I gave her a quick synopsis of contraception and the military whilst frantically pointing at my gear cable.
Caramel Pig
Peddling the Dirt across North America
Mississippi Madness
Stage 7
St Joseph, Minnesota – Marquette (Cedar Rapids), Iowa
385.03 Miles – 619.64 Kilometres
Total distance ridden 2943.02 Miles – 4736.33 Kilometres
St Joseph, Minnesota – Marquette (Cedar Rapids), Iowa
385.03 Miles – 619.64 Kilometres
Total distance ridden 2943.02 Miles – 4736.33 Kilometres
Oh what a lovely, lazy solitude morning. Eggs on toast with home-roasted coffee for breakfast. Then we quietly went through our day-off schedule of blogging, banking, bike cleaning and clothes washing. By now we were well used to this routine and liked to polish it off as quickly and effortlessly as possible.
After Nicole came home from work, she took us to Saint John's Abbey and University. She had managed to get us a private viewing of the Saint John’s Bible with the director, Tim Ternes. The Bible, or should I say work of art, was commissioned by the Abbey in 1998. As I understand it, calligrapher Donald Jackson and five other scribes handwrote the whole thing and, believe it or not, they used quills. Then they hired a whole bunch of artists who used traditional methods to paint original-looking contemporary illustrations.
Nicole kind of under-sold the visit to us. The university itself was gorgeous, with lots of art, sculpture and stained glass. The Bible viewing room was hermetically sealed and in order to enter, we had to do weird stuff to protect its integrity. To say that I was spaced out just getting inside would be an understatement.
Tim was a great host and he had my full attention the moment he opened the first huge box of unbound pages. From memory, because I cannot find the facts online, these pages were about a metre wide and 1.5 metres tall. Both the calligraphy and art work sent my wee artistic brain going totally nuts. I can clearly remember the blues, reds and gold leaf jumping off the pages at me. And then my dyslexia turned that stunning handwriting into a swirling-spinning-wave-breaking collection of letters. The whole experience was beautifully overwhelming. We were so, so blessed that our friend knew us well enough to interrupt our cross-continental jaunt with this experience.
The next morning started with another excellent, lazy, caffeinated beverage, followed by yet more boring day-off necessities. We visited Scheels Sporting Goods and the dreaded Walmart.
After Nicole came home from work, she took us to Saint John's Abbey and University. She had managed to get us a private viewing of the Saint John’s Bible with the director, Tim Ternes. The Bible, or should I say work of art, was commissioned by the Abbey in 1998. As I understand it, calligrapher Donald Jackson and five other scribes handwrote the whole thing and, believe it or not, they used quills. Then they hired a whole bunch of artists who used traditional methods to paint original-looking contemporary illustrations.
Nicole kind of under-sold the visit to us. The university itself was gorgeous, with lots of art, sculpture and stained glass. The Bible viewing room was hermetically sealed and in order to enter, we had to do weird stuff to protect its integrity. To say that I was spaced out just getting inside would be an understatement.
Tim was a great host and he had my full attention the moment he opened the first huge box of unbound pages. From memory, because I cannot find the facts online, these pages were about a metre wide and 1.5 metres tall. Both the calligraphy and art work sent my wee artistic brain going totally nuts. I can clearly remember the blues, reds and gold leaf jumping off the pages at me. And then my dyslexia turned that stunning handwriting into a swirling-spinning-wave-breaking collection of letters. The whole experience was beautifully overwhelming. We were so, so blessed that our friend knew us well enough to interrupt our cross-continental jaunt with this experience.
The next morning started with another excellent, lazy, caffeinated beverage, followed by yet more boring day-off necessities. We visited Scheels Sporting Goods and the dreaded Walmart.
For lunch, Nicole drove us to Freeport and we ate at Charlie's Cafe, or known in the Lake Wobegon world as the Chatterbox Cafe. I was so excited to be eating there and although I was the only person who saw him, I still claim that I saw Garrison Keillor, the person who created the radio play, quietly eating near the back of the room. |
I had a good secret giggle in the evening. Nicole's parents joined us and Michael barbecued an amazing salmon. He was so happy when he placed it on the table and the fish was an impressive sight. A few minutes later, Nicole placed a large bowl of mashed potatoes beside it. My carb craving inner-self shouted with joy at those spuds. I giggled hard, thinking how disappointed Michael would be if he knew that though his fish was totally yummy, my body clearly didn't need the protein and was screaming for carbohydrates.
In the afternoon, we went to the county fair, which was sweet. They had on display the photos of about 4100 American soldiers who had been killed in action since 9/11. I was just stunned and shocked, looking at the faces of these dead people. For days cycling afterwards, I was seeing those faces and thinking 'was it really worth it?' The only conclusion I formed was that it must be so hard for the USA in its slow decline from its once-held superpower status. I continuously hear Americans saying they are the world's only superpower, or they have the world's best military or are the world's most powerful nation. I do not know where these people get these ideas from and was often left looking at them sympathetically and thinking, 'gosh you need to get out more'.
We finished off the outing with delicious Val's Hamburgers, eaten on the banks of the Mississippi.
With the next day being a riding day, we tucked ourselves under the covers nice and early, maximising our final moments in an actual bed.
Morning came at 5 a.m. and we quickly ate our oats and drank yet more fantastic coffee. Michael had followed my very pedantic instructions and roasted a lovely light roast for us to take on the ride.
In the afternoon, we went to the county fair, which was sweet. They had on display the photos of about 4100 American soldiers who had been killed in action since 9/11. I was just stunned and shocked, looking at the faces of these dead people. For days cycling afterwards, I was seeing those faces and thinking 'was it really worth it?' The only conclusion I formed was that it must be so hard for the USA in its slow decline from its once-held superpower status. I continuously hear Americans saying they are the world's only superpower, or they have the world's best military or are the world's most powerful nation. I do not know where these people get these ideas from and was often left looking at them sympathetically and thinking, 'gosh you need to get out more'.
We finished off the outing with delicious Val's Hamburgers, eaten on the banks of the Mississippi.
With the next day being a riding day, we tucked ourselves under the covers nice and early, maximising our final moments in an actual bed.
Morning came at 5 a.m. and we quickly ate our oats and drank yet more fantastic coffee. Michael had followed my very pedantic instructions and roasted a lovely light roast for us to take on the ride.
Nicole threw our bikes in the back of her wagon and drove us west to Albany to rejoin the Lake Wobegon trail. It was sad to say goodbye, but exciting to think that soon we would be visiting friends in Iowa. Our first stop for the day was a photo op at the beautiful Holdingford covered bridge, followed by the Holdingford Wobegon Trailhead park. This place was spectacular. It was quite small, very clean and screamed 'camp here'. It had a water fountain, flushing toilets and a shelter with tables. What made it stand out was the fully functioning bike work station. |
Next stop along the journey was second breakfast in Bowlus. They had a rather bedraggled cafe there, two older men dragged me in to tell me jokes; at the time I didn't feel quite safe, but in hindsight everything was okay. I even signed their trail guestbook.
Very, very sadly it was here where we left the beautiful Lake Wobegon path and veered right along Nature Road and crossed the quiet Mississippi.
We had been hoping to find a church that would welcome us this Sunday morning and I had phoned ahead to St Paul's Lutheran church in Royalton to ask if we could store our bikes out of sight during the service. The pastor I spoke to was very wary of me, he eventually said he could help and just before hanging up the phone, informed me that because we were not Lutheran we couldn't take the Eucharist with them. Grrr, though I understood his theology and doctrine, this still upset me. I have always been a part of churches where everyone is welcome at the communion table.
We were behind schedule when we rode past and I could see people filing out of the church; normally out of courtesy I would have at least stopped and introduced myself before cycling off again, but because I had been made to feel so unwelcome, I decided that we would just ride on through, which was sad, because I was looking forward to hearing some good Lutheran teaching.
We carried on along Nature Road and eventually turned a right on Sage Road and a left on Highway 22, where we bumped into our destination of Curly's Corner Grill. Because the next day was to be a longer one, rather than camp here, we decided to have a quick lunch and chew off a few more miles. The bar was very much so a locals' sporting joint. We enjoyed the atmosphere, had a good feed and fielded many questions that perhaps sober people wouldn't have asked.
We continued another 16 miles to our new destination of Foreston. I wasn't feeling well and after being told the town park didn't have public toilets, and seeing a storm coming, we chanced another five miles and dashed to Milaca.
As we cycled into town, we passed a church advertising a country gospel singalong, so decided to check it out. We were approximately two hours early and discovered a woman was waiting in her car in an undercover entranceway. Believe it or not, she was knitting dishcloths and simply handed one out the car window and gave it to us. This was very welcome because our dishcloth and tea towel often got manky. The storm hit shortly after and without warning, this lovely lady jumped out of her car, opened her boot and produced two seats. I knew if we went to the singalong that someone would probably offer us a bed for the night, but with not feeling 100 percent and not wanting a late night, we pushed on to the privacy of a very public town park.
Very, very sadly it was here where we left the beautiful Lake Wobegon path and veered right along Nature Road and crossed the quiet Mississippi.
We had been hoping to find a church that would welcome us this Sunday morning and I had phoned ahead to St Paul's Lutheran church in Royalton to ask if we could store our bikes out of sight during the service. The pastor I spoke to was very wary of me, he eventually said he could help and just before hanging up the phone, informed me that because we were not Lutheran we couldn't take the Eucharist with them. Grrr, though I understood his theology and doctrine, this still upset me. I have always been a part of churches where everyone is welcome at the communion table.
We were behind schedule when we rode past and I could see people filing out of the church; normally out of courtesy I would have at least stopped and introduced myself before cycling off again, but because I had been made to feel so unwelcome, I decided that we would just ride on through, which was sad, because I was looking forward to hearing some good Lutheran teaching.
We carried on along Nature Road and eventually turned a right on Sage Road and a left on Highway 22, where we bumped into our destination of Curly's Corner Grill. Because the next day was to be a longer one, rather than camp here, we decided to have a quick lunch and chew off a few more miles. The bar was very much so a locals' sporting joint. We enjoyed the atmosphere, had a good feed and fielded many questions that perhaps sober people wouldn't have asked.
We continued another 16 miles to our new destination of Foreston. I wasn't feeling well and after being told the town park didn't have public toilets, and seeing a storm coming, we chanced another five miles and dashed to Milaca.
As we cycled into town, we passed a church advertising a country gospel singalong, so decided to check it out. We were approximately two hours early and discovered a woman was waiting in her car in an undercover entranceway. Believe it or not, she was knitting dishcloths and simply handed one out the car window and gave it to us. This was very welcome because our dishcloth and tea towel often got manky. The storm hit shortly after and without warning, this lovely lady jumped out of her car, opened her boot and produced two seats. I knew if we went to the singalong that someone would probably offer us a bed for the night, but with not feeling 100 percent and not wanting a late night, we pushed on to the privacy of a very public town park.
It was the right move. We had a good sleep, surrounded by houses, and I woke under a dewy tent feeling a little better. About 25 km down the road, we stopped for breakfast. We had been told to look out for Donn Olson's Adventure Cyclists Bunkhouse and now I so wish we had forced a longer ride and spent the night here. Donn's place was just north of Dalbo and was a wonderfully clean barn converted into cyclist accommodation. Like the hostel in Oregon, we could ride our bike right to our bed. Everything was set up so we could tinker with our bikes and gear and not worry about the mess we created. There were about a half dozen rooms with two beds, lounge-bike-repair area, kitchen and bathrooms. I think there was a donation box to cover expenses. We made coffee and drunk it slowly while waiting for our tent to dry. Please if you are cycling eastern Minnesota, plan to spend a night or two here.
|
Donn suggested that we leave the Adventure Cycling Trail and follow a new route that had brand new cycle paths. This sounded fun, so we threw reason out the door and took his advice. We rode on to Harris and purchased ice cream at a bizarre Swedish cafe, before venturing due south down a rough busy road towards North Branch.
Sharon ran into a grocery store in the town whilst I waited outside, trying to avoid people. I failed on the avoiding people part. An older woman walked out of the shop with a sulky young teenager. The woman looked at me and said, 'we had our kids, they grew up and left home, it was great. Then suddenly this one pops out, we were using contraception, we didn't want her. Now I'm known as the oldest Mum in the military.' Trying to divert my eyes and feign disinterest, I looked down at my bike and realised that my front gear cable had frayed down to one strand and was about to snap. My brain switched into panic mode. 'What time was it, where were we and where is a bike shop?' In the meantime the mother was droning on, 'so now we are retired, we should be in an RV travelling the country, but no, we are stuck here raising this.' She spread her arm to encompass the view of her daughter pouting in the passenger seat. Then without a goodbye, this petulant parent jumped in her car and drove off.
I shook my head clear and quickly googled 'cycle shop', and as luck would have it, there was one a kilometre down the road. Sharon popped out of the market and upon noting my harassed look, asked what had happened. I gave her a quick synopsis of contraception and the military whilst frantically pointing at my gear cable. Then with little explanation, I started running my bike down the road, hoping to get it repaired before the shop shut.
And indeed the shop was shut, it had shut seven years earlier and in fact had been a motorcycle shop. In the USA, it is a little confusing, they often call cyclists, bikers and motorbike riders, cyclists. I had not made the transition well from unwanted teenagers to google maps and didn't slow down enough to check what kind of bike shop it was.
I was back on the map app when an understandably miffed Sharon turned up. She listened while I called another bicycle shop and told them my problem. They closed at 7:30 p.m., which meant that if we rushed, we should make the 18 miles before end of day. I gently put my chain on the second cog and peddled like crazy, but often found myself freewheeling with my highest available gear being too low. We arrived at Forest Lake with 15 minutes to spare.
When we are on the Adventure Cycling routes, most things run quite smoothly because people are used to crazy tour cyclists and treat us with a mixture of knowledge, confusion and respect. Though we were now travelling on a lovely cycle path, these people and this shop did not understand tour cycling. First, the mechanic would not let me take my panniers off whilst he had my bike on his stand. This meant about 50 kgs of gear being suspended from my seat post. But much worse than this, much to my annoyance, Sharon mentioned to the rather competitive shop owner that we would be camping in the town park. He immediately got on the phone and called the police and asked if this was okay. The coppers said 'no' and directed us to a baseball diamond on the outskirts of town. This meant a detour of about 10 km. The cop also told the bike shop guy that he would tell the other police that we were there and that they would leave us alone. This was the first time on our trip where we had felt unwelcome in a town, and our first bad bicycle shop experience.
It was the end of a long and slightly frustrating day, but eventually, low on water, we found the diamond and pitched our tent on concrete under an eating shelter. I was still feeling a bit unwell.
I was sleeping quite soundly when Sharon woke me to say that there were lights shining on our tent. I popped my head out and saw a police car. I waved a hand out the door as a thanks for him checking in on us, and tried to go back to sleep. Next thing I know, there was a flashlight shining on me. I opened the door and standing there was a policeman with his hand unclipping his gun. Then just like the police do on television, he twisted his wrist and shone his torch in my eyes and said, 'well, well, what have we here? Obviously you are camping, you are not allowed to be camping.' He spoke like a bully who had spent his school days being bullied and I instantly didn't like him or his hand twitching on his gun. We had to frantically talk him down and explain that we had permission to be there. I was so, so glad for our white privilege. I suspect if we had been poor, transient or black, his gun may have found its way out of his holster. There were only two times during our whole trip where I felt very unsafe and both of those involved the police.
Sharon ran into a grocery store in the town whilst I waited outside, trying to avoid people. I failed on the avoiding people part. An older woman walked out of the shop with a sulky young teenager. The woman looked at me and said, 'we had our kids, they grew up and left home, it was great. Then suddenly this one pops out, we were using contraception, we didn't want her. Now I'm known as the oldest Mum in the military.' Trying to divert my eyes and feign disinterest, I looked down at my bike and realised that my front gear cable had frayed down to one strand and was about to snap. My brain switched into panic mode. 'What time was it, where were we and where is a bike shop?' In the meantime the mother was droning on, 'so now we are retired, we should be in an RV travelling the country, but no, we are stuck here raising this.' She spread her arm to encompass the view of her daughter pouting in the passenger seat. Then without a goodbye, this petulant parent jumped in her car and drove off.
I shook my head clear and quickly googled 'cycle shop', and as luck would have it, there was one a kilometre down the road. Sharon popped out of the market and upon noting my harassed look, asked what had happened. I gave her a quick synopsis of contraception and the military whilst frantically pointing at my gear cable. Then with little explanation, I started running my bike down the road, hoping to get it repaired before the shop shut.
And indeed the shop was shut, it had shut seven years earlier and in fact had been a motorcycle shop. In the USA, it is a little confusing, they often call cyclists, bikers and motorbike riders, cyclists. I had not made the transition well from unwanted teenagers to google maps and didn't slow down enough to check what kind of bike shop it was.
I was back on the map app when an understandably miffed Sharon turned up. She listened while I called another bicycle shop and told them my problem. They closed at 7:30 p.m., which meant that if we rushed, we should make the 18 miles before end of day. I gently put my chain on the second cog and peddled like crazy, but often found myself freewheeling with my highest available gear being too low. We arrived at Forest Lake with 15 minutes to spare.
When we are on the Adventure Cycling routes, most things run quite smoothly because people are used to crazy tour cyclists and treat us with a mixture of knowledge, confusion and respect. Though we were now travelling on a lovely cycle path, these people and this shop did not understand tour cycling. First, the mechanic would not let me take my panniers off whilst he had my bike on his stand. This meant about 50 kgs of gear being suspended from my seat post. But much worse than this, much to my annoyance, Sharon mentioned to the rather competitive shop owner that we would be camping in the town park. He immediately got on the phone and called the police and asked if this was okay. The coppers said 'no' and directed us to a baseball diamond on the outskirts of town. This meant a detour of about 10 km. The cop also told the bike shop guy that he would tell the other police that we were there and that they would leave us alone. This was the first time on our trip where we had felt unwelcome in a town, and our first bad bicycle shop experience.
It was the end of a long and slightly frustrating day, but eventually, low on water, we found the diamond and pitched our tent on concrete under an eating shelter. I was still feeling a bit unwell.
I was sleeping quite soundly when Sharon woke me to say that there were lights shining on our tent. I popped my head out and saw a police car. I waved a hand out the door as a thanks for him checking in on us, and tried to go back to sleep. Next thing I know, there was a flashlight shining on me. I opened the door and standing there was a policeman with his hand unclipping his gun. Then just like the police do on television, he twisted his wrist and shone his torch in my eyes and said, 'well, well, what have we here? Obviously you are camping, you are not allowed to be camping.' He spoke like a bully who had spent his school days being bullied and I instantly didn't like him or his hand twitching on his gun. We had to frantically talk him down and explain that we had permission to be there. I was so, so glad for our white privilege. I suspect if we had been poor, transient or black, his gun may have found its way out of his holster. There were only two times during our whole trip where I felt very unsafe and both of those involved the police.
The morning found us tired and low on water. On the way back into town, we stopped at Faith Lutheran Church and asked if we could get water. The people who worked and volunteered there could not have been any more welcoming. We filled up our bottles, apologised many times for being bedraggled and smelly and enjoyed a little pleasant conversation. In quick succession, we had had the military woman, the bike shop and the police, this felt like the first time in a while that we had spoken to adults. They also took our photographs and published a wee piece on their church blog about us.
A lot less tired and cranky, we continued south along a nice cycle path. We had paid the consequences for being off the ACA route and I was keen to get back on it. |
Somewhere further down the road, and I have little idea where because remember we were off route, I watched a car speed past and suddenly out of nowhere, a siren and flashing lights sprung up. The speeding car pulled over, the police car stopped behind it. I watched the cop jump out of his car, unclip his gun and extremely tensely, walk towards the car. The driver wound down his window, a short conversation ensued and then quietly I watched all the tension leave the cop's body. As I rode past, I pondered what has led the police to be seemingly so terrified of a routine traffic stop.
Soon afterwards we stumbled upon the Gateway and Brown's Creek State Trail. This was perhaps the best independent cycle path that we had ever cycled on. It was happily wide enough to handle walking and bicycle traffic and it had toilets and rest areas along the way and was mostly downhill through shady, wooded areas. The only problem was that it was too short. Before we knew it, we had entered Stillwater.
We didn't realise this lovely town was on our map and would have loved to have spent a night exploring, but had to push on because our friends in Iowa were expecting us in a few days' time. However, we did stop for our second breakfast. In case you have not worked it out, by now I was way over being bugged by nice people asking me the same questions day after day. While Sharon went to the shop, I sat on a seat and waited. Instantly, smiley people started walking towards me. I quickly pulled out my phone and started staring at the blank screen and through my periphery vision, watched people come into my orbit, see I was busy and move on. I felt ashamed of this act, but when we spend so much time alone, it is really hard when people just barge uninvited into your space.
Sharon eventually turned up and we sat beside the Mississippi and ate our second breakfast whilst fending off the same annoying questions. I managed to somehow offend one couple. I said to them that they must be really happy with their Democratic government which allowed the cycle path to be built. I guess they were Republicans. It seems that Americans ask these questions functionally. They want to know stuff, so they ask. When I took this to a relational level by asking questions about them, they would often simply turn and walk away.
We followed the ACA route away from the river and up the impressively steep 2nd St. I didn't see this coming, so had no run up and got caught in the wrong gear. Excuses aside, it was too steep and for the first and only time, I had to step off and push my bike up the hill. We continued over unpleasant, undulating roads until we found Afton.
Soon afterwards we stumbled upon the Gateway and Brown's Creek State Trail. This was perhaps the best independent cycle path that we had ever cycled on. It was happily wide enough to handle walking and bicycle traffic and it had toilets and rest areas along the way and was mostly downhill through shady, wooded areas. The only problem was that it was too short. Before we knew it, we had entered Stillwater.
We didn't realise this lovely town was on our map and would have loved to have spent a night exploring, but had to push on because our friends in Iowa were expecting us in a few days' time. However, we did stop for our second breakfast. In case you have not worked it out, by now I was way over being bugged by nice people asking me the same questions day after day. While Sharon went to the shop, I sat on a seat and waited. Instantly, smiley people started walking towards me. I quickly pulled out my phone and started staring at the blank screen and through my periphery vision, watched people come into my orbit, see I was busy and move on. I felt ashamed of this act, but when we spend so much time alone, it is really hard when people just barge uninvited into your space.
Sharon eventually turned up and we sat beside the Mississippi and ate our second breakfast whilst fending off the same annoying questions. I managed to somehow offend one couple. I said to them that they must be really happy with their Democratic government which allowed the cycle path to be built. I guess they were Republicans. It seems that Americans ask these questions functionally. They want to know stuff, so they ask. When I took this to a relational level by asking questions about them, they would often simply turn and walk away.
We followed the ACA route away from the river and up the impressively steep 2nd St. I didn't see this coming, so had no run up and got caught in the wrong gear. Excuses aside, it was too steep and for the first and only time, I had to step off and push my bike up the hill. We continued over unpleasant, undulating roads until we found Afton.
We started searching for a riverside place to have lunch. We cycled through a huge marina full of 'keep out' signs. At the very end was a tiny town park with one picnic table. It was right on the bank of the Mississippi and made the perfect place to cook lunch.
We continued cycling along somewhat difficult hilly roads to the expensive St Croix Bluffs Regional Park. The young host gave us the furtherest away campsite, on gravel in the bush at the bottom of the hill. Once again, we couldn't get our tent pegs in. I was still feeling crappy and could not be bothered climbing to the office, so simply found a patch of green grass closer to the very clean toilet block and pitched tent. It was a good, soft sleep. |
The next morning was a peaceful hilly ride down the Mississippi. Just before Red Wing, our ACA map directed us off the main road and down a quiet lane that would later rejoin the highway. Twenty metres short of the main road we hit road works, just a couple of earth movers and large trucks doing their thing. We tried to push through, but got stopped. So I asked if we could just pop through to the road rather than having to cycle back the mile or so. They wouldn't let us. Totally dumbfounded I pleaded, but to no success. We turned around and cycled back. It started raining just as we were crossing the narrow shoulderless bridge into town. We raced to a supermarket and sheltered with the trollies. We jumped back on our bikes and dashed through the downpour until we found a sheltered table and sat their eating our lunch. I was beginning to seriously dislike cycling down the river. There were either two options, cycle busy tourist highways or wrestle with steep quieter roads along the bluffs.
After lunch, we chose bicycle route 45 along the highway. It was flat with lots of vehicle noise. Tired and cranky, we stopped at a beautiful State Park camping ground. For some reason they looked right down their noses at us and refused to give us a piece of grass. In Montana and North Dakota, all those tiny towns loved having us in their town parks and cafes. Here on the bustling Mississippi, we were just dirty, low-spending nobodies and felt decidedly unwelcome. Eventually we found the rather strange Sunset Motel. No sooner had we got inside, than did the heavens open again and it poured all night. We were very happy to have been snobbed at the State Park and spent a dry night in a little motel.
At 6:20 a.m., we were again cycling under dark, foreboding clouds. Because of this, we chose to stay on the 45. We had a tail wind which helped keep our speed up.
After lunch, we chose bicycle route 45 along the highway. It was flat with lots of vehicle noise. Tired and cranky, we stopped at a beautiful State Park camping ground. For some reason they looked right down their noses at us and refused to give us a piece of grass. In Montana and North Dakota, all those tiny towns loved having us in their town parks and cafes. Here on the bustling Mississippi, we were just dirty, low-spending nobodies and felt decidedly unwelcome. Eventually we found the rather strange Sunset Motel. No sooner had we got inside, than did the heavens open again and it poured all night. We were very happy to have been snobbed at the State Park and spent a dry night in a little motel.
At 6:20 a.m., we were again cycling under dark, foreboding clouds. Because of this, we chose to stay on the 45. We had a tail wind which helped keep our speed up.
We stopped for our morning cornflakes in the pretty town of Kellogg and just south of there, before I had a chance to realise, I cycled over hundreds of Stanley knife blades. I screamed back at Sharon who managed to miss most of them. Once again, I was so so thankful for our German Schwalbe Marathon Plus tyres. They have Kevlar in them, which literally makes them bulletproof. We could not clear up all the blades, there were way too many, so I took a photograph and geolocation and posted it on the ACA and Warmshowers Facebook pages. |
We saw our first bald eagle not too far short of the campground in Homer. The holiday park was noisy and busy with families doing all the things that families do. At 8 p.m., whilst we were trying to sleep, happy kids were running round our tent playing tag. We always got better sleeps in town parks or freedom camping.
We spent the next morning again on the dual-carriageway. It wasn't pleasant. Eventually it turned into an Interstate and we were spat out on to quiet roads. This was perfect. We stopped in the beautiful town of Dakota City and took photos before excitedly cycling to La Crescent. I had been to this village before and consumed what still holds the record for the best ever hamburger I have eaten. Unfortunately, we couldn't find the cafe, so settled for a very friendly diner. We ordered so much food for our second breakfast that the stunned waitress had to bring it out on four plates. We scoffed it down in minutes. It was good hearty, tasty solid food. La Crescent still holds in my mind the title of America's culinary capital. A good feed of bacon, sausages and eggs on pancakes will do that.
We spent the next morning again on the dual-carriageway. It wasn't pleasant. Eventually it turned into an Interstate and we were spat out on to quiet roads. This was perfect. We stopped in the beautiful town of Dakota City and took photos before excitedly cycling to La Crescent. I had been to this village before and consumed what still holds the record for the best ever hamburger I have eaten. Unfortunately, we couldn't find the cafe, so settled for a very friendly diner. We ordered so much food for our second breakfast that the stunned waitress had to bring it out on four plates. We scoffed it down in minutes. It was good hearty, tasty solid food. La Crescent still holds in my mind the title of America's culinary capital. A good feed of bacon, sausages and eggs on pancakes will do that.
Still hungry, we cycled along much quieter roads to Lansing. This was a beautiful town. Unfortunately for us, they were holding a fishing competition and hundreds of people were there. Parties, bands and food stalls were setting up in the town park.
We asked at the information centre where we could find a free place to camp. They told us to walk down to the town hall and ask there. On the way down the hill, I saw a sign attached to a sandwich board that read 'cyclists welcome'. I followed it up some stairs, expecting to see a bike shop or hostel. It turned out to be an art gallery. It was nice art, but I was hungry and disappointed. The artist came out and asked how she could help. I said, 'I read your placard and came up looking for a bed for my wife and I.' After a talk and a phone call to her husband, she invited us to stay with them on the southern side of town. I gladly accepted this offer. |
I returned to a harassed Sharon, who had spent about 30 minutes being bugged with these same questions and had had people sharing their random life experiences with her.
We cooked lunch on another diamond and rested for a while before pushing our bikes up a long gravel driveway. Our hosts were very welcoming and shared a lovely evening meal with us. Everything was fine until politics came into the question. The husband of our host was a strong Democrat, his eyes glazed over with hatred when we talked about the 45th President. I had seen this alarming phenomenon on the faces of many lovely Republicans, but this was the first time I had viewed it on the other side. I think the USA should be very concerned about its fierce, divisive culture. Lovely rational people who suddenly turn passionately toxic over politics. It is great people care, but maybe some need to care a little less.
Our sleep that evening was disturbed by howling coyotes, however we were somewhat safe in the cool air on the screened deck of their guest house. In the morning, we awoke covered in insect bites.
It was not pleasant riding in the morning mist or on the steep, windy and shoulder-less inclines. At Harper Ferry, we bumped into cycling descendants of Sam Huston. I'm not sure why I needed to know this, but it was mildly interesting. We were about to experience another Texas revolution in the company of long-time friends who had moved north from the Lone Star State.
We cooked lunch on another diamond and rested for a while before pushing our bikes up a long gravel driveway. Our hosts were very welcoming and shared a lovely evening meal with us. Everything was fine until politics came into the question. The husband of our host was a strong Democrat, his eyes glazed over with hatred when we talked about the 45th President. I had seen this alarming phenomenon on the faces of many lovely Republicans, but this was the first time I had viewed it on the other side. I think the USA should be very concerned about its fierce, divisive culture. Lovely rational people who suddenly turn passionately toxic over politics. It is great people care, but maybe some need to care a little less.
Our sleep that evening was disturbed by howling coyotes, however we were somewhat safe in the cool air on the screened deck of their guest house. In the morning, we awoke covered in insect bites.
It was not pleasant riding in the morning mist or on the steep, windy and shoulder-less inclines. At Harper Ferry, we bumped into cycling descendants of Sam Huston. I'm not sure why I needed to know this, but it was mildly interesting. We were about to experience another Texas revolution in the company of long-time friends who had moved north from the Lone Star State.
We arrived in Marquette about 10 minutes before Steve arrived. This gave us time to quickly freshen up and change clothes in the public toilets.
On the somewhat long drive to Cedar Rapids, we were able to reminisce about our time together at a Texas Summer Camp. Steve being the faithful person he is, drove us straight to a bike shop to check our bikes in for a good service. |
We spent the evening with his family catching up and generally enjoying ourselves in familiar company.
This section of the trip had been filled with many minor adventures, including the massive anticlimax of the Mississippi River Basin. Resting and being well fed was very much so needed. We were also getting desperate for church again.
This section of the trip had been filled with many minor adventures, including the massive anticlimax of the Mississippi River Basin. Resting and being well fed was very much so needed. We were also getting desperate for church again.
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