August 24, 2024
Day 1 - Dyersville to Dubuque (Iowa)
Trip Number Three? you ask... Whatever happened to Numbers One and Two? If your first thought is Mark's difficulty with those pesky numbers that are larger than two, you'd have a decent chance of being right... but not in this case.
It's because I didn't realize that this could be a journal until the third trip. The first two didn't include many pictures and no handwritten journal and, although I'll write them up, I'm afraid they're going to be a bit dry. Think desiccated.
Travels with Carl began as a simple overnight trip with a friend. My original plan was to lure my good friend Carl into an overnight bicycle camping trip so he'd realize exactly how much fun touring can be. I consider myself an Ambassador of Bicycle Touring, as most of us are. You know, "Anyone can do it! Look at me! I'm an old man and I can, so you can too!"
Sometimes it's a hard sell. "Yeah, um, okay... so, what does an overnight bike trip consist of .... exactly?"
"Oh, you'll love it!" I assure them.
I nod. I smile.
When they don't say anything and just stare back at me like a carp, unblinking and waiting for an answer, I say, "Well, you put a few things in a bag, then put the bag on your bike and take off." I smile.
"How much? Oh, I dunno.... about tworty or threighty pounds."
"Hills? Nah. There aren't any. There are no hills. Anywhere. In the world." I nod. I smile. Very vigorously.
After a few more completely unnecessary (in my opinion) questions, I get a response which goes something like this: "So, what I hear you saying, Mark, is that I put the equivalent weight of a dead corpse into a couple of bags, then climb onto that seat which is hard and slender enough to slice through a 20-year-old aged cheddar. Then I ride 30-40 miles in the heat, or the cold. My reward at the end of the trip is to set up my own tent while I try to avoid bug bites, then cook my own meal and sleep on the ground."
I nod, a vigorous nod that says "Of COURSE! Doesn't that sound fantastic!?!?!"
Like I said, it's a hard sell.
Carl: "So, what you're saying is that I load up my bike with a bunch of camping stuff, ride 30-40 miles, then camp?" A smile lit up his face. "That sounds fantastic!" And so it began.
I really wasn't expecting him to take a second trip with me, much less a third, and yet here we are, with me writing about it and you reading about it.
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So, off we go, driving down the backroads of Iowa to get to the start of our ride. One of the many interesting things about Carl is his atlas. It's an interesting... hobby? Is that the right word? For every state he's lived in, he purchased a Rand McNally Road Atlas and highlights in yellow every road he's been on. When traveling from one place to another that means he's always taking a different route. Johnson County is completely filled in and he's working on surrounding counties as well. He'll go a little out of his way, but the rule is "It has to be an 'acceptable' increase in the trip's time." If the trip is six hours, then an additional thirty minutes is acceptable. If it's one hour, then it isn't. Of course, he isn't going to impose extra time on anyone unless they're interested in taking the alternate route.
Unsurprisingly, it's resulted in him seeing some very interesting and beautiful out-of-the-way places, and things he wouldn't have otherwise experienced. To me, that already makes him sound like a good candidate for a bicycle tourist.
When we stopped in Monticello for gas, we were surrounded by dozens of 4x4s and side-by-sides.
Engines revving, they swarmed all around us like angry wasps, stopping at the convenience store for beer, candy, beer, beef jerky, beer, pop, and some beer.
To a person, they were dressed in red, white, and blue everything... bandanas, shorts, dresses, socks. We were looking at a kaleidoscope of American color. The men had sleeveless shirts, sunburns, heavy beards, tattoos, and straining beltlines. A couple of the vehicles had Trump flags.
We were curious about what the event was but Carl, usually the extrovert and ready to talk to anyone, balanced his curiosity against his fear of getting shot, and decided he just didn't want to know that badly. He was, after all, wearing bike shorts, and what kind of godless American would be wearing something like that in public.
I, on the other hand, am an Observer. The Ultimate Introvert, I prefer to remain socially invisible. So, I was surprised when I found myself ambling over to the nearest group of buggies. I selected a friendly-looking middle-aged brunette in the open back seat of one of the 4x4s and asked "Am I missing a convention or something?" She answered with a cheery, "It's the Jones County Pork Association's meeting."
Huh. Didn't see that coming. I was expecting something more along the lines of "NRA Rally," or "Keystone Lite Beer Lovers Convention," or "Pork Slayers Meet-Up." Maybe "Brothers of the Big Belt Buckle." The Jones County Pork Association just wasn't on my list.
"Can you guess what the theme is?" she added. Here, I paused. This was a tricky one, because it was apparent that the answer was supposed to be obvious. And yet, I didn't want to say any of the aforementioned guesses for fear of, you know, getting shot.
I needed an answer. And quickly. I watched as a man got out of his vehicle to carry 25-30 empty beer cans to the garbage bin. Beer Convention? No, surely not. I gazed at the sea of red, white, and blue, but nothing came to mind. "Uhmm.... pork?" I ventured.
Her smile drooped incrementally, barely noticeable, as it changed from friendly to sympathetic, as if I were a kitten with a broken leg, or an adult who had difficulty with those pesky numbers greater than two.
"Noooooooo....." she purred. "Americana." The conversation died as suddenly as Elvis' last trip to the toilet, and they drove away.
Upon reaching Dyersville we debated about whether to start riding immediately or eat first. Because it had been more than twenty minutes since we had ingested any calories, and because there was a brewery in town, we opted to stop. Sure, it was getting hotter by the minute, but .... Food. Beer. I got a pizza and a shandy, always good on a hot day, even if you're sitting inside a fully air conditioned building. Carl got a flight of their beer and some mac and cheese.
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For those of you who noticed my cycling jersey... no, I don't own a bike shop. Bingham Cyclery has several locations in Utah, one of which is close to where my wife grew up, and we bought this when we went to visit her family.
The trailhead was remote(ish) for leaving a car overnight so we backtracked half a mile to a parking lot and, after getting everything loaded onto the bikes, finally started riding a few minutes after 1:30. At first the canopied trail felt cool, and we were protected from the side/headwind from all the trees. Occasionally, we passed through large cuts in the rock.
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The day got warmer, then warmer still, and at one point we passed what we hoped was a place to get a drink, a building with a patio in the back surrounded by lush greenery. There were so many happy people having a good time that I thought they might be filming a Viagra commercial, or maybe a chemotherapy advertisement. Or, considering the building was on Gun Club Road, perhaps they were just happy to be able to protect their homes with an AK-47 and a thousand rounds of ammunition.
However, when we approached, we saw the front was festooned with balloons and a "Happy Birthday!" sign, a residence having a private party.
In the back, someone had placed a giant plastic sheet on the hillside behind the house, and the accompanying water hose turned it into a 200-foot water slide. We gazed at the kids screaming with laughter as they played on it, the sweat dripping off our noses.
I considered crashing it, just walking around the back and saying something like, "Oh my god, I haven't seen you in forever. What are you up to these days?" but I think the cycling shorts might've made it difficult. Plus, there's the introvert thing.
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In Durango, we stopped at The Depot, which was right alongside the path, for something cold. After paying for our drinks we walked back outside and found a quiet spot under the cooling fan, but it was only quiet for about two minutes before a couple of 10-year-olds came over and started playing right next to our table. It was shocking how loud they were. They were just being kids, but, wow, the noise rattled my teeth. Thirty seconds later, a couple of women sat at the table on the other side of us and, judging by the smell, started smoking what had to be a combination of human hair and skin, with a soupçon of cat urine in the mix. Since we were under the fan, it sucked all their smoke and blew it right onto us. The women were trying to have a conversation, but the kids were so loud they had to screech at each other to be heard. Both parties left at almost the exact same time, but not until Carl and I had downed our drinks. They seemed to waiting for us to finish so they could leave, as if they were the Loiter Patrol.
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Once in Dubuque, we started looking for a somewhere to eat. Carl found a couple of places online that looked promising so we pedaled over to the nearest one, 7 Hills Brewery. However, the place had very few windows, none of which were near where we could store our bikes, so we just didn't feel comfortable leaving them there, even locked up. Plus, the bikes were loaded with panniers so if we couldn't see them we'd have to lug everything inside. After walking around the entire building, we decided to try the second one, Dubuque Star Brewery.
As we pedaled through the streets of Dubuque the neighborhoods were slowly replaced with industry. A welding company. Bail bonds. Metal fabrication. We kept getting closer and closer to the river with no brewery in sight, just a large, vacant parking lot with giant trees on the right side and more industry on the left. At the end of the lot we took a right into a short tunnel, and when it opened up there were scores of people sitting on a lawn waiting for a band to start. What a surprise!
Unfortunately, there was also a ten-foot tall fence between us and all the fun. As we were standing there trying to figure out what the event was, a young couple pushing a baby stroller approached us and the mother asked if there was an entrance on this side. We let her know that we just rode up, and didn't even know what the event was. "It's the Irish Hooey," she said, or something like that, then gave us some background. For the past couple of decades or so, Dubuque has had a music festival with Irish bands. Although last year none of them were actually Irish, this year had a really good line-up, including The High Kings from Dublin and Ballyheigue from, well, Ballyheigue.
I was wondering if Carl and I might be able to somehow park outside the fence and listen for a few minutes when the woman moved the fence aside (I didn't even realize it was moveable) and walked over to the stocky sheriff. She held up a couple of tickets and said, "We have our tickets but don't know where to go in."
With his thumbs hooked into his bulletproof vest, he barely hesitated as he told her to go in.
"Do you need to take my tickets?"
"If it'll make you feel better, sure," he responded with just the smallest glint of a smile in his eyes that didn't reach his mouth.
At that point, she turned around to face Carl and me, and with a barely perceptible movement of her head motioned for us to follow her. We didn't even look at each other, we just rolled our loaded bikes forward through the opening as if we wanted to give him our tickets but would have had to take our hands off the handlebars to get to them, and that would be oh so inconvenient. I made it a point of saying something banal to her as we walked past him, something that sounded like I was just a guy from work. It was so not memorable that even I can't remember what it was. Really, though, rolling a couple of loaded touring bikes in alongside a couple pushing a baby stroller, I don't think we were very convincing. Fortunately for us, I also think he really didn't care. He was there for The Big Stuff.
We split up immediately after entering, but not before I secretly mouthed "Thank you" to her, then continued rolling our bikes up to the far back left corner, away from most of the crowd, and settled in.
Once there, first things first: we pulled out our lawn chairs. Carl even brought a table, because: why not? The table has a history, but you're going to have to wait until you read about it in Trip #2.
We learned that the concert lasted until 10:45 or 11:00, well after dark, and debated about how long we wanted to stay. Our campground was thirty minutes away, and if we left too late we'd be riding in the dark.
A decision for later. For now, it's time for a drink and some food.
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1 day ago
1 day ago
The food was overpriced, as was to be expected, but really good, and we thoroughly enjoyed our evening. There will be no food pictures in this journal. Probably.
We found the couple with the baby stroller and gave them a couple of drink tickets to show our gratitude.
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As you can see, we ended up staying after dark, and it was well worth it. Once the concert was over, about 10:15, we started looking for a place to camp in Dubuque, but apparently there are no campsites in town. We talked to the sheriff who, unsurprisingly, turned out to be super nice. He let us know that the only campground in town is private, and also closed. Just to make sure he called one of the other sheriffs who was patrolling and he drove over there to double check.
He also told us that while he doesn't care, the local city police could very well give Carl a ticket for not having a taillight. His rear light was there at the start of the trip, but disappeared at some point. Since he had an extra headlight, he just attached it to the seatpost, then confiscated a red flag and taped it to the light.
I found a couple of options in town where we could hide our tents:
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Ultimately, since it was mostly trail, we just decided to ride back to the campsite. We made it without any mishaps and upon arriving noticed there were a number of RVs and one other tent camper. We didn't see any until we got to camp, but the mosquitoes were making a concerted effort to grab a free midnight snack. On us. We set up camp as quickly and quietly as we could, then climbed into our tents for the night. Because of the heat, the large, biodegradable wipes I used for cleaning didn't help much, mainly because I never stopped sweating. It took a long time to cool down, but even so it was nice being on a camping bike trip for the first time since last year.
Today's ride: 37 miles (60 km)
Total: 37 miles (60 km)
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Thanks for showing me what I missed on my failed attempt to ride the Heritage Trail this summer. I had a feeling there would be a lot of viewblockers.
A music festival is a great way to end a day of cycling. You were most fortunate.
7 hours ago