RAGBRAI Day 2
Carroll, Iowa
24 July 2023
As Raul flew past me at 5:30 this morning, furiously pedaling his tiny folding bicycle, I observed the tallboy of Corona in his bike bottle cage. He wore a helmet, board shorts, flip flops, a white cotton t-shirt with an American flag on the back, and a Camelback which I hoped was carrying water. We never spoke; I got his name from the little license plate on the back of his bike that all RAGBRAI entrants receive. He would leapfrog with me several times today, smoking me each time he passed me. This first pass left me chagrined; we were just starting our day, leaving Storm Lake after the first day of riding 77 miles from Sioux City. Today's destination was Carroll, 62 miles of two-lane highway and corn fields away. My legs were fresh; how could this guy on a clown bike ride so fast?
Raul disappeared into the darkness in front of me. Storm Lake was giving way to corn and soybean fields. A most subtle purple sky signaled the end of twilight and it was then that I heard him—not Raul, but Johnny Cash—singing "Riders in the Sky" up ahead. Two Iowa State Patrol officers, and Johnny Cash blaring from a PA on the hood of their car, directed us to turn right at the first crossroad onto US 71 south. In making that turn, I beheld the unforgettable sight of thousands of cyclists ahead of me, red taillights flashing, in a continuous straight line to the horizon. Cash bellowed on:
Trying to catch the devil's herd
Across endless skies
Yippie-yi-yo
Yippie-yi-yay
Ghost riders in the sky
This is RAGBRAI. Since 1973, the Des Moines Register has given its name to what is now the oldest, largest, and longest recreational bike ride in the world. Register's Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa, and this is the 50th time for the event. Around 450 to 500 miles over seven days, Sunday through Saturday, with seven host cities along the way, on a predetermined route. There are 15,000 registered riders and an untold number of "bandits"—riders who just show up to ride and be a part of something big. The sum of it all resembles a swarm of cyclists, supporters, and their vehicles, fed on pork chops, corn, pickles, beer, and nightly concerts. Each day the swarm moves to the next host city and hugs it to death with every public park, school athletic field, and hundreds of private yards choked with nylon tents. One can even pay to have your tent, meals, and a shower provided for you in each city. In short, RAGBRAI has been a going affair among Iowans, and bicycle people, and even many people not in those special cohorts, for decades.
We may be hugging these cities to death, but they hug us right back. RAGBRAI turns Iowa into the world's greatest roadside bake sale. This morning at 6:15 I rolled into the town of Early, population 587, and was greeted with Farmall tractors prominently parked and "Good Morning" by locals who were out in their chairs on the streets, waving and setting up their wares for the coming masses. Their offerings run the gamut from water and bananas to baked goods, pies, roasted corn, pork chops, pickles, pickle juice, and add-ons for the latter like protein or vodka. "Pickle juice cures cramps" one handwritten sign proclaimed. People were in line for beer at 6:15AM, right next to the Jehova’s Witnesses info tent. I was briefly confused. Later in the morning, two women dressed as angels greeted me with pie in front of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Catholic Church ("A slice of heaven"), where I bought two slices of strawberry rhubarb pie. "Pie sales go towards stadium lights for our baseball field" the handwritten sign proclaimed. With each interaction I was treated with kindness and warmth—that's the hug returned by these communities. They call it Iowa Nice and you're not allowed to print that in quotation marks because they really mean it!
Pedaling through the towns and cornfields these past two days has given me a lot of time to think. How did I get here? The Dutch side of my family settled in Orange City, Iowa (the town marquee says, "Experience the Dutch") in 1902 and we've had relatives around there ever since, so I spent a few childhood summers in Hawarden, west of Orange City. During my last visit in 1985 I remember when thousands of cyclists swarmed into Hawarden for one night. My cousins explained what RAGBRAI was and it's been stuck in my head ever since. That's one part of my story.
Many readers of this email will recall that I've spent the past eight years summiting the high points of the lower 48 states. The mastermind of that idea was a co-worker at UT Austin named Patrick who, through years of travel and highpointing, has become a great friend. When Patrick mentioned that he was thinking of going to Iowa this summer to watch his brother ride RAGBRAI, I saw an opportunity—first, for me to ride the 50th RAGBRAI on my own 50th year, and second for me and Patrick to experience something big and new and enduring—something that might take us from the waning highpointing project into a new adventure.
Our arrangement is this: every morning I get up at 4:40 and ride my old steel frame Bianchi touring bike to the next destination city. Patrick gets up later and drives our support vehicle to the next city. Patrick is driving my 2001 Volkswagen Eurovan poptop camper for this trip. It has two beds, a sink, stove, refrigerator, water tank, bike rack, compressed air, solar panels, ham radios, and lots of other amenities to support our style of travel.
Each task has its own adventure built in: I am discovering new places and meeting dozens of new people every day—probably thirty conversations through six unique towns on the ride just today. Patrick's job lacks the physical demands of the ride, but requires resourcefulness and quick thinking. Every city presents a unique problem to camping, showering, shade and comfort, getting drinking water, and many other logistical needs. When the swarm of cyclists arrive in a city, its local cell service and internet break down from the strain, so communication between us can be sketchy. Sounds like our kind of fun!
Somewhere along the line I must have passed Raul in one of the cities, because I heard his furious (and now familiar) pedal cadence before I saw him. He flew by me again, this time on an uphill, which is usually where I'm strongest on a bike. Behind him were four athletic young men wearing matching FedEx jerseys and orange socks on carbon fiber bikes. Their leader half joked, "we're just gonna follow that guy all the way in to Carroll today." Later in the day I found him standing on the side of road as I passed him. I gave him the "are you for real?" look and he smiled back.
Here's a sample of what you can find at each RAGBRAI crossroad: a popup tent with Sgt. Terry of the Iowa State Patrol, in campaign hat and glasses, corn fed lawman prototype, Iraq veteran and father of three, smiling and watching over the proceedings; Karl Vanhoemme and his wife Barb, who own all the corn fields within sight of this intersection; six of their grandchildren selling lemonade and pickles from a card table on the route approach corner, with a handwritten sign.
Some signs I've seen on the route since Monday:
STEAK AND ICE CREAM 3 MI (outside of Breda)
We only have pies for you! (Lake View Churches Ladies Club)
IOWA IS NOT FLAT! (on a huge, punishing hill outside of Kingsley)
(Burma Shave style, outside of Mt. Carmel)
Why do bike pumps
Cost so much
Year after year?
It's because of the inflation!
Petting Zoo Ahead (they brought out a cow and two sheep from the barn, near Quimby)
The soundtrack of RAGBRAI leans toward the older crowd. I tucked in behind Bob from Marion, IA yesterday because he was playing some great Santana tracks. We camped next to a guy yesterday who brought his Grateful Dead blazer to wear during the Foghat concert later this week. The demographic is perhaps not an accident for an event running since 1973. Another camp neighbor from Sunday was a 26 year navy veteran who flew the F4 and F14; he was looking forward to the Lynyrd Skynyrd concert later that week.
Today I finally had my first moment alone, something I wondered would happen at all, given the sheer size of this ride. I came to an intersection in a corn field and stopped suddenly. The sound of gravel under my tires sent the rabbits dashing from the ditch into the cornfield. I didn't know where to go and nobody was around for me to follow. Nobody was approaching behind me. I backed up and found the sign I had missed, a black arrow on an orange background with BIKES printed on it. I turned right and started pedaling again. Moments later I heard a rattlesnake. Actually it was the freewheel sound of a bike belonging to Martin from Cambridge, MA. As he passed me, he lifted a cheek off the seat and farted. "Good morning" he called and rode on ahead, my lonely bliss torn asunder by others' thunder.
Apart from the magic of the first day early morning ride yesterday, one of the great moments was at sunrise when I was riding with a pack of cyclists by a farm. We were fast and quiet, and as we passed the barn we heard a rooster crow and a donkey bray simultaneously. I can’t resist donkeys, so I started to laugh, and it was contagious—the whole pack broke silence and cracked up. Then we resumed our silent pace.
The ride is going great. Two weeks ago Patrick and I made our second climb of Mount Rainier with our highpointing friends, so my mountain legs are carrying the day, but it's only Monday. Thursday, going into Tama-Toledo, the high temperature is forecast at 101 degrees. I've had a lot of practice for those conditions, but that day will be 82 miles and 3600 feet of climbing.
Patrick is pacing and we want to go swimming. We are full of pie and good intentions—the very best way to be for adventure. I need to send this before the local cell network goes down as more riders fill this little town. I hope to check in with you all after the Thursday crucible. Stay tuned and thanks for reading.
Kourt de Haas
Carroll, Iowa
RAGBRAI Day 4
Des Moines, Iowa
26 July 2023
At 3:40 this morning I heard all the DC power systems in the camper van shut down. The fans stopped blowing air and the fridge compressor went silent. The summer heat has been building every day this week, and it has been a challenge to stay comfortable at night. Our refrigerator has been working harder to keep things cold and we've needed fans to stay comfortable in the still night air, but we haven't been driving enough, or had enough sun on our solar panels, to keep the house battery charged. The battery was now dead.
I am thankful for many things in life but at the top of the list today is Patrick, because he does not care about refrigeration, and though his Vermont blood might curdle in the heat, he's been comfortable and he's not a complainer. Besides, this problem has created an opportunity: ice cream for breakfast.
Today's ride to Des Moines was the shortest day—50 miles—and considered a "rest day" following yesterday's 82 mile ride (with an optional add-on of 18 miles to make a 100 mile "century" day, which I did) from Carroll to Ames. I pulled on to the route at 5:15 this morning and was soon passing riders and heading into the hills towards Slater, Madrid, Polk City, Ankeny, and Des Moines. Despite yesterday's ruthless century ride, my legs were fine and my speed averages were improving. Glancing back, I saw a headlight and tire one foot behind my rear tire—someone drafting behind me. I pulled into an open stretch to let the drafter pass, but he didn't. Soon I had a string of ten riders behind me, including Gina and Lee. They are two retired pro triathletes on Cervelo carbon aero bikes (think $6k to $10k each) with aero bars and despite being my age they are the fastest women I have seen in Iowa this week (I'll let you make your own joke there). I met them yesterday during a stop on the century loop where we discovered we had all done the Cap Tex Triathlon in 1996. For about five miles I was their warmup rabbit, until we came to a massive downhill, where they turned on the afterburners and screamed ahead of me.
I was chock full of ice cream and didn't need to stop in Slater, but when I rolled into Madrid at 6:15 ("Good morning and it's pronounced MAD RID" a woman said to me from her lawn chair) I saw the grilled cheese stand and got bacon added for no extra charge. In Polk City at 7:30 a committee of five year old boys sat on the curb and chimed the nine syllables of "thank you for coming to Polk City" with coached enthusiasm. I found a tent adorned with thirty Iowa State Fair 1st Place blue ribbons, selling pies; I bought two. Across the street five men were shucking corn. The sign said FREE CORN so I asked about the free corn.
"You'll have to come back in 45 minutes. Unless you like it raw?"
"Yes, I'd like it raw."
The oldest man took two ears from the truck and handed them to me, winked, and said in a low voice, "Most hate it, but I think corn is best raw, too."
I grinned back and didn't tell my new raw corn friend that I planned to cook it later today.
Such was the 50 mile bicycle shopping trip from Ames to Des Moines this morning. Today we are camped in an enormous hot field in full 97 degree sunlight with at least 10,000 other people. Our van batteries are charging. We've retired to a grove of trees at the side of the field to eat more of the fridge loot (cheese, pickles, beer, chocolate—I know, we suffer) and watch the humanity that is RAGBRAI society.
That humanity rolls big and fast on two wheels and everyone has their story. Today I met Jo from Iowa City who at age 62 is doing her first RAGBRAI despite living in Iowa all her life; her daughter is hauling the tent and she's cruising independently between cities on her Cannondale road bike. Yesterday it was Bill from San Diego who was riding with Ride2Remember, memorializing fallen military service members, and Jim, also from San Diego, who was kicking ass on his Litespeed while also wearing skate shoes, a silk Hawaiian shirt mostly unbuttoned, a trucker hat and a mustache—think Tom Selleck of 1981 but on a high dollar bicycle. I tucked into a draft line and a conversation behind Jeff from Atlanta and his eight year old son Grayson; the latter was riding a trailer bike attached to Jeff's road bike and couldn't move his legs fast enough to really contribute and was whipsawing away behind his father, throwing the balance all over the place. His father took it in stride.
Then there are the romances. Lynne first passed me yesterday somewhere before Jefferson. She turned her head and said hello as she rolled by. She was about 60 years old and lean—not my body type but totally my age demographic. We leapfrogged all day on the 100 mile route. She passed me again before Luther.
"Hello again," she said as she rolled by.
I got on the drop bars and pulled up next to her. "Are you flirting with me?"
She smiled behind her mirror finish glasses, replying, "Are you going my way?"
Robert Preston, singing my favorite song from "The Music Man" (which is itself a tribute to Iowa) entered my head:
I smile, I grin, when the gal with a touch of sin walks in.
I hope, and I pray, for Hester to win just one more "A".
The sadder but wiser girl for me.
Thinking of my life and my wife, I jokingly replied, "I like what I see, and I've been seeing you all day. And there is plenty of corn here to roll in. But it's hot and we should keep dancing to get off the road sooner." And there followed a great conversation about our lives, spouses, pets, and dark beer.
The heat will be even worse tomorrow going into Tama-Toledo, tomorrow's destination cities. We have found the only remaining Airbnb in the region for Thursday night, and it's a loft above a craft brewery. We will further charge our batteries, do our laundry, enjoy the air conditioning, and move onward early Friday for Coralville, the last night of camping before our final ride into Davenport.
I'll be starting early, counting the Farmall tractors, and looking for platonic love in the remaining 210 miles. Look for my final email.
Kourt de Haas
Des Moines, Iowa
RAGBRAI Day 7
Davenport, IA
29 July 2023
Slowly, from a low, deep groan, spinning up to an unmistakable high pitched mechanical wail, the Civil Defense sirens of Coralville sounded their alarm. The Iowans among us, and anyone who has ever lived in a mid-American city, knew what it meant and immediately, but calmly, modified their behaviors. The other 10,000 people in the main RAGBRAI campground looked at their phones or at each other or, most importantly at this moment, at the sky, which had become a bruised blue-black menace, punctuated by lightning bolts. The storm was headed our way.
We had spent the afternoon getting supper at the Methodist church and watching a free showing of "Top Gun: Maverick" at the Coralville Performing Arts Center ("come in out of the heat!"). Patrick and I were quickstepping (but with enough time to stop and buy some Iowa ice cream) back to our camp to configure the van for what might be very violent weather. Walking through the campgrounds, we saw thousands of tents, some carefully pitched but many lacking their rain flys or with their vestibules left open. The Bush concert in progress was halted and an announcement was made for everyone to seek shelter immediately. People started to filter into the Iowa City Northwest Junior High School at the middle of the campground.
In an unrehearsed ballet around the camper van, Patrick and I had the awning, chairs, and bikes stowed, and the poptop and windows closed in about ninety seconds, at which time the temperature dropped twenty degrees and an angry wind started to blow in from the north. Around our camp people struggled with their popup tents and camping gear. We helped secure the tent of a Mississippi couple who were nowhere to be seen. A large family camped near us, already burdened by young children who were clearly tired and overwhelmed, abandoned their campsite and retreated to their cars. Rain and intermittent lighting followed.
This was the night of Day 6, the last camping night before the final 71 mile ride into Davenport. The past two days had been brutal: full sun, intense humidity, headwinds, and punishing, repeating hills that would make any person doubt and adjust their assumptions about Iowa. On this day I had started from a road intersection south of Tama-Toledo at 5AM and had spent seven hours riding 82 miles, consuming eight liters of water and four breakfasts in the process.
Starting in Grinnell, I had the usual cold cereal at 4:00AM.
An hour later in Chelsea, I ate a breakfast wrap of eggs, sausage, and cheese in the front lawn of the St. Joseph Catholic Church (1867), sitting next to a massive John Deere tractor on display (price tag: $569,000).
At Belle Plaine I had a fudge brownie sundae from the My Grandkids Ice Cream stand while a woman enviously watched me eat it.
In Marengo I had a PB&J sandwich and some pie, plus more pie and more corn for later.
In Amana (home to a Whirlpool appliance factory that still manufactures washing machines) I bought kolaches for later from a German family selling from their front yard.
Somewhere along the line I also had a leg of lamb sandwich, the best thing I ate in Iowa.
The last two hours on highway F46 east into Coralville brought out the toughness and determination of this cycling society, and that is likely how the kids in the aforementioned family came to be so unraveled.
The prior day, Day 5 from Des Moines to Tama-Toledo, was a brutal 82 miles of extreme hills and extreme heat. We found our Airbnb that night to be a great value, escaping an otherwise miserable night camped in high heat and humidity. Iowa Nice was tested that day; we needed to find a place to plug our van in to charge the batteries. I found a likely spot in the parking lot of the Slate Accounting Firm in Grinnell. I went inside to ask for permission.
Standing there in their clean, bright reception room, I spoke with Rose, their front office assistant. I felt the contrast between their clean office and the sweaty, soaking, smelly person I had become during the ride that day. I had brown stains on my shorts that were from chocolate, but didn't look like chocolate to the casual observer. Rose was welcoming, got consent from the firm's owners, moved her car, and gave us permission to park and charge from their outdoor outlets throughout the night. This made all the difference for the final two nights of camping ahead of us. While in Grinnell we enjoyed pizza, ice cream, and the laundromat.
Shaved, showered, and with clean clothes, Patrick and I found ourselves standing in the snacks aisle of the Fareway Grocery in Grinnell that Thursday night. We could not find mixed nuts. Sensing our need for help, a woman approached us from the next aisle over.
"What are you looking for?" Her speech was a little slurred, but given her age I thought it might be from a stroke.
"Hi Marty," another passing shopper said to her.
Marty helped us find the mixed nuts. "Are you doing RAGBRAI? Are you riding?"
I confirmed and she grabbed my elbow. "I've had four of you riders in my front yard all afternoon. Big party. We've all had one too many."
I glanced in her cart and saw a 3 liter of Diet Coke and a huge bottle of Black Velvet whisky. "Looks like the party is still going!"
"I'm 82 years old but I'm a young person. You have to keep your mind young, you know?" She winked. At the checkout counter she tried to slip a bottle of peach schnapps into my hand.
I had been riding with my 20,000 new bike friends all day, observing the variety of born and bought equipment—bodies and bikes—and experiencing with them what it truly means to play the hand you are dealt. Nobody is keeping time, there is no leader board, and there are no yellow jerseys or any of the culture of bike racing. It's not a race—it's a ride. The RAGBRAI course is officially open from 6AM to 6PM, but late each day, even as late as 10PM, we would watch the stragglers ride in to camp—some looking a little fatigued, but many wearing expressions of shock and exhaustion. Were it possible to swap bodies, I wondered if my mind could endure with what their bodies had endured.
RAGBRAI is used as leverage to improve roads in Iowa. Potholes are filled, bridge joints are ground down, and cracks are sealed, but they can't fix every flaw. A one-inch crack on the road into Colfax consumed the front tire of Mary from Provincetown, MA and sent her flying to the pavement just 50 yards ahead of me. By the time I had reached her, a scene straight out of a Norman Rockwell illustration had formed: another cyclist directed traffic away from Mary, a man stuck and American flag in the crack to mark it for future cyclists, local neighbors shaded and consoled her, a kneeling firefighter examined her knee and shoulder, a little girl in a white dress offered her water, and—I kid you not--a puppy was licking her elbow.
Today was the last day of riding, a relatively easy stretch from Coralville to Davenport, where the course ends at the Mississippi River and you are invited to dip your front tire in the water (you dip your rear tire in the Missouri River at the start city). Wanting to get us on the road back to Austin, I started at 4:30AM, riding by piles of tents destroyed by last night's wind. I enjoyed my last cornfield sunrise alone on a long stretch of beautiful road, and made my first stop in West Liberty ("Iowa's oldest outdoor pool—this way" a sign beckoned), buying a breakfast sandwich from the West Liberty Rotary Club. Smoked ham, egg, cheese, and Korean Gochujang sauce on an English muffin. I sat down on a bench to eat but hesitated when several community members took notice of me and took my picture. Fearing I had done something wrong I asked one of the picture takers, Diane, a retired school teacher from West Liberty, if everything was okay.
"Oh yes, you're very welcome and you're sitting on Red's bench. He owned the John Deere dealership, and was a firefighter, and just… he was a real…". Her voice trailed off and I thought she was about to weep.
"…a pillar of the community?" I answered for her sympathetically. I noticed the bench was hand painted with his name and a tractor and fire engine.
She looked at me fondly and touched my shoulder. "Yes, exactly. Red's been gone for ten years now, gosh, but we take notice when someone sits on his bench." Out of politeness I had not started eating; she looked at my sandwich. "Oh, heavens, you must be starving. I'll let you eat. Ride safely and enjoy our town." I enjoyed my sandwich on the most important bench in town.
I started this ride with $300 in cash, taking about $40 each day to spend in the little towns. After buying more pie today from the St. Mary Mercy church in Muscatine, and a pickle and lemonade from a family in Buffalo, I rode on to the finish point with one dollar in my pocket. Perfect.
There was a lot of gold on the roads—interactions, conversations, observations—too much to neatly put into readable emails. I know I will be back. I hope you have enjoyed these emails.
Patrick and I and our bikes are now neatly loaded and driving the interstates back to Austin. RAGBRAI markets itself with Roman numerals, and this year is the 50th RAGBRAI so they are calling it "One L of a ride!" I am only eight months into my own 50th year, but after this week I can confidently claim this is one L of a year.
Kourt de Haas
On Interstate 80 West
kourt.dehaas.com writings