RAGBRAI'ers, by nature, are early risers. When I crawled out of my tent on Sunday morning at 6:00 a.m., a steady stream of bike riders were already on the road. The Hoss property was just opposite the first turn that took riders out into the country, giving us full view of hundreds of oncoming bicycles. Riders were 5-wide across both lanes, one row after another. An hour later, I was packed up and ready to ride.
Matt and I took off together at a slow pace, in an effort to acclimate ourselves to riding in a tight formation with such a large number of bikers. The pack of riders used both lanes of a rural county road as we headed into the sun. Bikes were visible all the way to the horizon, with no significant gaps between riders anywhere on the road. Riding in such close proximity to so many other bikes was completely new to me. My training rides had been solo, and this was downright scary. At times, my front tire was inches from bikes in front of me. I had seen footage of Tour de France riders crashing and a mess of bikes piling up behind like toppled dominoes. This morning had the same potential.
The first few miles were relatively flat until we began a slow climb out of the low area that gives Missouri Valley its name. Faster riders were using the far left edge of pavement to cruise past slower riders, and soon Matt and I decided to do the same. Once we climbed out of the valley, we found the endless hills that make up Western Iowa. Half-mile up, half-mile down, do it over again and again. We averaged about 10 miles per hour on the way up and 30 on the way down. I soon discovered Matt's hill climbing prowess, developed in the couple years he'd lived in San Diego. He has the strong legs of a sprinter.
Our first of many slowdowns came at a roadside vendor's coffee establishment, then another at a pancake breakfast set up at a tiny town called Beebeetown. Huge groups were lined up waiting for food and drink, bicycles scattered all over grass yards. The bottleneck of riders pulling over was enough to slow our progress to a crawl, during the minute or two it took us to pass through the crowd. I was hungry for some pancakes, but those lines were far too long.
As we continued toward Underwood, the second town on the route, roadie shout-outs were constant and repetitive. Some examples:
Car Up: a warning of an oncoming car, truck, or any vehicle that isn't a bicycle.
Car Back: a warning of an automobile approaching from behind.
Slowing: a warning that a group of riders ahead is slowing down.
Stopping: a warning that a group of riders ahead is slowing to a complete stop.
Rumble: a warning of approaching rumble strips in the pavement.
Rider Up: a warning of an oncoming bicyclist.
As any of these situations became eminent, a rider would shout out the warning, followed by about 100 identical shouts by riders behind the person who issued the initial warning. I would later discover that these warnings come earliest, most often, and at the highest decibel levels when riders have the most energy. Later in the week, the shout-outs would be fewer and with less volume, but our morning ride out of Missouri Valley came with a constant screaming of every possible dangerous situation. Typical roadie chatter on the first day of a group ride:
Rider #1, 100 yards ahead: "CAR UP!!!"
Rider #2, 97 yards ahead: "CAR UP!!!"
Riders #3-18, 30-90 yards ahead, in unison: "CAR UP!!!"
Riders #19-54, 25 yards ahead of and behind me, in unison: "CAR UP!!!" [riders move into right lane and car slowly passes by] [fruit smoothie roadside stand approaches]
Rider #1, 25 yards ahead: "SLOWING!!!"
Riders #2-15, within 15 feet of me: "Slooooooo-WING!!!"
At one point I felt like shouting "I GOT EYES, SO SHUT IT, ALREADY!!!" But of course, that would have violated roadie etiquette in the same way as driving a golf cart onto a tee box, so I held my tongue. But I sure was tempted.
Later in the morning, Larry Baerveldt caught up to us, and thus began my lessons in riding in a pace line. As I mentioned, RAGBRAI is not a race, at least when riding by yourself. Put two or more guys together, though, and now you're racing. Matt and Larry wanted the three of us to draft each other and run together with about 4 inches separating our tires. That, after all, is how speed is maximized in a pace line. The lead rider sprints as long as his legs will allow, then lets another rider take over the lead so he can ride in the back of the pack without a headwind. I hadn't yet mastered the art of placing my front tire so close to a rider in front of me while traveling at 20 mph, and thus was not receiving the full benefit of drafting. Larry politely reminded me to "hold that wheel" until he couldn't take it anymore and assumed my position behind Matt. I fell in behind the two and they slowly gapped me when I couldn't maintain their pace.
At various points along the road, Larry and Matt were kind enough to wait patiently for me to catch up. The hills made all the difference - those two were simply flying up, then coasting at 40 mph on the downside. Eventually we all met up just ahead of Shelby and stopped in the town for our first piece of pie. As expected, it was exceptional.
Sixteen miles later, we arrived at our first overnight stop in Harlan. We'd secured the front yard of Bob and Becky Mahoney, a couple in their mid-thirties with 3 energetic sons and a large old house. Harlan's wide streets and classic homes reminded me of Watseka, the county seat of Iroquois County where I grew up in Illinois. Bob is a career Navy guy working out of the joint Air Force/Navy command near Omaha, while Becky works for the local elementary school. Lunch was provided when we arrived, as was ongoing entertainment from their boys. We showered in their house, enjoyed spaghetti on the courthouse lawn, and pitched tents in their front yard. The Mahoney's are good people.
In today's wireless age, a recurring issue for most RAGBRAI'ers is recharging batteries for a nearly endless number of electronic gadgets. The Mahoney's house was littered with chargers plugged into every available electrical outlet. During the evening, one of these devices, a cell phone, began ringing on the front porch. The phone belonged to a hog farmer named Jay, who was tagging along with Team Joyride for the first two days of riding and then heading back home to Northwest Iowa on Tuesday. The call was from the local fire/rescue service, who had sold Jay a raffle ticket for a new bicycle. When Jay learned his ticket was a winner, he hung up the phone and sprinted - to where, we didn't know. The only words we could make out were "I won a bike!" Thirty minutes later, a sweat-soaked Jay returned with a new Specialized road bike. Good night for Jay.
Around 2:30 the next morning, we awoke to police cruisers warning of high winds approaching. We quickly took down the tents and moved indoors. The Mahoney's dining room floor was my bed for the rest of the night.
