guilt farm
So riding with my Dad across Minnesota was EXACTLY how I had pictured it. Quiet, well-maintained roads roll past quiet farms, everyone we meet is friendly, solicitous, and pretty much bowled over by what my dad is doing. The landscape is green, brown, blue and white. Dogs occasionally burst ourt from under porches and follow us barking madly. Lucky for us 95% of the dogs we see are morbidly obese and no match for our fleet-footed panicked pedaling. But let's start from the beginning.
Flew into the Twin Cities and stayed for a few nights with the daughter of a family friend. She has a very cute red-headed 8-year-old son Noah, whose room I stay in. I love the way mother and son are together: it feels very mutually respectful but also fun and loving. Also, their house kicks serious Art Deco ass and I kill a good few hours wandering around redecorating it in my mind.
My dad looks great: very lean and tan and relaxed. Being the quietly awesome person he is, he decides to start us out with a few 30-mile days to ease my untrained ass into the saddle. According to the detailed maps from Adventure Cycling, there are no camping facilities NW of the Cities within 60 miles, so we agree to head east over the St. Croix river back into Wisconsin before settling into our northwesterly route.
Packing up the bikes is pretty fun. My dad has a handlebar bag and a BOB trailer, very sleek and modern and holding an incredible amout of stuff. I kick it old school with two 12-year old rear panniers and bungee my tent, sleeping bag and raingear on top. Last time I did this was in 1991 when I took a 3-week 500 mile trip around Canada's Maritime Provinces, returning bone skinny and promptly installing an ice cream IV in my arm for the rest of the summer. I harbor secret fantasies about the exact same thing happening 14 years later.
Our first day we follow bike lanes through downtown St. Paul and hook up with the bike trail that runs east of the city. Breezing past 20 or so bikers on the path feels wickedly good, I don't care how portly and elderly and upright they and their handlebars are. About 20 miles in we cross the St. Croix and hit the first real hill of the trip, a relatively short but achingly steep climb that reduces me to a pile of granny gears soaked in lactic acid. 80% sinew and powered entirely by chocolate ice cream, my dad sails up it and waits for me at the next intersection. The next 8 miles are lovely, rolling hills, no cars- pretty much a dream ride. I insist we stop at a cheese factory where we stock up on curds and cheddar and other stuff that was salty and delicious. Let the guilt-free consumption of fat begin!
The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. We found a nice campground with showers and laundry, talked to wives and boyfriends and ate Fritos and baloney for dinner (sorry, Mom!) because it was too windy for the stove (note foreshadowing). Sacked out around 10 p.m., only to wake up 2 hours later to a howling rainstorm. Let this be the place where I sing the praises of my tent, the Kelty Baja 3. While barely big enough for me and my gear, it remained staked down and BONE DRY during a storm that bowed in the walls so much I had to stick my head outside to keep from suffocating in canvas. I imagined tumbling over and over into a ravine or onto the nearby highway, but for some reason was not scared out of my wits, probably since my brain cells were awash in a Frito-y glow and thus incapable of rational thought. Afterwards we walked around the pitch black campground while sheet lightening played in the clouds, and I thought about how much I was going to enjoy telling everyone about this adventure, for once not needing to exaggerate the drama.
Coming up...
Days 2-10: Cute kittens! Lost mittens! Taint on fire! And the do's and don'ts of brushing your teeth in a bar bathroom.
Flew into the Twin Cities and stayed for a few nights with the daughter of a family friend. She has a very cute red-headed 8-year-old son Noah, whose room I stay in. I love the way mother and son are together: it feels very mutually respectful but also fun and loving. Also, their house kicks serious Art Deco ass and I kill a good few hours wandering around redecorating it in my mind.
My dad looks great: very lean and tan and relaxed. Being the quietly awesome person he is, he decides to start us out with a few 30-mile days to ease my untrained ass into the saddle. According to the detailed maps from Adventure Cycling, there are no camping facilities NW of the Cities within 60 miles, so we agree to head east over the St. Croix river back into Wisconsin before settling into our northwesterly route.
Packing up the bikes is pretty fun. My dad has a handlebar bag and a BOB trailer, very sleek and modern and holding an incredible amout of stuff. I kick it old school with two 12-year old rear panniers and bungee my tent, sleeping bag and raingear on top. Last time I did this was in 1991 when I took a 3-week 500 mile trip around Canada's Maritime Provinces, returning bone skinny and promptly installing an ice cream IV in my arm for the rest of the summer. I harbor secret fantasies about the exact same thing happening 14 years later.
Our first day we follow bike lanes through downtown St. Paul and hook up with the bike trail that runs east of the city. Breezing past 20 or so bikers on the path feels wickedly good, I don't care how portly and elderly and upright they and their handlebars are. About 20 miles in we cross the St. Croix and hit the first real hill of the trip, a relatively short but achingly steep climb that reduces me to a pile of granny gears soaked in lactic acid. 80% sinew and powered entirely by chocolate ice cream, my dad sails up it and waits for me at the next intersection. The next 8 miles are lovely, rolling hills, no cars- pretty much a dream ride. I insist we stop at a cheese factory where we stock up on curds and cheddar and other stuff that was salty and delicious. Let the guilt-free consumption of fat begin!
The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. We found a nice campground with showers and laundry, talked to wives and boyfriends and ate Fritos and baloney for dinner (sorry, Mom!) because it was too windy for the stove (note foreshadowing). Sacked out around 10 p.m., only to wake up 2 hours later to a howling rainstorm. Let this be the place where I sing the praises of my tent, the Kelty Baja 3. While barely big enough for me and my gear, it remained staked down and BONE DRY during a storm that bowed in the walls so much I had to stick my head outside to keep from suffocating in canvas. I imagined tumbling over and over into a ravine or onto the nearby highway, but for some reason was not scared out of my wits, probably since my brain cells were awash in a Frito-y glow and thus incapable of rational thought. Afterwards we walked around the pitch black campground while sheet lightening played in the clouds, and I thought about how much I was going to enjoy telling everyone about this adventure, for once not needing to exaggerate the drama.
Coming up...
Days 2-10: Cute kittens! Lost mittens! Taint on fire! And the do's and don'ts of brushing your teeth in a bar bathroom.
posted by mrs. pants at 9:37 AM
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