July 13, 2012
From Different Worlds
Forest Lake, MN
| Heart | 3 | Comment | 0 | Link |
Hinckley, MN, 9:30 a.m.:
A bicycle rider in his mid-fifties sits on a bench while eating a cold, overpriced convenience store ham-on-rye sandwich. A leather-clad motorcycle rider in this mid-fifties pulls up on his decked out Harley Davidson, saddle bags and all, to fill up with gasoline. The following conversation ensues:
"I got nuthin' but respect for that, brother," said the motorcyclist as he nodded toward the bicycle rider's loaded bike.
"Thanks . . . but I see you're on a tour too. That's pretty cool."
"Oh, this is nothing compared to THAT."
"Either way, it's travel. It's adventure."
"Yeah, but how many calories do you burn on that thing per day?"
"I have no idea," replied the bicyclist, " but I'm guessing quite a few."
"I burn about 500 calories a day riding this thing--probably less than you do every fifteen minutes on your bike."
"I just don't know. I never even think about calories," said the bicycle rider who, as you probably already figured out, was me.
The motorcyclist changed the subject. "Where ya headed?"
"Down to Hastings--a southern suburb of St. Paul. I started there on Monday, rode to Duluth, and now I'm headed back. You?"
"I'm on my way to a three day motorcycle rally in Finlayson. I started in La Crosse, WI early this morning."
"Nice," said the bicyclist, "have a great trip."
"You too, brother, and be careful."
The bicycle guy felt kind of cool that a Harley Rider called him "brother."
While on a break in Pine City, I saw a loaded bicyclist ride by. I chugged my cold GatorAde and biked off to catch up to him and get his story. Alas, I could not find him. I was sure he couldn't have gotten too far ahead, so I surmised he turned off the highway for a break of his own. Disappointed, I slowly rode into the hot, windy countryside.
Six miles later, at the lonely intersection of Highways 61 and 70, I came upon a trailer with a big smoker next to it. The smoker was fired up and was spewing clouds of white, fragrant smoke in my direction. The proprietors of the food truck called out to me. "Come on down and have a sandwich."
"What are you serving," I shouted from the road.
"We've got pork chops and pulled pork sandwiches."
"Okay, sounds good. I'll be right there." I really wasn't ready to eat yet, but it smelled soooooo good. I am a hopeless carnivore.
They were two young guys cooking pig meat in the middle of nowhere. I was their first customer of the day and, man, that sandwich was really, really good.
I was only about half done with my tasty pulled pork when the mysterious long-distance bike rider I had seen earlier rode by. He paid no attention to my bike, which was sitting right next to the shoulder he was riding on, and he didn't even look in the direction of the sweet scent of the smoker. That dude either had no sense of smell or he was a highly disciplined vegetarian. Or maybe he was in some kind of meditative trance.
Another possibility is that he simply had no interest in talking to anybody. I get it; I can be that way too. But that didn't stop me from gobbling down the rest of my food, thanking the guys for the great lunch, and racing to catch up to the anti-social bike tourist.
I pedaled hard and made up about a half-mile in fifteen minutes. He saw me in his rear view mirror and moved into the traffic lane as I approached, allowing me to stay on the small shoulder. "Rather courteous," I thought. He looked to be about 25-years old, and his Schwinn bike looked to be about the same age. He had plastic buckets attached to the front and rear racks.
"I'd sure rather be heading the other way," I joked, referring to the strengthening headwinds.
"No kidding," he laughed in agreement.
Then I got to the main question I wanted to ask. "Where have you been and where are you going?"
"Well, I started at the source of the Mississippi River at Itasca State Park, spent last night in Cloquet, and tonight I plan to spend the night with some friends in Minneapolis."
"That's cool," I stated, "is that your final destination?"
"No, eventually I hope to end up in Brazil," he declared without a hint of braggadocio, and he briefly described his intended route.
I was momentarily stunned. "BRAZIL?" I exclaimed. "WOW! That makes my little trip seem rather . . . insignificant."
(His ride today alone is pretty impressive. He began at sunrise in Cloquet and, at his pace, he will be riding until after sunset before he gets to Minneapolis--a distance of about 150 miles. No wonder he had no interest in stopping at a roadside BBQ stand.)
"I'm only planning to ride to Forest Lake today," I continued. "I need to keep my days closer to 65-70 miles."
"Are you going to be taking the Sunrise Prairie Trail," he asked?
"Um, I don't know what that is."
"It's a bike trail that begins in the next town and takes you all the way to the metro area."
"I might have to check it out," I said. Then I wished him luck on his journey to Brazil, ignorantly shouted "HOLA," and pedaled ahead of him into the f---ing wind.
Sure enough, in the town of North Branch I found there was, indeed, a bike trail that closely paralleled Highway 61. It was definitely a welcome sight because the highway had become noticeably busier, and there was almost nobody on the Sunrise Prairie Trail. I took it all the way to Forest Lake, a northern suburb of St. Paul, where, instead of camping, I decided to search for a motel for the night.
| Heart | 1 | Comment | 0 | Link |
Today's ride: 69 miles (111 km)
Total: 341 miles (549 km)
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 6 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 2 |
3 years ago
You sure are easy to trick these days. Seriously, though, I get it. More than once I've started reading a journal that looked like it might be interesting, and then five or six pages in I'll realize, "What the hell? I've read this thing before." Like a good book, some journals are worth a second read. Thanks for re-reading this one. (And you are excused from having to "like" anything the rest of the way.)
Greg
3 years ago