American Gothic on Ragbrai

I wrote this a few years ago for some website but I think I'll put it up here now. 

I was helped up the final hill, and what felt like the largest, by following a springy green-haired woman and letting her break the wind for me. This was the end of a 100-mile day, leading into Jefferson, the county seat of Greene County, in the upper left side of Iowa. Cresting the hilltop the colorful lady looked back and saw me fixated on her rear wheel, wheezing and dying. She smiled, stood up, and sprinted away, blurring into the heat mirages on the road. To my left, matching my pace, a unicyclist on a 36-inch wheel rode. “Hi” I breathed, “How’d that hill treat ya?” He was a smallish man, probably 4’11” off his wheel without an ounce of fat, longhaired, and wearing the Jersey of a fast food company I used to work for. “Sucked.------Wish I brought-----my bike”. I suggested between my own ragged breaths he trade his wheel in for a day with one of the factory demo guys. “Can’t----they don’t have---any----in my size.” I frowned, shifted up, and pedaled off on the featherweight racing bike I had traded my pig-iron single speed for, regretting that I’d have to trade back in a few hours.

            As we rounded the last corner leading into town there was a man yelling the directions to the campsite at each passing biker, individually, all thirty thousand by the end of the day I imagine, despite the fact that there were signs posted every mile and at every turn with big arrows pointing the way. It should also be noted that the directions he was yelling were, in fact, wrong. “Turn right on Meadow Terrace, that’s a right on Meadow Terrace. It’s three blocks down after the white garage.” Meadow Terrace turned out to be a dirt road leading off the highway into the woods. I did not investigate, having learned my lesson a few hours before when I followed a sign that said, “Winery” and it lead me to a guy sweating in his driveway. To one side of him a couple dozed plastic bottles filled with red, pink, and purple liquid were stacked between palates like torpedoes. In front he had a black folding table with plastic cups sitting in two rows of five. Hanging off the table’s edge a sign read, “Cabernet $10, Rose $10, Merlot $12, Samples $2”. As I moved closer I could see some of the cups on the black table were deforming in the heat, sloughing to one side or another. I smiled and looked around awkwardly. A few other bikers stood at the edge of the driveway, swirling their samples, frowning. I paced around and looked at rocks and yard plants, as if I had stopped to take in the view. The vintner said nothing, but smiled. After a respectful few moments I hopped back on my ride and re-joined the swarm, leaving the guys still swirling their hot wine.

            The first house I saw before entering the business district and heart of the town was made of wood –the pre-Menards era kind with uneven joints and warped edges- had a white picket fence, and a wrap-around porch. It was one of the original farmhouses, I guessed, probably older then the town hall. An old man in plaid and his wife in a yellow V-neck and matching sun visor sat on the little strip of grass between the road and fence. Hours ago they probably waved at the passing bikes, but now they just sat and watched with straight faces as the two-lane, twenty mile long caterpillar filed into town, eating and drinking everything in its path, taking pictures of antique tractors and birthplaces of lesser known celebrities, excreting money all the way.