My bike and I shared an elevator ride down to the lobby this morning with a couple who were wearing Iowa Hawkeye t-shirts.  After confirming they were Iowans, I told them that I grew up in Iowa.  Obviously they couldn't help but notice there was a bicycle on board, so they asked if I had ever ridden RAGBRAI.

"Yes, I have," I answered.  "I've been doing that for the last six years."

"Are you going to do it this year?" asked the wife.

"No, I'm doing this ride instead.  RAGBRAI was a lot of crazy fun, but it started to lose its luster for me, so I decided to try something different this year."

"RAGRAI's kind of a party ride isn't it?" asked the woman, with a little chuckle.

"Yeah, in a way," I replied, "but really it's anything you WANT it to be.  Nobody MAKES you drink beer all day.  It's totally up to you.  Some folks like the county fair atmosphere in all the towns, the church dinners and the pies . . . and others like the bars, the beer gardens, the live music and the jello wrestling. "

"How about you?" she questioned further.  Something told me she already knew the answer.

I could not tell a lie.  Then the husband revealed that they were in the midst of a motorcycle tour and I got the sense they understood what I was talking about.  In a way, RAGBRAI is the bicyclist's version of Sturgis.

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I maneuvered myself through the morning traffic of Duluth and pedaled straight south.  Still within the city limits, I saw a dude, about my age, running with--get this--a ten-pound sledgehammer in each hand.  Clearly he had a disdain for those new-fangled weights that some people strap onto their wrists while jogging.  Even 10-pound dumbbells must have been too sissified for him.  I could only imagine how much extra effort it took to run with two sledgehammers.  

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He reminded me of a guy I saw on RAGBRAI once.  While many riders were complaining about the hills and the humidity, he was a 70-year old man riding a 70-year old bike with a sign that read "Gears are for Pussies."  Man, I admire guys like that.

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Just past the last of Duluth's small suburbs I was the lucky recipient of some wildlife related entertainment.  Two deer popped out of the woods on my right.  The big doe crossed the road not more than 30 yards in front of me, but her youngster took one step onto the road and turned around as soon as he noticed me moving in his direction.  I guess his inexperience made him a poor judge of speed because I was pedaling slowly uphill and posed no threat at all.

Mama deer, who was already on the other side of the road, looked back at her little one as if to say, "c'mon across, Junior, he's moving as slow as a turtle."  But the young deer was not convinced by its mother's assurance and stayed put in the brush along the road.  Like any good mother, the doe went back to her kid on the other side of the road and they disappeared into the forest together.

Today was my shortest ride in terms of miles.  In terms of TIME, it was my longest.  All day I fought a hot 15 m.p.h. wind blowing directly into my face.  Even going downhill was slow.

Speaking of hills, it was a pretty hilly day too, particularly a 2-mile long climb out of the St. Louis River valley.  In addition, Highway 23 is a fairly desolate road with only a couple of very small towns.  Thank goodness for a small gas station in Duquette because I was hot, thirsty, and out of water after 28 miles with no services at all.

The next 21 miles were even hotter and windier, and the three towns--if you can even call them that--had nothing to offer a tired, thirsty, hungry cyclist.  I managed to score a microwaveable pork sandwich and a bottle of cheap Riesling at a truck stop near the entrance to the state park.

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It felt great to finally end this day of riding.  In camp, I was re-energized by the shade, the Hemingway and the wine.  I gathered enough sticks and twigs to get a fire started, took the pork sandwich out of the cellophane bag, and heated it up over the burning sticks.  And you know what?  It was pretty darn good.

When I had enough wine, enough dancing at the picnic table to music on my headphones, enough pork sandwich and a dessert of beef jerky, I retired to my tent.  I read for a while longer--up to the point where the Old Man was struggling with the marlin.  The big fish was pulling his little rowboat further out to sea.  As exciting as that scene is, I could no longer stay awake.  I put down the book, closed my eyes, and recalled how the Old Man caught a tuna a little earlier and ate it raw in his boat.  I suddenly craved sushi.  Then I nodded off.