marquette, no shoulder, effigy mounds, mirror, red barn, bucky

July 20, 2020

Day Seven: Monona to Lansing

Karen woke me up at 4:15 to say goodbye, after which I instantly slipped back into a dreamless unconsciousness and didn't even twitch until 7:15.

the only evidence that they'd been there was the imprint from their tent

My plan was to spend the next night in Harpers Ferry with John Fox, the father of Billie Jo, one of the pharmacists I work with. I called to let him know that I’m on my way but didn’t get an answer. After packing up my gear, I rolled away at 9:25.

It seems like it takes forever to gather my gear and load it onto the bike. If anyone has any suggestions about how to get on the road faster (as long as it doesn't entail waking up earlier!) I’d love to hear your thoughts. Even if I get everything set up and ready to go before bedtime it still takes a long time before I'm finally rolling.

The morning was perfect for riding: about 68 degrees, overcast, no breeze, no traffic, and with just a gradual rise and fall of the road as if it were a sheet being shaken out.

After a pleasant twelve miles, the road dropped 500 feet in a little more than a mile and I suddenly found myself in Marquette (pop 429), a small, touristy river town. After becoming momentarily confused about which direction I should go, I found a scenic patch right on the river and took a ten-minute break while I ate a protein bar and studied the map until I could determine exactly where I was and where I needed to go. Although my rest spot was scenic, the noise from the bridge was surprisingly loud as it bounced and echoed across the water so I didn't hang out there for very long.

The next section of the road abutted a sheer cliff, and after the first few hundred feet there was barely enough room for a couple of cars to slip past each other. As I straddled my bike looking up the road I noticed a couple of signs: “Falling Rocks” and “No Shoulder.”

During the course of my travels I’ve pedaled down countless numbers of shoulderless roads. Most of them didn't mention that there was no shoulder, and in general it wasn’t an issue. Why then, did this sign create a sense of unease? So what if there’s no shoulder?

One of the things a person does when riding is think about things like this, so I placed the question in the crock pot of my mind to let it simmer and eventually came up with the reason: If there’s a sign telling you that there’s no shoulder, it implies that there SHOULD be one. If you see a sign that says “No Bridge Ahead,” it’s telling you that there should be an upcoming bridge, but there’s not, so you might want to consider an alternate route or risk plunging into a ravine in a grand Evel Knievel style, except without the parachute. Or the “No Services Ahead for 6,000 miles” sign hints that there was something amiss when the county planners were in session and you should stop for gas, and perhaps to purchase a small jet aircraft. And, of course, in certain barefoot sections of the country there's that ever-present “No Evolved Humans Next 50 Miles” sign….

I saw on a more intimate level what the sign meant when the shoulder started wide, then dwindled down to some wishful thinking. Along several stretches, inches from the road, there was an abrupt drop off. A slight jiggle to the right and I’d end up in a slime-filled ditch, eventually emerging like the Creature From the Black Lagoon, waving my arms and bellowing after sucking in the algae and muck.

Apparently, "No Shoulder" isn't enough of a challenge around here

Traffic was moderately heavy, and consisted mostly of semis and large trucks. In general, when a driver slows down instead of trying to squeeze between me and an oncoming vehicle, I always make it a point to wave at them when they do pass, letting them know I appreciate it. Fortunately, all of the people who passed me today seemed unrushed, and I never sensed any impatience when someone was behind me.

Just beyond the No Shoulder/Falling Rock section I came to Effigy Mounds, Iowa’s only National Monument or National Park. I’ve been there several times, and it’s definitely worth visiting. Hiking along the meandering trails through the hardwood forest, time seems to shift back and forth between the ancient and the present. People lived there 2,500 years ago and I felt a sense of reverence, like I was in a European cathedral, as I passed some of the 206 mounds. The administration of the Monument has its own interesting narrative as well. There were two controversial superintendents in recent history, one of whom went to jail.

still in Effigy Mounds, a view from the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi river

another view from the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi river

Shortly after passing Effigy Mounds I reclaimed every inch of the altitude I had lost dropping into Marquette, and the climb up was as steep as the descent had been. There was no place to take a break, no slight leveling of the road or a place to turn off, and I watched the droplets of sweat rhythmically fall from my nose and splatter onto my top tube as I dragged the air through my lungs like a cheese grater.

This was the first time I’d used a mirror on a bike tour. I had tried several in the past and hated them, those quarter-sized helmet attachments that jiggled and made my eyes cross. I wore them, convinced my eyes were going to get stuck that way like my mother warned, until I finally took them off and tossed them into the plastic Bin of Forgotten and Forlorn Bike Stuff which includes such items as a cyclometer, a frame pump, a top tube bag, 40-year-old crispy panniers, and numerous other no-longer-needed-junk that will likely never get thrown out.

Nor could I tolerate the bulk and asymmetry of having a mirror clamped onto my brake caliper, and since I use bar-end shifters I’m unable to attach one there.

I finally found one I like, the EVT, but it's enormous and I tend to knock over signposts and uproot small trees with each turn of my head. Plus, it screams "I'm a nerd!" The volume of that screaming is even louder than the nerd noise from Birth Control Glasses, aka BCGs, those black-rimmed glasses issued to military personnel which will ensure that regardless of how attractive a person is, once they put on the BCGs no person of the opposite sex will be able to see beyond the Wall of Nerdiness.

Of course, I understand that touring on a loaded bike comes with a certain amount of geekiness… the cycling jersey, the helmet, the lycra shorts (there’s even an acronym about men wearing lycra that hits uncomfortably close to home: mamil). Add to that the Wind-Blox which make me look like I have some serious Elvis sideburns, and bone conduction headphones which give me the appearance of having put hearing aids on backwards as an obvious result of my advanced dementia. All I need is that pocket protector and the ensemble will be complete.

All of this is an acceptable amount of looking goofy, and that’s okay, because I found the jerseys really do provide a significant difference in keeping me cool/warm. The helmet, should I be involved in an accident, helps me to retain those final IQ points I seem so insistent in dislodging. The shorts really do help prevent my butt from feeling like a tooth after receiving an injection of novocaine. Even the Wind-Blox provides a certain amount of respite from the sound of the wind as it rushes past my ears during my breakneck sprints which reach almost into double digits.

However, attaching a mirror the size of a trash can lid to my helmet pushes the look just a bit too far. I feel like a moose with one antler, or a unicorn with a horn that has slipped drunkenly off to the side, and I tend to quickly remove my helmet for pictures, opting instead for the sweat-stained spiked hair look with accompanying striped tan lines under the ventilation holes.

The issue for me is that I’m conflicted because I really love my mirror. Sometimes when I walk down the hallway at work I occasionally glance up and to the left to see what’s behind me, feeling a sense of loss that if a car happened to be sneaking up behind me in that narrow corridor I would be completely unaware.

And there’s the safety factor. Consider that when you’re in a car, surrounded by at least half a ton of metal, you have THREE mirrors telling you what’s around you. On a bicycle, when you’re much more vulnerable, shouldn’t you have at least one?

The reason I mention the mirror is that this road was narrow and winding with no shoulder; it was an ideal location to know when there’s a logging truck approaching from behind. On two occasions I pulled over onto the grass when there was a truck passing from both directions at the same time. Getting out of the way was more out of courtesy for the driver behind me, knowing he’d have to shift down to first gear, after which it would take several extra minutes to get going up the steep incline again. It most certainly wasn’t because I was panting like an overeager hunting dog and wanted a break.

Upon reaching the top, I immediately plummeted back down to the river and felt a surprising chill in the heat of the day as the sweat quickly evaporated.

The mobile homes at the bottom, in Waukon Junction, were all on stilts.

Should I play on the swing, or should I play in the pretty green water?

I stopped in Harpers Ferry (pop 262) which, for the record, has no apostrophe, where I had planned to stop for the night; however, John hadn’t called me back by the time I arrived so I decided to continue riding and camp in Lansing instead. On the way there I was greeted with two more grueling climbs, and I could feel every one of the seventy pounds of gear attached to my bike. The traffic was much lighter though, and I was able to tack a few times.

In Lansing (pop 968) I stopped at the main intersection next to a silver replica of the Liberty Bell and ate lunch on a shaded bench while I considered whether to continue on another 44 miles to La Crosse, then drive home this evening, or stay here at a campsite a couple of miles down the road. I didn’t debate long, because I wasn’t in a hurry for the trip to end.

It was somewhat hot, but not miserably so. After an appropriate amount of people-watching at the corner, I left the River Road and pedaled two miles up the valley to the Red Barn Campground and arrived a few minutes after 3:00. The office was closed and locked so I decided I’d just pay them later, then rode around searching for the best camping spot.

Searching for the best campsite isn't always straightforward. For me, there are a number of factors to consider: what's the farthest I can get away from people, where am I able to avoid lamp light, where am I able to avoid traffic noise, is the ground level, is it scenic, is it upwind from a portable toilet/sewage treatment facility/hog farm, will I be invisible, do I want to sleep under a pavilion, is there a nearby picnic table, is it free - and if not can I ride down the road 1/4 of a mile to find an identical spot.

I put all of these questions/answers into an equation inside my head. The equation itself is a little nebulous, because some of the questions carry more weight than others.

The answers bounce around inside my brain like numbered spheres in a lottery ball machine until one finally floats to the surface and I grab it, the winning location. This process ensures I've found the absolute best spot, at least until the tent is actually set up, at which point I see greener grass on the other side of the fence.

Near the road there were a lot of RVs, permanently established with gates, plants, carpet, and other homey items, but near the back of the park there was an empty acre of nothing but scattered picnic tables near a burbling creek. I found a spot that wasn’t close to anyone, and looked forward to an evening of quiet and solitude. The only drawback was that there wasn’t a faucet nearby, so I collected water from the creek and used my water filter. Using the filter made me feel like a true wilderness camper, even though I was within sight of a flush toilet.

Today’s ride was less than fifty miles but even so I felt oddly wiped out, so I just sat in my chair unsuccessfully willing there to be a breeze. Was I overly fatigued because of lack of sleep? steep hills? heat? I don’t know, but it seems I've said that at the end of almost every day. Maybe it's just old age. Eventually, I roused myself from my coma and ate a protein bar, wrote in my journal, and started setting up the tent.

When the temperature cooled down enough so that I was able to stop continuously sweating, I grabbed some fresh clothes and toiletries and took off for the shower, about a two-minute walk, only to find it cost 25 cents per 15 minutes. I had bills and credit cards, but no coins, and the office was still closed, so I walked back to my campsite.

At 6:20, almost like someone had adjusted a thermostat, the temperature seemed to drop abruptly and it felt pleasantly cool for the first time since this morning. For dinner I selected the chicken fajita bowl and a chocolate mudslide pudding for dessert, the combination of which was about 1200 calories, then climbed into my tent and cleaned up with the large towelettes like I did last night.

No one ever came by to collect the campground fee, and at 8:30 I think I figured out why when a group of twenty bicyclists came powering in, blasting Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” on a couple of Volkswagen-sized speakers being pulled behind one of the bikes. Perhaps the park’s management thought I was with their group.

They swarmed into the pavilion like angry wasps. Most of them were drunk, and those who weren’t appeared to be doing their best to remedy that issue as quickly as possible. The majority of them set up their tents about seventy five yards away, satellites encircling the covered picnic tables, but there were a couple of people who apparently wanted to get away from the crowd and set theirs up close to mine. The creek beside us provided some white noise, which I hoped would help tonight when I wanted to sleep.

One of my new neighbors, a woman, came over to my tent and asked, “Is anyone home?” I popped out and we chatted a few minutes until another rider came over. She left shortly thereafter and the second person, Bucky, and I continued the conversation for another 25-30 minutes.

Bucky is from St. Paul, and ran marathons until he met some bikers and learned how much more fun cycling is than running. He’s been doing annual rides with this group for the past three or four years. Their original plan was to do RAGBRAI but it got canceled because of the pandemic. Since they had already requested the week off work they decided to create their own trip, riding from the Twin Cities to the Red Barn Campground, hanging out for three riotous days of partying, then pedaling back.

Just like those people who are racially prejudiced towards a group of people but paradoxically find individuals from that same group very nice and pleasant to be around, I found myself hating the large group but was having difficulty reconciling the fact that Bucky was so nice. He kept apologizing for his friends’ volume, and made me promise to let him know if they were being too loud so he could go talk to them. What a jerk. He made it impossible to dislike him and his friends.

I anticipated not being able to sleep because of the noise (there did seem to be a correlation between the amount of alcohol consumed and the volume of the conversations) and pulled out a Benadryl to help. However, I was so overcome with fatigue that I felt drugged, and passed out by 11:00 with it still clutched in my hand.

distance:       44.4 miles
elevation gain:       1886.9 feet
moving time:      4:10:42
total time:      5:58:22
max speed:        38 mph
calories:       2249 calories
average heart rate: 97 bpm
max heart rate:   131 bpm

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Today's ride: 44 miles (71 km)
Total: 361 miles (581 km)

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