

My favorite:

Don’t lose your head
To gain a minute 
You need your head
Your brains are in it

Today’s route is the steepest with the most hill climbs. Despite the exertion, I feel good and relatively fresh when I get into camp later in the afternoon.

Looks like a bridge contractor didn't get the memo

Day Two, Storm Lake to Fort Dodge, 68.4 miles (published), 76 miles (actual)

It rains overnight and doesn’t stop until late morning. It is a chilly and driving type of rain. A cyclist in front of me blows out a snot. I don’t know if what I feel against my cheek is his projectile or if it is instead one of the many rain drops that wets my face.

An ambulance screams by. Up ahead, I see carnage at a railroad crossing. The crossing intersects the road at an angle, making a perfect trap to turn a road bike’s thin tires and send a rider sailing. The slick, rain-soaked rubber mats at the crossing make matters worse. This poor guy looks like he’s in bad shape. The rest of us make sure we take the tracks at a right angle to ensure that we don’t meet with the same fate.

People of all shapes, sizes, colors, genders and ages are participating in this ride. Many are in my demographic. Many are dressed in color coordinated bike jerseys with their team name emblazoned on the back.

A handful of other riders are dressed in costume to match their team name. Pink tu-tu’s, pink beards and hair, and pink feather boas are worn by Team Flamingo. A girl wears a neon green tu-tu. She is spread out from her teammates who I see later in the day. Team Cow consists of a couple on a tandem bike dressed in black and white spotted outfits with horns on their head. They are fast pedalers, easily passing many of us other riders.

Team Cow, like several others, blast music from their bike-designed Bluetooth speakers, loud enough for all to hear. They are playing AC/DC today. Another single rider, with thighs the size of redwoods, cranks out a tune while passing me on a hill. I recognize the tune but don’t know its name. “Hey-ey-ey yah…..Hey Yaaah.” I’m not a fan of that song. So, of course, that is why it sticks in my mind for the rest of the day.

Day Three, Fort Dodge to Eldora, 71.5 miles (published), 75.4 miles (actual)

I awake to a beautiful day with blue, sunny skies and temperatures that will top out at around 80 degrees.

Like the past two mornings, I am full of energy and adrenaline. I’m cruising along with hundreds of others at an 18-20 mph pace. I am feeling good and before I know it, I’ve put in 20 miles and haven’t even had breakfast yet.

I never go hungry or thirsty. All of the pass-thru towns pull out all of the stops for the three to five hours or so it takes us 15,000 cyclists to pass through their community. It’s a full-fledged festival in each town: food booths, vendors, music, beer gardens - the works.

There are all kinds of bikes on this ride. Individual road bikes are the most common. But, there are also hybrid bikes, folding bikes, tandem bikes, mountain bikes, and even several fat tire bikes. There are also recumbents. tandem recumbents and some trikes. There is even a guy in roller blades and another on a unicycle. On one tandem recumbent, the lady in the back is barely pedaling as she drinks her morning coffee while the guy in front is pedaling like a mad man. I wonder if he knows.

I see Dean up ahead. We pedal together for awhile. We “ride our own ride,” each leaving camp at different times in the morning and pedaling at different paces. This will end up being the only day I will see him while on the road. Otherwise, we catch up with each other once in camp.

Up ahead, there’s more carnage. One man is on his knees in the ditch being attended to by the ambulance crew. At another spot a mile later, a lady is on her back surrounded by others while being administered oxygen.

Further along is a large motor coach with a “Trump for President” slogan splashed along its side panels. Volunteers in blue golf shirts pass out free bottles of water to passing cyclists. Of course, some of my fellow cyclists can’t help themselves for the smart-alec comments soon follow: “Hey, shouldn't you save this water for those poor thirsty illegals crossing the hot and dry desert border?”

Day Four, Eldora  to Cedar Falls, 56.3 miles (published), 59.6 miles (actual)

I consult my maps and track my miles on the odometer, gauging how far it is to the next town where rest and refueling await. Then I see the welcome sight of the town's water tower on the horizon and I know it's not much further. Once there, I, like thousands of others, eat and drink everything. I'm voracious. Like a wolf.

Bits and pieces of Americana are everywhere. The country churches offer pie, water, snacks, etc. They can't or won't list the price, but you just give an amount of cash you feel is appropriate for what you have taken. Little kids with squirt guns spray you down with cool water as you pass. The local ladies auxiliary, concerned with our well-being, pass out free bottles of water. An Amish family set up their tents and ice cream making machines from which they sell their delicious home-made concoctions.

Mom and pop stores try to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to earn money off of the 15000 cyclists that pass by. High school sports teams, Boy Scout clubs, Kiwanis, service clubs, even the farm family who want to send their kid to college- all have roadside stands set up trying to earn some money for their respective causes.

Today will be the shortest of the seven days. However, it is one of the harder days. I’m beginning to get saddle sore and my right knee is acting up.

Day Five, Cedar Falls to Hiawatha, 69.6 miles (published), 72.7 miles (actual)

Today's route is a roller coaster. Up one hill, grinding the gears and going 7 mph, and then down the other, sometimes going as fast as 35-40 mph. Over and over again. On the descents, Dean reminds me that the only things sparing me from horrible injury or even death are the two thin, one inch tires on my bike and the flimsy plastic and styrofoam in my helmet.

Later, there are twenty or so of us in a tight pack, riding along at 18-19 mph. A fast team of seven, all in blue jerseys, catch up to us. We now number close to thirty. One of the team members blows a tire and angles off the road while the rest of us, like a school of fish, swerve in fluid unison to avoid him. He has our sympathy, but he's left behind to fend for himself. His team doesn't even look back. Like the war movies with the armada of naval ships en-route to the invasion. When a sailor accidentally falls overboard, they're not going to stop the whole fleet to save just one guy.

In camp, I’m recovering in the cooling tents, sitting in the shade and drink a beer. I'm exhausted. Some aches and pains are starting to materialize. My mind is a blank and I'm dumb, not numb, with fatigue. I learn that Dean has left the ride to attend to some family matters. So, I’m on my own for the final two days.

As dusk draws near, I’m sitting near a bunch from Kentucky. Like others I have talked with, they too find that at the end of the day, their bike odometers register more miles than what the published route says we should have traveled. No one knows why. I suggest that perhaps the routes were measured off of maps and didn't take into account the extra distances the numerous hills present. 

Our conversation shifts to the virtues of one bourbon versus another. The consensus from the Kentuckians is that Woodford Reserve and Buffalo Trace are at the top of the list. They also agree that these two distilleries are the best tours to go on if taking the bourbon trail.

Two more days, about 130 miles to go. I'm determined to make it.

Day Six, Hiawatha to Coralville, 62.6 miles (published), 67 miles(actual)

Reveille is played by the trumpet player, what has turned out to be a morning tradition. This time, she follows it with the tune “Popeye the Sailor Man.”

The nice, cool, and sunny morning that starts off the day turns rainy and stormy by 11a.m. I want to linger in some of the pass thru towns to more fully enjoy the experience on my second to the last day. But, after talking with others and looking at the radar it looks like a strong storm is heading our way. It’s time to try and outrun it. But I, and thousands of others, am not successful. The rain comes in hard, coupled with lightning and thunder.

It's hard to ride in such conditions with my clothes and shoes soaked through, my glasses steaming up, the sunscreen lotion applied earlier runs in my eyes making them burn, and squeezing the brakes as hard as I can so as to not spin out on the steep and slick downhills. I learn later that there were indeed several spin outs with riders down and multiple injuries.

The rain continues in buckets as I ride into camp, 7 hours and 67 miles after leaving this morning. By the looks of things, I'll be staying in my tent for a while, shivering from the cold and wet, wondering if the safety-in-numbers principle will apply and that if lightning strikes, will it strike a tent other than mine.

Day Seven, Coralville to Davenport, 65.2 miles (published), 72.3 miles (actual – to the dip site), 77 miles (to my car)

If the good lord's willing and the creek don't rise, I should make it to Davenport and the end of this RAGBRAI ride between 1-2 o'clock this afternoon. Time to push off.

I see many of the riders I’ve seen before throughout the week. Riders have their own habits. So, the tendency is to see many of the same fellow cyclists who apparently start at the same early hour that I do.

The senior citizen is still pedaling his moderate and steady pace. His bike license plate that reads “89 and doing fine” is still firmly affixed to the back of his saddle. There is the middle aged amputee rider keeping a strong pace with the rest of us, not deterred by the prosthesis she has on her right leg. I see the same two to three paraplegics, who hand crank their recumbent bicycles. I can’t imagine the strength and determination required to hand crank one’s bike across the state of Iowa.

Two shapely girls pedal past, ones I’ve noticed on previous days. I’ve admired the view from the rear throughout the week. My admiration is shattered when today, one of the two lets out a long, loud, and drawn-out fart, all while not interrupting her conversation with her riding partner. She is unconcerned and doesn’t appear to care what others around her, like me and a dozen other cyclists, are thinking.

Here comes the couple in their cow costumes. They aren’t pedaling as fast as on previous days. Nor are they playing any loud music on their Bluetooth. Their heads are down, pushing the pedals, enduring these last miles on this last day.

I glide down one of the last hills. It’s not the first time a bug hits my helmet or my glasses and ricochets off, presumably onto the pavement, dead from the impact. This time, it’s a bee or a wasp that collides with my glasses. But, before it strikes the pavement, if first lands on my lap and stings me mercilessly as one last act before its demise. The pain is sharp and it lingers, but there’s nothing I can do but pedal on.

I'm soon at the outskirts of Davenport, mixing with large volumes of vehicular traffic. Spectators sit in the shade on their lawn chairs and blankets, congratulating us on our soon to be completed accomplishment. 

I cross the bridge onto Credit Island. All of the cyclists are routed in a counter clockwise ride around the island to the official dip site. Up ahead, through the shade trees, I see riders dismount and walk their bikes down the embankment. I am soon one of them. I dip my front tire in the waters of Mississippi River, 7 days and 502 miles since I dipped my back tire in the Missouri River last week.

I raise my bike overhead, the tradition of all cyclists who have accomplished what they didn’t know they could. I can now count myself as one of those who can.