So. Sometime last fall, I got the brilliant idea that my husband and I should ride RAGBRAI in July. For those of you who’ve never heard of RAGBRAI, it’s the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa. It’s a famously wild,
15, 000 person ride from one side of Iowa to the other full of endless food, people and parties. You dip your back tire in the Missouri River and front tire in the Mississippi.
Oh, yes. I’m talking 7 days, 442.3 miles, 48 towns and 22, 806 feet of climb. (If I hear one more person say that Iowa is flat, I will seriously punch them in the nose.)
My husband and I are both rah rah rah Iowa natives who’ve done just about anything and everything quintessentially “Iowan”—we both detasseled corn for summer jobs, swam in creeks and ponds as kids, attended keg parties in fields, camped at the State Fair, hit deer with our cars, went cow-tipping, mushroom hunting, and mudding (all during a date.) Folks, you don’t GET more Iowa than us. But, one quintessential experience lacking in our great cultural repertoire, was RAGBRAI. And 2009, I decided, was our year.
At this point, I should tell you that I’m very Iowan, but not very Athletic. I should also mention that the route for 2009 was the THIRD MOST DIFFICULT. EVER. That probably should’ve tipped me off for what was in store. I stress should’ve. From there, it only got ugly.
This was my general thought process on any one of the 70+mile days:
Downhill: I love Iowa! I really do! What an experience! What a special state! Let’s celebrate our heritage!
Uphill: Wow, this one gets the blood pumping! Who says this state is flat?! About as flat as my rear-end! Ha-ha!
Downhill: This is good. Wind in my hair. Let the legs rest. Take in the scenery and gorgeous weather. Oh! Pie!
(short intermission)
Uphill: Yikes. Another hill. Okay, so I have to take them in my granny gear, there’s nothing wrong with that. This isn’t a race. It’s an EXPERIENCE!
Downhill: Whew! Good to…pant pant…catch my…pant pant…breath again.
Uphill: Yes, I HEARD you on my left. I KNOW you’re trying to pass me on my left because I’m going so slowly. THIS ISN’T A RACE, YOU KNOW.
Downhill: Stupid jerk-wad. I AM HOLDING MY LINE! I know how to ride a bike in a straight *&&$%$@ line, thank you very much.
Uphill: Great. Another &^%@%$# hill. Flat state???? Ummm…my thighs don’t think so!
Downhill: Well, that was the shortest damn downhill I’ve ever seen.
Uphill: Take this on your left! (Insert unlady-like finger gesture here.) You think you’re all that with your expensive road bikes and matching jerseys! I hope your *&^%%$$#@ draft line wipes out so I can run over you! In my granny gear! HAH!
You get the idea. Anyway.
Bicycling aside, the biggest reason most people ride RAGBRAI, myself included, is for the one-of-a kind experience. Between the Missouri and Mississippi, there’s no telling what one will encounter.
For example, at one point I was asked by a lovely young woman from South Africa, dressed in a hot pink lace teddy and bead necklaces over her biking clothes, where the loo’s were. While resting on the side of the road, I was handed a prophylactic by the Condom Queen, a woman who said she rides every year to help promote safe sex. (I also saw her spend a significant amount of time blanketing Teams Shagbrai and Team Strange Brew with her wares.) We watched the National Skillet Throwing Contest in Macksburg and ate cinnamon rolls to die for at a bed and breakfast in Orient. In Pekin, we were greeted in by a full marching band and cheerleading squad. At various points, I was passed by a man dressed in a banana suit, a guy on a unicycle, a scantily-clad stripper advertising “sight-seeing” in the next town, a paraplegic fellow who rode a special bike he pedaled with his hands, and a dude with an inflatable doll strapped to his back bearing a sign that said her name was “Jessica” in honor of his wife, who refused to ride with him.
Who says Iowa doesn’t have culture? Folks, you can’t make this stuff up.
So today, I’m proclaiming my love for the great state of Iowa and all her endless cornfields, nutty weather, po-dunk towns, skillet throwing and lack of urban nightlife.
VIVA LA IOWA, I say! Just screw the bike.
Dude with his own traveling bar--my favorite!
Good reads with Iowa as the setting: What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and An Ocean In Iowa, by Iowa native Peter Hedges
Good read featuring a bicycle: The Memory of Running, by Ron McLarty
Words to live by: “The trouble with jogging is that the ice falls out of your glass.” –Martin Mull