July 1, 2008



We've been on the road a month. Today we are in Lindstrom, Mn. A beautiful little town of Swedish immigrants. First stop, the Swedish bakery. Chatted up the owner and her friend for about 1 1/2 hours while i downed some pastries and milk. It used to be a jumping little town. Apparently, the malls are putting the town out of business. After we left the owner came running out after us with a huge bag of ginger snaps. Headed down toward the library to sign onto the net when i spotted the chamber of commerce building. Met two lovely ladies. Spent another two hours chatting.



Finally reached the library whiere I find I must update the blog. Beardo's mind has been temperarily clouded and befuddled by his arch enemy Retardo from the administration at RIT.



So, Fatman must weigh in with some "Random Remarks, Recollection, Ramblings, and Ruminations from the Rotund Rider". You'll find that much of what I write has the same value as war stories. Nobody knows whether it's true or not. Especially me.



Don't know what Beardo wrote or where he stopped writing. Don't really care. We see the world differently anyway.



I hate headwinds. I mean I really hate them. We have been fighting direct head on, strong, constant, unrelenting winds since we left NY. To give you some inkling of how strong the winds can be, I must tell you a little bit about my bike and how it handles. The bike with gear weighs about 80 pounds or more. Fatman weighs only God knows how much. When riding on a flat road with no headwinds, I can usually maintain 14 to 16 miles per hour for extended periods of time. Not that I would know, because we haven't been without headwinds for and extended period of time. Going down a reasonable slope, not too steep, I can easily hit 37 or 38 miles per hour. But with head winds, sometimes i struggle to maintain 6 or 7 mile per hour. Downhill the other day, I was peddling very hard to go 12 miles per hour when I should have been flying, scared out of my mind, with no effort! Of course, it was my idea to go east to west to build strength and character before we got to the Rockies. The head wind issue is wll known. We might build strength.



I hate hills. I mean I really hate these really rolling hills. Which do you think is worse? Do you think a shallow rise that goes on for a mile or two with curves and twists and bends is bad? And then it has the nerve to round a bend have a STEEP RISE BEFORE THE TOP! THEY SUCK! THEY SUCK! Short steep hills suck even worse. Because when you finally get to the top, screaming and cursing, in lowest gear, great granny gear, going 3 miles per hour, pushing as hard as you can around 20 to 30 rpm for 10 minutes, wheezing and spitting blood and bile, and you are ready to enjoy the truly deserved flat or downhill, you see the next STEEP HILL. I really hate that. Yester day we did dozens of hills from Redwing to Bayport. And don't try to ride across northwestern Illinois into Dubuque. After highway 52, i think it is, murders you, Dubuque eats your soul.



Fortunately, we had parents of a friend living in Dubuque, John and Susan Hoffman, parents of Chad Hoffman. John picked us up in a parking lot after we climbed a 2 mile hill from the Mississippi River. By the way, crossing Ole Man Ribber on a bicycle was a real thrill or me. I peddled real slowly across the bridge in rush hour traffic to watch him roll on. Back to John and Susan. They took us into their house, let us shower, and fed us well. We in return ate like pigs. We knew we had a good thing going here, so we stayed an extra day and night. I was whupped after the ride into Dubuque. My body needed a day of rest. John is retired from John Deere where he worked for 30 years. Now all he does is hunt, fish, and drink beer. We generously helped him with his beer. Susan drove me all over town to find things needed to continue for the trip. She made enormous breakfasts and dinners that we demolished in order not to insult the cook. Dubuque is built on a palisades or bluff. Steeper hills than San Francisco. A bicyclist nightmare. The drivers don't like bicyclists and don't cut us no slack when passing. Thankfully, John drove us out of the hills of Dubuque and back to our bike route. We were supposed to ride along the Mississippi after that. So John thought it would be mostly flat, nothing too difficult.



That brings us to Sunshine Hill. Reread above what I wrote about hills. Double it.



We went from Marquette to Lansing to La Crescent to Winona, through Wabasha to Red Wing to Bayport. I don't remember them very well at the moment. I'll make up stories about them later. I think it was in Winona that we met Patty at the Sinclair station. I stopped in to ask about a place to camp. We talked about the trip, my life long dream, the hill, etc. She offered us a free drink of any kind we wanted. We drank. Talked and talked. She hada couple of bags of donuts on the counter. She said take a bag. They will only get thrown away. We took. That night we camped on a penninsula in the middle of the Mighty Mississippi.



Another donut story. We stayed at the Green River Oaks Campground. Noone was there when we arrived. Rates were posted as $30.00 per night. We were outraged but exhausted. Pitch your tent anywhere the sign. We chose the closest available grassy spot. Next morning the owner arrives in his big 4x4. He greets us and we start talking. "Oh, I never charge bicyclists", he says. "Never have. They don't use any resources." Good thing he wasn't there for the two hour shower. The mosquitos were so bad no way I was going back outside quickly. He had to rush away to take a broken motor to be fixed. We asked him for directions and promptly left. About 9 miles down ou route we see a farmiliar truck pull to the side and wait for us. There was the campground owner (Beardo has all the pictures and names). He had stopped and bought a dozen donuts. Offered us as many a we wanted. Apologized for not offering us breakfast or at least coffee.



Campground across from Red Wing, Mn in Wisconson is called Mr. Sippi. No joke. Or very little joke. We camped right at the edge of the river. We had a strange dinner, chicken breasts, mushrooms, ramen noodles, black bean dip, hot sauce. Absolutely delicious. Built a fire only inches from the water's edge and through some fresh corn in the hot coals for dessert. The stars were plentiful and clear. Temperature dropped into the 50's. A perfect night. This spot was located just next door to the office which happens to be a bar. Next morning one of the bar employees was walking around and i asked he about the pole in the river marked off in 6 inch segments that went from 6 to 18 feet. That, of course, is the flood measurer pole thingy. That day, the river was well below the 6 foot mark.. The 18 foot mark was way above our heads. He said he saw the water reach the 17 1/2 foot mark once. It looked like flooding started about the 8 foot mark. I just don't understand why anyone would be there to read the water at the 17 1/2 level.



Last night we stayed at Bayport. I wanted to stop earlier. But we begged a place in a couple of towns along the way and were turned away, sent on farther up the river. At Bayport, I walked into the first bar I saw and asked the bartendress if there was any place to camp in town. She suggested I go to the police station a short block down the street and ask permission because Bayport was a real friendly town and the police were very nice. Town hall and the police department were locked up tight. No lights, doors locked. Went back to the bar. Bartendress called the police and told them we needed help. Officer woud be over in 2 minutes. While we waited for the officer to arrive, Carl came walking across the street. On each side of the street there is a barrel with crossing flags. You pick up a flag that tells cars to stop, put your head down, and walk. Impervious. We gabbed. Cross country trip, life long dream, Rochester, NY etc.
"This is a real friendly town. Nice people. But if you can't get a place to camp, I live across the street and you can camp in our back yard." Exit Carl. Enter Officer D. Wynia. Very nice man. Friendly, chatty, informative. But no joy. There's been some vandalism in the park so you can't stay there. Calls the cheif. She says we can stay between the police station and the fire department if we are gone by 7AM. Apparently, the town nuisance, vigilante is up early every morning defending the town and calling in complaints. Didn't think that out by 7AM would sit well with Beardo. So I accepted Carl's invitation. It was another good night. Before reaching the house, however, I met 2 other people who had been in the bar when I first went in. Thery were worried about us and would offer us their back yards if we needed them.

So I want to give the tour a new name. There are several that come to mind, depending upon what I happen to be dwelling on at the moment. For now I choose to think about all the wonderful people we have met and all the kindness they have shown us. Therefore this is :
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS TOUR

We have rediscovered the America that we used to know and always loved. An America of small towns, people with big hearts, generous, giving, concerned about people, friends or strangers. There seems to be a strange lack of hate and predjudice. The library is closing so i'll return to this later.

I want instead to tell you about the Lawn Mower Poker Race that we saw in Ashkum. As far as i can make out, people pay an entrance fee, ride their mowers or lawn tractors from one bar to the next bar to the baseball diamond to the pool to the Knights of Columbus Hall drinking beer all the way. Nobody seems to know what the prizes are. Nobody cares.

Fatman out