Red Wing

Took the 7:50 Empire Builder to Red Wing. Now, Amtrak allows only folding bikes on board. But with $9, a wink, a nod and a few obsequious words to the conductor we were able to sneak our full mounts on board, if only as far as Red Wing, MN. Far enough.

This got us to the northern corner of the driftless area. We skipped over the Mississippi to Wisconsin and savored miles of smooth, quiet riding. Up Trimbelle Coulee: birds singing, tires humming and no traffic. The only complaints we heard were from a group loading the first haying to the hayloft. Damn hot work today.

A beautiful and uneventful ride. We were due for a quiet one.

Bring It

It must be working. Just finished a windy 48-miler, with 3,200 feet of climbing, at 18+ mph average. Sweet; home before noon.

No, I didn’t pull much. Yes, I yo-yo’d, got dropped, chased, panted and drooled. But a great workout, a respectable result, and I didn’t even cry once.

Demi-Epic

Bob and I meet at Minnehaha Falls this morning for a longer ride. We set out for Hastings, two hours beating into a decent headwind.

Along the way, Bob’s front derailleur repeatedly gives him grief as the shifts from the big ring. Chugga-chugga goes the chain. “Bob, you want to adjust that?” “Maybe in a bit.” Five miles out from Hastings, “Bob, it sounds like you have a tight link or something.” “Oh.” Into Hastings and a quick left up the hill. Grab a smaller gear.

Bob shifts down too and all hell breaks loose. The little link that had been complaining reached out, grabbed the passing rear derailleur cage and held on for its dear, short life. Bob pedals the frozen derailleur up and into his cogset, chain goes into the spokes, derailleur cage shatters, chain snaps, derailleur snaps off. Epithets fly.

Lucky for us, we’re smack in the middle of Hastings and The Route bike shop has just opened. Dangit, it’s a whole two blocks away. They nicely jerry-rig Bob’s ride into a single-speed. For the rest of the ride, he’s messenger Bob, pedaling a 42 X 16.

On the way back, the doom of the darkest thunderstorm of the year overtakes us. As my odometer rolls 666 the clouds open up. We’re just this side of drenched before we manage to pull into the Stockman’s Restaurant and Truck Stop along the South Saint Paul stockyards. Time for a hearty chicken dinner among our trucker brethren. As predicted, the downburst is brief. We emerge to drying roads and peeks of sun.

I shamble back home: damp, tired and stuffed. Almost 70 miles to the good. But already a little apprehensive about our next outing.