Enter At Your Own Risk

Do you know how the sports commentators are always talking about so-and-so player that can’t quite put together a complete game. They pitch a few good innings and then they go to hell and let up a three-run homer. Or the quarterback that looks brilliant for the first half but then throws four interceptions in the second half. 

That’s kind of how Iowa is. 

The day started pretty fantastic. We were planning to make a big (for us) push to Mt. Pleasant – about 72 miles or so. The wind was supposed to come up mid-day so we woke up early, and were on the road by 7:30. 

We started with some four miles of gravel road – but even though it was hilly it wasn’t so bad because we were fresh and it was still cool. Also, this particular area of Iowa actually had some trees. And after hundreds of miles of corn and soybean fields, trees are pretty darn nice.

Just as we completed the gravel we ran into another biker (that makes, I think, three bikers in Iowa – if you count the two we saw on e-bikes 223 miles ago . . .). Super nice guy. Told us to follow this newly constructed bike path. Pretty. Wooded. Not longer (which was important because we opted to skip real breakfast in order to start early). 

At this point, if you’re playing fantasy football you’re pretty happy you chose Iowa as your starting quarterback. The state has thrown for a few touchdowns and looks unstoppable. (I have never actually played fantasy football, but then I’ve never really played real football either – but somehow guys just know the rules of these games. Is this an evolutionary thing? Have we just evolved to know these things by instinct?)

Anyway, it gets even better for the corn state. We are having a great ride and seem to fly to Iowa City. I didn’t even realize that this is where the University of Iowa is. 

We arrive just as what seems like every student at the University is making their way to their first classes of the day. We see more people in five minutes of biking through campus than we’ve probably seen in four days of biking hundreds of miles through the state. 

Can I just say that I love the energy of college campuses? Even though it is Iowa – and we are clearly against the Hawkeyes – it seemed like a pretty fun campus. 

We try to go to Dunkin’ – but the line is so long we eventually give up and wind up in Bruegger’s. With my sausage-egg-and-cheese sandwich it’s a win-win. (Bummer to miss the famous French crullers that I love – but life goes on . . .).

And then we hit the road again – because while we got an early start and we have made good progress, we still have 50 or so miles left to go.

Again, Iowa performs. There is a big interstate-y thing heading toward Mt. Pleasant, but we find a beautiful – and empty – asphalt road that parallels the interstate-y thing – and the miles seem to fly by. 

At this point Iowa has thrown multiple touchdown passes and it seems obvious that you will win your fantasy football game. 

But then Google Maps gives us a choice: take the interstate-y thing or head out on an unknown road and hope for the best. We look at the interstate. Not good. There is a two-foot wide shoulder. That’s good. At least there’s something. Better than the Trans-Canadian Highway that we survived last year . . . But, unfortunately, 18 inches of that two-foot shoulder are occupied by a rumble strip – leaving about six inches to ride on. 

Now, my mountain biking friends will tell me that you can ride a six inch wide skinny forever. My lived experience is somewhat different. It includes an epic crash in the U.P. – where I tried riding a skinny only to realize I was not on course, causing me to brake hard, go over my handlebars into a rocky ravine, and then have my own bike smash into my ankle. The tendon in there is still tender, six years later . . . So I’m not planning to try this 75 MPH skinny on my 60 pound beast of burden . . .

The other option turned out to be the gravel road from Hell. Since when is it okay to call it a gravel road when you use apple-sized rocks as your gravel? 

After four miles of that we were done with ”gravel.” We arrived in the little town of Ainsworth (a better name might have been Ain’tWorth(It)). We were beat down. Tired. Battered. Bruised. Dusty. And hungry for lunch. 

Just as we emerged onto the dusty crossroads, a biker was approaching. Interesting fellow. About 280 pounds. Completely naked except for a small pair of shorts and flip-flops. No helmet. Obviously no helmet. Riding a big fat tire e-bike. 

But whatever. He was a biker. Do you know how often you see bikers who might be able to help you identify which way to go in the middle of Iowa? Basically never . . .

So I hail the guy over. He looks us over suspiciously. 

“We’re trying to get to Mt. Pleasant. Do you know the best way to get there on asphalt?”

Not for the first time in Iowa, naked fat tire guy looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” 

I recognize that this sounds like a canned line from Gunsmoke or some John Wayne movie (apropos because Mr. Wayne was from Iowa . . .). But that’s actually what the guy said . . .

The guy then explains that “there are no asphalt roads other than the interstate” that go to Mt. Pleasant.

I tell him that maybe we’ll have to take the interstate.

His look: “Did your mom drop you on your head as a small child?”

What he actually says: “Can I get your names so that I can collect the insurance money after you’re dead . . .”

Taking a different tact, I ask if there’s a Casey’s down by the main highway – the interstate-y thing. 

Again the are-you-a-complete-moron look.

And then he explains that the truck stop has been called the Four Corner Store for at least the past 25 years. The clear implication is that anyone who doesn’t know that is, indeed, a complete moron . . .

I take off toward the Four Corner Store because I’m hungry and this guy doesn’t seem to be very helpful. 

Diana is still packing her things, and I guess he says to her: “I’m sorry the roads are so bad for you Honey. We’re living in the poorest part of Iowa . . .”

(I might have stuck around if I had known naked e-fat bike guy was going to try to pick up my wife . . .)

So at this point your enthusiasm for Iowa as your fantasy football starting quarterback is starting to wane. He’s thrown an interception, and now he’s apparently running backwards and in jeopardy of getting a safety. 

Diana and I confer over lunch at the Four Corners Store. Choices: gravel; interstate; or, as I suggest, we find a trucker to take us to Mt. Pleasant. We end up with a great hybrid: gravel with occasional jaunts onto the interstate thrown in for good measure. 

I do have to point out that on the sections that we were thrown onto the interstate the shoulder had been widened to about four feet in width – meaning about 2.5 feet of biking pleasure – and with a rumble strip between us and the 80,000 pound missiles barreling down the road . . .

The gravel? Will the really great part about it was that it came at the end of a long, hot day. And it seemed to go on forever. Mind you – this is not picturesque Wisconsin or U.P. gravel, with lakes and ponds, and trees and bears and deer frolicking. In fact, there was no frolicking at all. Just aged corn rustling in the wind . . .

Oh, and I shouldn’t forget the best part: when the gravel road actually became worse. That is, when we encountered the sign that said gravel road ends, buttressed by the next sign: “Caution Minimum Maintenance Road Level B Service Enter at Your Own Risk.”

What exactly is Level B Service? Because, to be honest, I haven’t seen any Level A Service on these gravel roads. In fact, we’d be pretty happy with Level D or F service. 

Fortunately, these minimum-maintenance-enter-at-your-own-risk sections were actually better. At least the dirt didn’t have baseball-sized “gravel” to greet us. 

There was one saving grace though. We went through the town of Swedesburg – population 60 – along the way. And Swedesburg had The Swedish-American Museum. We stopped in and learned . . .well, honestly, we didn’t learn very much. But we did stop. And they did have Dala horses. 

And I shouldn’t be so sarcastic. Because we actually did learn that we might be millionaires. Because we found out that Dala horses are worth a lot of money. I mean, even the tiny ones that you might get for winning the MoraLoppet when you are three are worth $35. 

We have a whole collection of Dala horses from our various age class victories in the Vasaloppet over the years. I’m thinking of taking a loan out against them in order to finance an extra year of our trip . . .

But, after all that, we actually made it to Mt. Pleasant (though there is no mountain, or anything even resembling a hill, to be seen). 

Tomorrow should be our last day in Iowa. 

Even if Iowa throws a couple more touchdowns tomorrow, the die is already cast. Iowa fumbled away any chance at redemption today. There are some good parts – but the gravel and the lack of apples. There just isn’t any making up for that . . .