RAGBRAI - The Journey is Often More Meaningful Than the Destination

“Be at one with the universe. If you can’t do that, at least be at one with your bike.”

-       Lennard Zinn

After a five-hour ride on a shuttle bus from Davenport, we arrived in this year’s RAGBRAI start town of Onawa at the far western edge of the state of Iowa. Sponsored by the Des Moines newspaper, the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa is, as the name says, an annual outing where over 15,000 bicyclists traverse the state from west to east. This year’s route travels from Onawa to Davenport passing through and stopping at various small and mid-sized towns and cities along the way. 

I’m joined by my brother-in-law Rick, college pal Tom and his neighbor Gordon, and former co-worker Dean. Dean and I rode in RAGBRAI several years earlier. A report on that trip can be found at: 

https://paintthemap.blogspot.com/2015/08/a-week-in-corn-my-long-distance-bicycle.html 

The five of us take various means to get to Onawa and we all caught up with each other at the campground. 

Our RAGBRAI Team (l to r), Me, Tom, Gordon, Dean, and Rick

We are using the services of a charter company (www.pkbelly.com) where everything is taken care of for us. They transport our gear, set up our tents, prepare meals, provide hot showers, and take on various other tasks so that all we have to think and do is ride our bikes. 

Our dusty campground was right off of the interstate. We spent a good deal of time getting organized, finding our bikes off of one of several trucks, finding our tents, getting registered, etc. 

Given the extreme caloric exertion we expect in the coming days, we have no qualms about eating poorly. A giant, size-of-my-head pork tenderloin sandwich at the downtown street fest filled me up before retiring for the evening. 

Day One, Monday. Onawa to Denison

Day: 47.1 miles. Cumulative: 47.1 miles

A chilly mid-50s degree morning greeted us as we exited our tents at 5:30am. Heavy dew lay on the tents and bikes. Such is usually an indication of fair weather ahead.

I usually don’t try to coordinate start times with the team to ride together and instead take off independently. I like to follow the mantra of “ride your own ride” allowing me to stop, go, and rest as the mood strikes. I know, however, that we’ll likely run into each other somewhere on the road, which will be a pleasant and welcoming surprise. 

Road Warriors (l to r), Me, Rick, Gordon, and Tom

The day’s initial miles were along the flat ground of the Missouri River bottom lands. Soon, however, the road climbed up into the bluffs and Loess Hills that rimmed the river valley. 

The climb was steep - grinding the gears at a slow seven miles an hour- but overall was manageable in that it didn't require having to get my butt up and off the saddle to pedal up the slope. Of course, what goes up must come down. The ride down the backside of the hills was exhilarating, screaming along at 35 miles per hour. 

Soon, the designated “Mile of Silence” appeared. Signs asked all riders to stop any conversation and ride quietly for the next mile in honor of those cyclists killed or injured while cycling. All fellow riders complied.

My bike chose to act up several miles later. A crackling noise in my handlebar stem prompted me to see the mechanic in the next pass-through town. He quickly diagnosed the problem as loose bearings that needed tightening and grease. He said it was a good thing I stopped since continuing friction and wear would cause problems down the road (like turning my handlebars to the right while watching my front wheel head over the left). That would not have been a good thing. 

Being the shortest day of all seven days, today’s pedaling was fairly leisurely and allowed me to linger longer than usual in the pass-through towns knowing that if I got in too early at the overnight town, I would find our charter’s camp set-up tasks still underway with no access until finished. So, why not enjoy small town Iowa hospitality with beer and tasty food?!

(Photo by Tom)

Gridlock is the norm as riders converge on a pass-through town.

I later noticed a dead, fly-infested possum carcass lying on the road’s shoulder. It should have been no different than any other road kill except this one was adorned with some Mardi Gras beads around his neck. Ah, the humor of RAGBRAI riders.  

Soon after, a cyclist passed me blaring “Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen on his Bluetooth speaker, loud enough for all to hear. While somewhat inspiring, it was also a reminder that my own glory days have long since passed. It’s good to pretend though!

Day Two, Monday. Denison to Jefferson 

Day: 75.4 miles. Cumulative: 122.5 miles

Usually, the first pass-through town is within 10 miles or so of camp where breakfast was available to fuel oneself for the rest of the morning.  Today, however, the first sizable town wasn’t until after I got 23 miles under my belt. I was ravenous. I stopped in the local VFW where pancakes and sausage were served. I tore and ripped into them like a wolf with a chicken. 

With food and fuel in my tummy, I was able to tackle the upcoming hills that were too many to count. Maybe it was just my imagination, but it seemed today that the medical teams that run these roads would usually have their ambulance parked at the top of the bigger hills. I guessed that maybe they were there to serve those who may have a heart attack from the extreme exertion of the climb (or maybe they were there to serve those who went insane for attempting them in the first place?)   

The route followed long stretches of the Lincoln Highway

I rode awhile abreast of a guy from Albuquerque. As we talked, I noticed he had the same tires that I was using. I told him that I bought and was using the same brand since they were supposed to be bomb proof from any punctures. He chuckled, saying that he had to fix a flat on his tire about ten miles back. “So much for the bomb proof advertisement,” I said to him nervously, hoping that I won’t meet with the same fate. 

Just then, the dreaded sound of a “pffft....whoosh” was heard from behind us. Some poor guy just got a flat himself. We all continued to pedal as he swerved toward the shoulder to tend to his problem. 

Later, I pedaled up on a lady who was playing some Neil Young music on her Bluetooth speakers. It was so much nicer listening to this kind of music than the rap songs some of the younger riders were playing. She was pleased that I was pleased. “Thank you for your service,” I said as I pulled ahead. 

The day wore on. At mile 55, the route turned north into a modest headwind causing progress to slow considerably. I teamed up with a guy whose name I never asked as we took turns, one of us on point, the other drafting behind, then switching after a mile or so. 

Turning east allowed the wind to be at my back and was able to finish the last ten miles at an easy 20 mph pace all the way into our overnight town. 

Day Three, Tuesday. Jefferson to Ames 

Day: 60.6 miles, Cumulative: 183.1 miles

Today was a typical day, so let’s go over how it normally transpires.

The alarm goes off at 5:15am, although I’m always awake before then.  It is still dark. I don my headlamp to begin packing up my gear, stowing away my sleeping bag, pad, and miscellaneous gear. I get out of my sleeping clothes and put on the bike clothes I will wear for the day’s ride.

Off to the coffee tent for two cups, then the concession stand for yogurt and a banana. I then wait in line, a very long line, at a water station and the kybos (port-a-potty) for my morning ablutions and to drop the kids off at the pool. At 6:00am, while waiting in line, the Trumpet Chick (her words) plays reveille on her trumpet, alerting those who are still sleeping to get up and about.

The Trumpet Chick (photo by Tom)

The temps are in the mid-50s to start, so I put away the light jacket I was wearing around camp and start my ride at 6:30am.

As my fellow cyclists and I make eastward progress, the rising sun shines brightly in our eyes, blinding us, preventing a clear picture of what and who is in front of us. Care is required to properly space yourself from the tightly packed peloton of the thousands of other cyclists who have hit the road at the same time as you.

In central Iowa, patriotism abounds

I’m careful to dodge detritus scattered along the road (wayward maps, bike bottles, headbands, etc.) and the occasional cyclist that veers toward the shoulder to disembark and head to the cornfield, toilet paper in hand. (One day, someone’s bike bottle came loose and rolled erratically, like a fallen bowling pin, all over road. Luckily, I missed it and a certain catastrophe).

Calls go out that there is car heading toward us. “Car Up!” I converge tightly with the others surrounding me into the right lane to allow the car to pass. “Rumbles!!” is another call alerting those behind of some dreaded traffic-alerting rumble strips up ahead.  Sometimes, it’s too late and you ride over them with butt cheek-clenching fear (Oh Nooo! Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah).

As the sun rises, the views are clearer. The rolling hills of corn and beans are endless, the distant views of them with the morning’s remaining rising mist are sublime. The clicking and clacking sound of changing bike gears is always present. Oftentimes, these sounds occur in unison as cyclists simultaneously approach a hill and drop down a gear or two to make our bikes work for us.  

Many food and drink vendors along the route and in the pass-through towns tempt me to stop often for sustenance and refreshment. As the day wears on, this causes us cyclists to spread out from each other due to some who have chosen to stop while others have continued on.

Bumper to bumper (or is that tire to tire?) traffic in town

Need to cool off? Go ahead and ride through these. 

By early afternoon, I roll into our overnight town. Signs direct me to my charter’s campsite. It is there that I find my tent and take a shower. I meet up with the guys, drink some beer, listen to that night’s band, and converse while waiting for a nutritious and filling dinner to be served. 

Dean and I take advantage of the shade

For Rick, Tom, and I, the beer flows freely in the mid-afternoon. 

By 8:00pm, it is time for our newly formed cigar club to meet off to the side from the tent sites. Usually, some distilled spirits are consumed as well. Strangers, who have now become friends, sometimes join us.

Sleepiness begins to overtake me as I head for my tent. At 9:00pm, the Trumpet Chick plays taps. Time for lights out. I fall into slumber dreaming on how I will perform this routine all over again the next day. 

Day Four, Wednesday. Ames to Newton

Day: 64.9 miles. Cumulative: 248 miles

We said our goodbyes to Dean. He had originally planned on riding just the first half of this route and left to take a bus to nearby Des Moines where his car is parked.

Early on in the day’s pedal, I along with many others approached an intersection with cross traffic controlled by a handful of state troopers. We were stopped short of the intersection to allow a long line of waiting cars and trucks to proceed unimpeded. 

Small talk and pithy comments from fellow cyclists to the trooper ensued. “Do you have any coffee?” Someone called out. “I’m on a twelve-hour shift with no time for breaks,” the trooper responded. “Unlike you guys,” she says pointing to the gun and gear belt around her waist, “I can’t easily go into the cornfield and drop my pants to pee.” We all laugh as the traffic clears and are motioned to proceed across the intersection. 

My own morning coffee from earlier and all the talk of peeing inspires me. I find two rows of grain bins and walk down the lane between them to find a private spot. As I do, I walk up on a lady cyclist who had decided to do the same, squatting with her shorts around her ankles. “Sorry!” I call out as I quickly turn and walk away.”  “That’s ok,” she called after me, “it’s just RAGBRAI, these things happen!”  

Port-a-Potty or Grain Bins?

I struck up on conversation with a young man who lives and goes to high school in Iowa City. He was playing decent music on his Bluetooth so I slowed up and rode with him for a spell to listen to his tunes. This was his 7th RAGBRAI, the first full one was when he was nine years old. Amazing. How many kids do you know that at nine years old (let alone 16, 18, whatever) could handle something like this week-long ride? 

By late morning, my bike computer fizzled and was no longer registering my miles. A mechanic took a look but couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I even changed the batteries but still no luck. I put it away in my handle bar bag and stopped at several bike repair tents. What they had for a new replacement cost over $100. No thanks. I don’t need anything that fancy. I resorted to relying on my teammates daily data when I met up with them later in camp.

The last ten miles were a roller coaster of steep hills - hard climbs up, speedy descents down. I was very road weary pulling into camp. All I wanted was to shower and relax. Instead, one of my two bags was missing from my tent delaying my ability to just veg for a while (it was later found by the charter staff).  And, to top things off, while minding my own business, a wasp landed on my cheek and stung me mercilessly. 

I guess the events of the day are all just part of the experience! 

Day Five, Thursday. Newton to Sigourney

Day: 73.9 miles, Cumulative: 321.9

A strong thunderstorm came through camp in the middle of the night last night. Staff were walking through the campground telling us that heavy rain with 30-40 mph winds were heading our way and that we should seek shelter at a nearby elementary school building. Tom got no further than the camp’s parking area when the fore wind hit. He got back to his tent safely before the skies opened up. I and the others stayed put and literally weathered the storm. I spent the next fifteen minutes holding the side walls of my tent as they bent and buckled under the strong wind’s pressure. 

The morning, however, dawned with beautiful skies and great weather in the mid-70s with a tail wind from the northwest. These conditions allowed the miles to melt away under my bike. Before I knew it, the noon hour was already approaching.

I was standing in a food line in one of the pass-through towns and, trying to be friendly, struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me. It went like this:

Me: Hey, how’s your ride been today?
Him: Fine. 
Me: So, what do you do for a living?

Him: I’m retired. I used to work for a defense contractor, missile guidance systems, strategic arms, things like that. 

Me: I guess you had a pretty high security clearance then. 

Him: Yes. Very. Still have it. My superiors tell me that I should always be wary of strangers who try to befriend me since they could be trying to illicitly gain my confidence. 
Me: 😐

Craft beer and shade rest stop

Strategically placed road side pork chop barbeque

The contraptions responsible for the ice cream in my root beer floats

In one town, they told me I was to be Prom King for the day

However, my date was more interested in fishing

A thing about this trip is that you can eat just about anything without guilt, knowing that you’ll burn it off the next day after putting in 60-70 miles. Today, for example, I had a chocolate chip muffin and yogurt parfait in camp and a breakfast burrito in an early pass-through town. In the next pass-through town, I had a grilled cheddar cheese sandwich with bacon and tomato from a vendor along with a piece of pie and ice cream from the local church ladies. And all of this as before noon. 

In the afternoon I had several Gatorade’s, a root beer float, and two creamy ale craft beers before getting into camp where I had some pale ales, two bags of peanuts, and then dinner in the local church where they served beef stroganoff, mashed potatoes, green beans, a roll, and more pie. I was still hungry when I went to bed later. 

Day Six, Friday. Sigourney to Iowa City 

Day: 61.1 miles, Cumulative: 383 miles 

A karaoke machine was available in the town square of a pass-through town, surrounded by thousands of cyclists. A brave rider got up and sang, with a RAGBRAI twist on the words, a song most appropriate for our journey:

“ ...and I would ride 500 miles
And I would ride 500 more
Just to be the man who rode a 1000 miles

to fall down at your door”

In some towns, there are senior citizen homes where the residents are all out to see the spectacle before them. I’m sure they’ve seen some crazy shit in their lives. And then this RAGBRAI thing comes through.

(photo by Tom)

I spoke with Ed, an 84-year-old long-time citizen of town. We chatted a bit on a bench we shared while I ate a slice of veggie pizza. He used his cane to point south toward the lumberyard that he used to run before retiring. His son now runs the operation. His other son runs the brewery on Main Street. He knew of my home town in Illinois. In fact, he bought an Olds 88 from a dealer there back in “Nineteen and Sixty-Four,” he said, reminiscing. “They don’t make cars like that anymore,” he said wistfully. “No sir,” I replied, “no they don’t.”

My new friend, Ed. 

I ended the conversation when I saw three girls walking down the street with a large cooler in tow. Their sign, “$3 ice cream bars,” lured me in. They were raising money for their softball team. One plays third base, the other two play outfield. I gladly contributed to their cause.

Another local struck up a conversation with me as I sat on yet another bench to eat my ice cream. When I told her I was from the Chicago area, she told me her daughter went to Northwestern and promptly moved to California after graduating. And her other daughter, the one with her only grandkids, lives in Virginia. “Wow, both coasts, huh?” I exclaimed. “Yeah,” she said sadly, “here I am smack dab in the middle of the country and my daughters and grandkids couldn’t possibly live further away. Some mother I must have been!” She said, half joking, half seriously.  

Later, as thirst began to overwhelm me, I stopped in the town of Riverside. This town’s claim to fame is that it is the future birthplace of Star Trek’s Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise.

Live long and prosper

After the obligatory photo at his statue, I dropped by the St. Mary’s church booth and paid a bit more than normal for my Gatorade as a donation.  The church lady I paid and spoke with said the church’s stained-glass windows are cracked and in need of a major renovation, the cost of which will be nearly $1million. “Well,” I said, “Best of luck. I hope everyone’s donation today will help put a dent in that number.”  “We hope so too,” she said humbly, “and may God bless you.”

Day Seven, Saturday. Iowa City to Davenport 

Day: 76.3 Miles, Cumulative: 459.3 miles

The same lady trooper with the gear and gun belt I met earlier in the week was now working here at a busy intersection as we were leaving town. Like often happens, many of us were in the opposing lane of traffic, which is a Bozo no-no since it prevents cars from getting through. Good naturedly, she let us know as much. “Glad you’re all leaving early,” she calls out before letting us pass. “We need to get all of you scofflaws out of town!”

Later, at a long steep descent as we neared the Mississippi River valley, dozens of us were cruising at speeds approaching 35 mph. I was feeling uncomfortable, my bike wobbling just enough to give me pause and prompting me to apply my brakes to slow my speed.

Just then, another biker came up from behind me on my left, pedaling furiously and likely going 40-45 mph. As he got about a hundred yards ahead of me, he started to wobble and went down hard, BAM! Full body slam on the hard tarmac, his momentum still carrying him downhill along with his bike that was still attached his feet. He slid to a halt as I reached him. Others had stopped with me to attend to him as I waved my arms alerting others approaching from behind to slow down and give way.

He was a crumpled heap, unconscious but still breathing, albeit erratically. Blood was everywhere. We cautioned each other to make sure we didn’t move his head or neck as someone called 911. After a while, it was apparent there was nothing more I could do and I didn’t want to be seen as a voyeur. So, I along with some others pedaled away while a few who seemed more expert in these types of things stayed with him waiting for an ambulance to arrive.

I was sick to my stomach. Never before had I witnessed trauma to a human body such as this. I was sobered at the thought that one careless move and that could have been me. Those who witnessed this with me were pedaling slowly, silently, absorbed in our thoughts and our prayers that this poor guy somehow recovers from this horrific accident. 

I later stopped at a road side stand manned by a young brother and sister. I downed a Gatorade, my last planned hydration stop before continuing on with the final stages of this trip.

Mile after mile were passing by. My head was down, just pushing my bike along. Every turn of the pedals and every crank of the gears was getting me just that much closer to the finish line. Chatter amongst cyclists, which was frequent and loud earlier in the week, was now at a minimum. It was likely they, similar to me, were starting to feel the grind and just wanted to get done.

The troopers soon directed us down an on-ramp and onto a four-lane divided highway. The far-right lane was blocked with traffic cones where just us cyclists were allowed to travel. The slightly downhill route took us speedily down toward Davenport and the Mississippi River. My teammates and I arrived at separate times. Once there, we lined up at the official dip site where we ceremoniously, no, heroically dipped our front tires in the river and raised our bikes overhead, celebrating our accomplishment and the achievement of successfully riding our bikes across the State of Iowa.

(photo by Gordon)

(photo by Rick)

My Iron Horse. The true star of the trip.

I think I can speak confidently on behalf of everyone – Dean, Rick, Tom, and Gordon - that, despite our sweat and toil, we really enjoyed ourselves, every day, all day.  It reminds me of a quote from the movie “Patton”, when the General, as he looks over a field where a hard-fought battle of men and tanks just took place, says, “I love it. God help me, I do love it so.”

A slide show video of this experience is at: