RAGBRAI Day 7
Dubuque, Iowa
25 July 2026
Dubuque is a hilly city.
In 1882 local banker J. K. Graves built the Fenelon Place Elevator so he could go home, eat, and take a nap on his break, since he would be unable to do so when he commuted with horses. It is the shortest and steepest railroad in the United States, built for Graves’ personal use.
For the 20,000 riders of RAGBRAI 2026 riding into Dubuque on their final riding day, tough luck.
I had seen the sign warning me of 6% downhill grade just outside the city limits.
Cresting the hill at 15 MPH I witnessed a curving downhill of pristine blacktop ahead of me. I could hear Patrick’s tires behind me, building speed.
The bike computer soon registered 31 MPH. I tested my brakes and felt more speed building.
Around this time I began to feel a hopping in the rear wheel. 36 MPH. Within seconds, the hop had created uncontrolled oscillation in the frame. The energy of these oscillations concentrated in the handlebars. They began to shake violently in my hands, the steering angle increasing with each shake.
Death Wobble is the term for this situation: Oscillation in the steering of a bicycle at high speed, usually resulting in loss of control and a crash.
There I was, ten miles from the finish of a 400 mile bike ride across Iowa, facing a delicious downhill and my imminent doom, and I was only one-third down the hill.
Years of motorcycling had taught me how to recover from this, and those instincts took over. Move your mass off the seat, onto the pegs (pedals), and get your head over the front wheel. Do not death-grip the controls—treat the handlebars like they are made of candy canes. Use a light touch on the steering. Stay off the front brakes, and use the rear brake like you would use allspice—less is more; if you apply too much, it’s a disaster.
I thought about the fact that I built the rear wheel myself, and how I had noticed it was slightly out of true the night before. I thought about Patrick behind me, and I hoped he would not run me over if I fell. Those thoughts quickly fell aside, as I was rather busy focusing on keeping my candy cane bicycle upright in the moment.
In seconds, my body changes had brought the handlebars mostly back under control. Patrick zipped by on my left, a serious look on his face; he had seen the death wobble. “I can’t control it,” I growled as we continued to fly down the hill.
It was a long hill—and I lost and gained control a few more times, but I eventually made it to the bottom. In downtown Dubuque, I took the remaining hills with respect.
We finished RAGBRAI with the Death Wobble moment—and many other special RAGBRAI moments—fresh in our memories.
In 2023 I wrote about RAGBRAI road romances. That year I met Lynne through hours of leapfrogging on the roads.
We met again in the middle of the street of Earling, both of us doing a double take of the other—a happy, accidental reunion.
“I knew I saw your calves out there,” I laughed at her. She smiled toothfully and her laugh lines crept joyfully from behind her glasses. After catching up, we parted ways and hoped for another meeting in future years.
Lynne was enough for me. But what was I to think of the woman who kept passing me, and then shaking her leg at me? I would pass her again, and then she would overtake me minutes later, shaking her leg and looking back at me. No, too many mixed signals.
My final platonic love on the roads of Iowa was unnamed—she had no license plate on her bike, and I wanted to respect her privacy—but her body language and voice were inviting. I laughed at her and saw that she noticed. We pulled alongside each other at 20 MPH on a flat road surrounded by corn fields. She grinned at me as I rolled up. I spoke first.
“We’ve been leapfrogging for days and you look like you’re having your very best time out here.”
She laughed in surprise and we shared greetings.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week,” was her parting comment.
“See you again soon,” I said. And we did meet once more in Gilbert, where she held open a door for me with a familiar smile, and a knowing touch on my elbow.
You’ve completed your first twenty miles of the day and need a snack. Rolling past the tractors and teenagers touting treats, you filter your gaze for a certain demographic.
Glasses. Gray—or frosted—or sometimes blue—hair, well kept in a perm. Rarely, a wig—but it happens. Aprons. A little extra flesh, perhaps hanging from the arms or neck, but carried admirably. Tiny wristwatches given by big loves. Dignified stance. Eye contact and smiles. Modest pride.
It’s usually under a banner of a local Catholic church where you find these women. They are the very backbone of RAGBRAI—the pie bakers. They are becoming increasingly rare as they age out of this world.
We see them for what they represent—literally, fuel, but also their community, their faith, their families. If you need a mother on the road, these women are there for you (and sometimes men as well). Grant Wood’s version of Iowa gothic needs an update, and the pie bakers are standing ready for the portrait.
On a long, hot stretch from Perry to Ogden, I was alone, out of energy, plodding forward at 7 MPH. Then I heard The Fixx behind me:
Do what they say, say what you mean, and baby
One thing leads to another
You told me something wrong, I know I listen too long but then
One thing leads to another
“Austin, Texas, you got this!” the man said as he passed me, his stereo blaring.
Somewhere I found something and tucked in behind him, Rick from Des Moines.
He looked back occasionally to see if I was still with him. Together we finished the last three miles into Ogden, me drafting close on his rear tire, and Rick dialing in Kesha’s “TiK ToK for that punchy last mile.
Pulling alongside as we came into town, we briefly held hands, I said “thank you” and we separated.
In dozens of spontaneous conversations over the week, the topic always naturally found its way to the friendly and supportive nature of RAGBRAI society. People certainly come to Iowa for the cycling, but they bring their hunger for humanity and love. This is a feast for the cycling world, and I’m not talking about the pie, corn, and pork chops.
I’ll be back for all of it, and I beg anyone who will listen to join me.
Kourt de Haas
On Interstate 35 south of Des Moines
kourt.dehaas.com writings
