A Tale of Two Hot Dogs

Diana and I take an annual anniversary trip around this time of year – usually on the North Shore or to Bayfield, Wisconsin. This year’s trip: Duluth to Bayfield today and Bayfield to Hayward tomorrow. Then ride home with some friends who are already in Hayward. 

But that’s enough on the book report. “What I Did Last Summer,” by John Munger. Number of readers: two – me and my mom (I could “write” the phone book and my Mom would read it . . .). Yawn. 

More important . . . This year’s trip is a prelude to our Big Trip. That’s right. Starting this fall we’re taking a year or two to (loosely) bike around the world. 

But the Big Trip is in a few months. Today’s topic: our ride today. As usual, Diana is in much better shape than I am. That didn’t seem to matter for a long time today. That’s because – thanks to Diana’s extensive meteorological experience – we – or let’s be real, Diana –  had planned the trip well, and, accordingly, we had the wind at our back pretty much all the way. 

But, alas, eventually even the wind could not make up for my lack of training. We – or rather, I – went from leading the Peloton at the Tour de France, to the whiny seven year-old all parents know all too well: “When is the ride over? Do we have to keep going? I have to go potty . . .”

The thing is, desperate times call for desperate measures . . . How do you define desperate measures, you ask. I mean, is getting a coke desperate? Of course not (although not exactly endorsed by Dr. Liu . . .) How about eating some fritos? Not even close. Even Diana might eat an occasional chip.

I’ll tell you about desperation. Desperation is eating one of those rotary hot dogs that have been on the rotary for something like seven years – because NO ONE actually orders rotary hot dogs. 

But things had become so desperate when we pulled into the booming metropolis of Herbster that I was left with no choice. The only thing on the menu at Elsie Blue General Store & Timberr Bar in Herbster: a rotary hot dog. The teenager at the counter handed the ancient relic to me – like the fossilized remains of an old man’s appendage wrapped in a dry bun – and told me the “condiments” were at the end of the counter. 

Condiments? Two mayonnaise packets and three mustard packets. For some reason I don’t do mayo on hot dogs. And what is with these mustard packets? Each packet has about a milligram of mustard – enough to season one sesame seed – if you can squeeze it out without getting it all over your clothes. (Not that I’ve ever done that – but you get the idea . . .)

But the thing is . . . Just because you’re desperate doesn’t mean your desperate measure is going to help. And, indeed, the fossilized thing Elsie Blue calls a hot dog was really of no use whatsoever. I mean, I think I was probably in worse shape after the hot dog – what with the lump of un-digestible seven year old mystery meat weighing me down. 

Fortunately, I also ordered a little throwaway item . . . One of those 99 cent 72 liter cans of Arizona Arnie Palmer: half lemonade, half ice tea. Okay. What do they put in those cans? It must be some type of voodoo. Drink one can and – wa la – I’m back to leading the Tour! They should put Dr. Arizona in charge of the Manhattan Project for Climate Change. She would solve it for sure . . .

The other big event of the day? A moment of serious danger. For a moment I thought Diana’s end might be near. I’m biking along up this gravel road, past one of those compounds back in the woods. You know the ones. With like three or four old RVs sitting around. Two of them have tarps over the top. Another has an actual stove pipe sticking out a hole someone has sawzalled into the side of the vehicle. There’s probably a TRUMP sign or two. Not exactly a scene that puts your mind at ease – what with being 23 miles from civilization, no cell phone service, and buzzards circling . . .

So it was with this state of mind that I heard the growl and bark for the first time. I didn’t yet see the vicious beast. Nonetheless, I increased my pace so as to clear the area before CUJO could eat me for lunch. But – oh no – Diana was behind me. What to do? I couldn’t leave my bride in danger . . . With an excess of courage I slowed my pace so as to yell back to Diana: “Be careful Hon.” 

It was at this point that I first observed the attack dog the people in the meth lab compound had trained to protect their secret hideout. And the thing is – my first hot dog was scarier – and probably bigger – than this waddling wiener of a dog . . .

This is where we become interactive. Who knows the movie where tiny little creatures that look super harmless turn out to be vicious demons from hell? First one with the right answer gets a prize – like maybe a free Arnie Palmer or something . . . (Reality is, I know I saw such a movie but for the life of me I can’t remember what movie it was – but I don’t want Diana to think I can’t remember it because she already thinks I can’t remember anything. Which is absolutely not true. I remember lots of things . . . But the point is, don’t tell Diana, just let me know . . . It will be our little secret . . .)

One other footnote. You know those Adopt-a-highway signs. There was one we saw that was just a little confusing. “Adopt-a-highway: This section adopted by Gourmet Dipkits – by Matt.” I mean, obviously if Matt made the dipkits they were gourmet. So was it really necessary to say “gourmet”? But the real puzzle – and here we have even more room for reader participation – what are dipkits? 

Bottom line. We made it to Bayfield – beautiful ride filled with lupine (our anniversary flower) – and were even welcomed into town by Fantastic Mr. Fox (who, unlike CUJO, the waddling frankfurter) was a bit camera shy and scurried off when we took our phones out). Thanks to my courageous act, Diana survived the attack dog. We’re still on track to leave this fall. And you can keep up with our adventures by subscribing to this blog. You’ll get an email whenever we post an update.