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Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Devil's Lake, ND

Last summer, I rode a bicycle from Chicago, IL to Devil's Lake, ND. Since I've never written about the adventure, and since it was a long December as far as temperatures went, I thought January might be a good time to talk about summer 2008. January is Bike Month at the Drawing Board.

The howling wind woke us earlier than we would have wanted, but there we were. We had to dismantle the tent immediately, as the thing would have blown to Canada without our combined body weight to hold it down.

We snacked on the remainder of our food, hoping desperately to find a town large enough to restock our virtually depleted supply. Devil's Lake loomed just about 80 miles away, a long ride considering the whipping wind, and Paul's further diminished health. If any day of our trip was going to kill us, it was this one.

We rolled out looking for food, and as Paul announced, a doctor. Our first sign of civilization was a town called Petersburg, which was disturbingly empty. Everything was closed down, shut down, and boarded up. A man gave us a heads-up on a doctor, miles away in a town caled Michigan.

We rode out again as we had so many times before, rolling west. The wind ravaged our bodies and bikes and made everything very difficult. Bridges posed a very real risk - we were literally in danger of being blown off of any one of them.

A man pulled off in a truck, delivering a warning. Storms and tornadoes were ahead; also chasing us from behind. We had an hour, maybe two, to get ourselves safe; and at the rate we were moving, Devil's Lake was another nine hours away. This was North Dakota.

We found Michigan and rolled into a town that was little more than a strip with a few buildings on it. One of these was a doctor's office. It had to be our first stop.

The place turned us away, saying they didn't have the technology to diagnose a sick person. This was not the best kind of news, but left us wondering what sorts of technology they had to treat a sick person could they have identified them.

Continuing to Devil's Lake at this rate was foolhardy; setting up camp in the tornadoes along the way would have been even moreso. I'm not sure how we got to this point, but hitch hiking quickly became our best option. We tooled over for a gas station breakfast and hoped for the best.

Jim was the kind of nice guy who liked to curse at cyclists who'd managed to get themselves into a mess like this. His advice: Get well and get the hell out of North Dakota. After a few more well-meaning barbs, we wound up at an emergency room in Devil's Lake, ND.

The doctor spent several hours with Paul, while I spent several hours with All My Children. The people at the hospital were extraordinarily kind, lending whatever aid they could. Eventually the diagnosis was extreme dehydration - Paul was in worse shape than either of us imagined. The doctor advised us to halt our journey as immediately as was possible. The hospital shuttled us over to a hotel in a van, just as soon as Paul had taken his sixth bag of IV fluid.

Paul decided that Chinese food sounded good. The check-in attendant at the hotel loaned us her car - another bit of unexpected kindness - so that we could get into town. The Chinese buffet was just about what you'd expect from a Chinese buffet in a town like this. It was gross, and it wasn't quite what the doctor would have ordered for my sick compatriot.

Our bike trip ended there as much of it had already been. We laid in a foreign bed and watched our nation lead the charge in another medal round in a place around the globe.

Within 36 hours I was home in South Bend; strangely tanned, oddly lean, and somehow different than I'd been before. My life became a new thing and an old thing altogether; soon enough I'd find employment and engagement and all of those other things.

Then, within a day or two, it was as if it hadn't happened. Only the memories and pictures, and even now; a few lingering tan lines remain.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Niagara, ND

Getting out of Grand Forks was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. Here was a large, sprawling city with beautiful greenways, theaters, hospitals, a university. Then we rode west for twenty minutes and it was all gone as if it had never existed. I've never experienced such a sharp line between the decivilization that was the townless parts of North Dakota - which was most of it.

We rode for a few hours before stopping for a quick lunch at an air force base somewhere in North Dakota. Suffice it to say, we didn't exactly fit with the regular clientele.

And so we rolled out again. North Dakota is the kind of state where you can celebrate individual trees. In Indiana, uncivilized land is farmed or forested or claimed - truthfully, none of it is reallt uncivilized. But in North Dakota, the roads cut through a kind of landscape that's remained untouched since Native Americans passed through a few hundred years ago.

It's in this context that the trees stand alone, fighting a losing battle against a furious wind.

And it's the same way that we rode west on US-2; alone in North Dakota, fighting a wind that was battering us violently from the south. I suppose we were cutoff from most of the news of the world, but I had heard something about a hurricane in Florida. I dismissed it, thinking that such a thing would hardly affect me while I was in a state like North Dakota.

I received news the day before that windy weather was ahead; a result of the hurricane. To quote a local, "There ain't a single tree between here and Florida to block that wind."

Beyond belief, that toothless man was right. We rode with a crosswind from the left that was as vicious a thing as I've experienced. I worried about literally blowing off of every bridge we traversed. We rolled along at 11 to 12 miles an hour, stopping briefly at a rest stop so Paul could nap. Meanwhile, I commiserated with motorists who had to stop to take a break from the wind. This kind of riding was not fun.

After 40 miles of this kind of slow torture, we settled on finding the first town we could and rolled into the town of Niagara, North Dakota.

People in North Dakota use the word town pretty liberally, we learned. It was the first sign of development we'd seen all day, and the place didn't have a gas station, a store, a restaurant. It also featured no paved roads. It did have a post office, which offered little in the way of assistance at 6:00 in the evening.

We spent the next hour looking for someone in the town that could offer some advice; perhaps a sandwich. Woefully, we discovered only a few dogs who looked angry to see us. We wandered, hoping for something that might be called dinner.

A local pastor was the first person to spot us, probably because we were trying to break into to his church. He introduced himself, explained that no, there was no food for miles, and offered us a frozen pizza for dinner. It went down easier than it was returned.

We set up camp under brutal wind conditions and prepared for bed. A five-year-old boy arrived, announced that he was hiding from his grandmother and proceeded to remove his pants so that he could show off his Spiderman underwear.* I'd heard about this kind of stuff. Fearing a sting operation from Dateline, we ran from the kid as if he was a movie monster, and when we returned, he was gone.

I don't think either of us knew it would be our last night in that tent.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Grand Forks, ND

We'd been riding bikes through Minnesota for 12 days now, and pretty soon we'd be leaving it all behind. The people here had been beyond friendly, offering their food, their homes, their hot tubs, their beer, and their companionship.

Still, there was a sense that we'd been in Minnesota too long; we'd had enough of the mosquitoes and the accents didn't sound so weird anymore. In fact, I'd started to pick one up myself.

We continued from Erskine along Highway 2, unperturbed by the anti-Christ, and rolling into an increasing wind. Paul was recovering slowly, but recovering. We moved modestly into Crookston, Minnesota and stopped for a coffee break at a small bookstore. We were out of there almost as quickly as we had arrived. We made a pit stop at a gas station and we fell further and further into the de-civilized world.

Then, like a Jack-in-box, the town of Grand Forks appeared. The metropolitan area is shared between Minnesota and North Dakota; their border celebrated unceremoniously by a bridge over the Red River. We rolled through the beautiful city and into North Dakota where we did the thing we did best. We found a coffee shop.

Quickly, one of the baristas offered up her own apartment for our showers. The place was huge and fully furnished and was reminiscent of a loft you might find in the suburbs of New York. I was left with one impression - baristas in Grand Forks, ND make an absolute truckload of money.

Of course, it's possible that baristas were paid so well because the place was absolutely haunted by a small girl who spoke at roughly 430 words a minute. She played chess with Paul and gave him other orders too. Finally she explained the inner workings of the coffee shop, told us where she lived, and exegeted the annals of Roman history. It was an exhausting process that I observed from a safe and hilarious distance.

Later, we found a bike shop on the other side of town, ate dinner at a Perkins,* and did the thing we do where we try to talk someone in to inviting us to their home for the night. It never happened.

* Perkins? Perkins? Seriously? A Perkins?

Paul was still on the upswing and so we decided another good night might be for him what he needed. Another night in a crappy hotel was absolutely called for and that meant there was a zero percent chance we'd be on the road before 11:30 the next morning. Also, I would be eating a dozen bagels for breakfast.

Erskine, MN

I want you to know that I just spent 40 minutes on Google Maps trying to figure out which town we stayed in next. This was the part of the trip that really just started to run together; days in nowhere began to blend together like oatmeal that's been cooked with too much water.

And yes, all of this is an attempt to finish off bike month in less than 60 days.

Good gravy, what is there to say about Erskine? Not much that I can tell, so let's start about 60 miles away. We left Bemidji as late as our hotel would allow check out. I spilled coffee on my very favorite shirt, threw the thing away, and like that, I was out of casual clothes that didn't zip up.

We rode west along US 2, through farmlands and small town USA. Each town gave us an opportunity to stop for a minute to pick up a drink and each town offered roughly the same amenities. We'd become all-too accustomed to lounging in the gas station the way we would a Starbucks; this was amplified when the place featured a Subway.

Our breaks are the only thing I can remember. The roads were flat and easy and the winds hadn't picked up the way they would in a few days. Our last stop came in the town of Erskine, MN. We searched desperately for a little bit of help. The churches were locked up and the town was too quiet to provide any assistance. We ate dinner at one of those places that aspires to be a crappy diner but falls woefully short. That's where things start to get interesting.

We were approached by a woman who had noticed our unique matching jerseys. Bright orange, they were emblazoned with the words BIKERS FOR JESUS, a leftover gift from our friends back home. Anyway, she saw the things and wanted to talk to us.

She told us her life story - how she'd come here from California. She told us of her struggles and her victories over drugs. But most of all, she told us that the town of Erskine was infested with demons. She told us that the town of Erskine was the home of the anti-Christ. She told us the story of a local pornographer who claimed to be the devil incarnate. He could control minds through the television. In fact, he would probably be coming for us; that night. Her advice was to ride out and to ride fast.

But we were tired and brave so we thre up our tent and hung our jerseys like flags in the wind. The night passed without incident. The devil was scared.

Bemidji, MN

Bemidji, Minnesota is perhaps most notable for being the fictitious home of legendary axe-man Paul Bunyan. It's also the home of the United States Curling Team, and a lovely downtown area that sits on the tamer parts of the Mississippi River.

I have no idea how we got into Bemidji, although I can guess our ride in was just boring enough that I can't remember it even a little bit. I believe we went to Target for a little bit, but that might be a fabrication. At some point we probably went to a laundromat, but I can neither confirm nor deny that.

We ate pasta and lounged on the river and made our way to a coffeeshop. I ate a muffin and drank coffee and enjoyed the free internet they offered. It was one of the greatest coffeeshops I've enjoyed, and that was before the owner of the place offered us a bed for the evening. She had a camper in her backyard and it had a TV and showers and everything and we were welcome to use it.

We spent the afternoon in bookstores and at pubs and finally we made our way back to the home. Our host was more than hospitable and handed us over to the camper. We made beds and switched on the Olympics and got ready to take showers. Paul hopped in first while I did everything in my power to not touch anything with my more stinky parts.*

* Which was basically all of me.

Then, it was my turn. I got in and I soaped myself up real good and that's about when the water ran out. In one of my more desparate moments, I completed the rinsing process with a few bottles of refrigerated Aquafina. Still, I was soon dry and warm, so no harm; no foul.

More alarming was the fact that there was no water running into the toilet. This would become an issue later.

I slept as soundly as I had in weeks. The same could not be said for Paul. I woke up to find that he had spent the night with GI problems; the worst second-hand illness I'd ever experienced. The kind lady delivered an exquisite breakfast of coffee, oatmeal, and peaches; oblivious to the destruction that Paul had earlier wrought. I hope she never asks herself where that wastebasket wound up, and I hope even more that she never finds it.

We left the place with boisterous thank-yous and silent apologies. We wouldn't be leaving Bemidji today. It was time for a rest.

Blackduck, MN

Even before we'd gone to bed on Thursday, we knew that Friday was going to be a rough day. Our map showed very little between Ranier and Bemidji, a city that was more than a hundred miles away. We knew we'd have to roll through Big Falls all over again, a corner of uncivilization I'd be happy to never ever see again. So we dreaded Friday, and that was before I woke up with a case of the Backside Blues.*

* Diarrhea.

We packed up our tent and wandered down to a restaurant called Grandma's Pantry for breakfast. Some of the more profane locals called by a similar sounding and far less appetizing name.* We ate wild rice pancakes that could have deliciously substituted as a footprint for our tent. We drank coffee. This amplified my GI problems. Then we rolled out.

* You're going to have to figure that out on your own.

We rolled back through International Falls, said goodbye to Smokey the Bear, and quickly found ourselves, once again, somewhere between a pair of nowheres. Along the way, I discovered proof of a loving God in a bottle of Pepto, and I took a nap on a picnic table in hell. By that I mean, I slept for an hour in Big Falls, Minnesota. We ate a lunch of peanut butter crackers. It was the best we could do.

We rode for the next six hours at a non-stop clip, stopping only for a mid-afternoon gas station snack. We had decided we were ready to be done for the night, and so we asked the gas station attendant where we might find a meal and quit. She recommended the town of Blackduck. They served pizza from the bowling alley and we could probably camp there too. Trouble was, Blackduck was still 25 miles away, but not to worry; she told us it was all downhill.

The gas station lady was a liar. We rode up and up and up, fighting each stroke; although the scenery was improving drastically. We skirted rich farmland on a firm shoulder, and everyone was feeling better about the day. We arrived as scheduled in Blackduck; which is to say we never had a schedule and neither did Blackduck, apparently.

We tracked down the first pedestrian we could find and enjoyed the following exchange.

ME: Is there any good place to eat in Blackduck?

HER: There's a little place right over there. I ate lunch there today.

ME: Is it any good?

HER: Depends who's cooking.

ME: Who's cooking?

HER: Well, there's no where else to go.

And so a one-armed chef, who may or may not have been the preferable purveyor, made us fried chicken while an overwhelmed waitress continuously refilled our shot glasses that were filled with water.

We moved from there to a bar, where we hoped to watch the Olympics. Instead, we were treated to a mediocre beer and a jukebox that was stuck on repeat, and of course, it was stuck on Discovery Channel* by the Bloodhound Gang. After the fifth iteration of the tune, we'd decided to vacate the place.

* "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals..."

That's when the bartender approached us carrying a cordless phone.

HIM: Phone call for you.

US: That seems unlikely.

HIM: Nope, it's for you.

US: That's actually impossible.

HIM: Are you the guys riding bikes from Canada to New Mexico?

US: Lucky guess.

Our interest was piqued and so Paul took the phone. Some dudes were camped out a softball diamond and wanted us to bring them beer. Even now it doesn't make much sense. Instead, we snuck into a mosquito-infested campground and left early the next morning without paying the required fee. In our defense, we weren't caught.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Ranier, MN

I am not nearly writer enough to describe the way our morning in Big Falls went. After just about two weeks of consistent riding, our muscles were taut and stiff like an old rubber band. We'd slept directly on top of the concrete while overnight temperatures dipped again into the 40s. Standing up again became less an action; more a process.

This was the part of the day when we stretched, dressed ourselves, stretched again, brushed teeth, and finally stretched before hauling into town for breakfast. I ate an omelette. Paul ate a cinnamon bun that was roughly the size of our tent.

We were kind of in a rough place in deciding our route for the day. We were 40 miles from International Falls*, which was supposed to function only as a turnaround point. Like a schoolyard race, we just had to touch Canada and come back. Trouble was, we'd have to come back through Big Falls. If we just rode to I-Falls and returned, we'd hit Big Falls at just about mile 80; we'd be done for the day, and we'd be stuck in this awful place for another night.

* It's worth mentioning that there were no falls here either. Minnesota is kind of a big liar when it comes to naming its settlements.

We rode north along low-travelled roads, intending not to stop until we hit civilization again, a thing that we'd missed far more than expected for the past 48 hours. There was a gas station that lived in a log cabin and a right turn and a few more cars and then there was a K-Mart. I'd never expected I would appreciate the glory of a K-Mart, but there I was. There were gas stations and trashy salons and Chinese buffets run by Mexican immigrants. After the previous night, it was like heaven.

We meandered into town and found a coffeeshop for lunch. We ate sandwiches and sipped coffee and agreed to spend the rest of our day doing very little. It was the prettiest day we'd seen all week. We fixed a flat tire and visited a bike shop. We spent a few hours at the library. We didn't nearly find ourselves a place to stay.

And so at about four-in-the-afternoon, we left. We weren't sure where we were going; still we left.

We rode east a few miles; north just a little bit too. After waiting on the longest train I'd ever seen, we stumbled into the tiny town of Ranier, Minnesota; four or five square blocks completely overwhelmed with people. There was music and there were tents and we must have looked like tourists because we were immediately greeted by a lady named Tara, who ran the town's bed-and-breakfast. She offered up her free showers and plenty of snacks.

As fate would have it, we arrived on the eve of the town's bicentennial celebration. They were celebrating with music from a Johnny Cash tribute artist, and a big party featuring free food. This is where we would spend our time tonight.

Tara offered up her yard for our tent, so we made camp and took tour of the town. We watched the sunset over Canada, I believe Paul got himself into a paddleboat, and we ate ice cream on a bench. Then we watched the Olympics at Woody's Pub before stumbling back into the tent for another night.