July 3rd to 5th: Fargo & Minnesota

Note: We'll be in Canada tomorrow , for a few days, so i will not be using the phone beyong texts, if this applies to you.

Day 20: Fargo to Fargo (rest day #2)
Day 21: Fargo to Garfield, MN. 113 miles. 7:21 saddle time.
Day 22: Garfield to Monticello (NW twin cities). 106 miles. 7:44 saddle time.

Corresponding quotations:

"You remind me of home."
"...the pause that refreshes"
"I'm like a load of fireworks, I'm no good after the fourth."

It may have taken a few hours to prepare for with our tinman joints, but we loaded a small bag each on our bikes and took a tour of town. John rode a trusty red flyer, and our cadillacs wobbled around unsteady without weight. The Red River divides North Dakota from Minnesota, and both sides have turned the area between dikes into running/riding paths. We criss-crossed between states as we received a thorough tour of the area. The expensive houses near the river occasionally have their back porches turned into fishing docks. It's a conversion that has been occurring too often in recent years, as Fargo at the bottom of a shallow bowl, which leaves few options for the waters that flow north with winding difficulty. If the bike path continues to Hudson Bay with this quality, we're on it.

Fargo might be Spokane's doppelganger (where's the umlaut on this phone?), it was weird to be walking around a town I seemed to know. My hometown's population dwarfs Fargo's slightly, but has the old brick charm, the downtown sliced by rails, the lurking monstrosities of the 70s that scar the skyline, the small university presence, the push for restoration over demolition...it goes on and I'll spare you.

They unsuccessfully converted the train station to a brewery, twice, but the building has become home to a flourishing bike shop. The first mechanic I talked to was excited to help me with a pedal issue and was thinking outloud if he could put us up for the night as soon as I spoke of our route. Every bike shop should have a healthy sandwich stand inside so you can eat while yelling about cycling with the staff bustling around you. Great Northern Bicycles. Look them up if you pass through. We've been disappointed with other shops along this route.

We wandered with our hot coffees in the ninety-plus afternoon, sweat cooled by the ever-present southern wind, looking for a barber for my dad. Fargo has a mass exodus to 'the lakes region' of Minnesota for the fourth, so the seven barbers and beauty schools we located were all closed, but we were really in it for the tour anyway.

Our hosts grilled a massive meal that we couldn't finish, and as far as celebrations go, the third is the new fourth because we were back to business the next day. My sister warned us that their generosity was like their state's wind, and we were thankful to be rested and refueled.

Sunday, the fourth, started with a large soufflé, a ride back to the crossroads where we left off on Friday, and a quick ride down the Red River paths to Minnesota. John had mentioned the quality of the river bed's clay (his brother was a ceramics major at UW, so not entirely random), and we got a quick taste of it from a seemingly small puddle. The clay built up quickly in our fenders and decelerated us to a stop. We were once again scouring a random neighborhood in America for a garden hose.

The wind had returned to our backs, lightly, so Minnesota's first 40 miles were better than 90% of what we saw in North Dakota. We didn't buy Adventure Cycling maps for Minnesota and Wisconsin, so we picked a country road that parallels a large interstate. Just as we were discussing how Minnesota was proving to be the best paved and shouldered roads we've seen, a recumbent cyclist was waving us down a little ways off the road. He handed us a map, and we now had our next 120 miles figured out: another rails to trails project. Smooth and with re-tarred cracks, this trail cut straight with little elevation change and lots of shade. I could ride without hands to stretch my back, check and write some emails, and rolled relaxed alongside my dad. Being a holiday where people tend to get drunk early to get ready for a long day of drinking, we felt safe from drivers on our secret trail.

The campground we found via google maps was nestled on a pond with a fake swan, and a horde of children riding bikes surrounded us with their wheels and questions. We showed them the brilliance of a well balanced set of panniers and freeze dried food, and maybe inspired them to run away from home successfully. They told us about a firework display happening at 9:30 at the lake down the road a mile, but I could only think about what a campground sounds like when all of the sugared-up children leave.

The quote I used for the fifth of July is a little forced, but we did feel oddly lethargic the first half of the day. Dave chalked it up to a residual aftershock from last week. Somedays your legs don't want to wake up, even on a mostly flat railroad trail.

After 60 uneventful miles of dealing with no cars, just families of cyclists, our trail stopped and black clouds lurked. We fished deep for our gear after a double shot of caffeine that's become a clockwork habit. After a half mile, a nail went clean through tread and out of sidewall, somehow managing to gouge away at my brake pad over a few rotations until I stopped. We spotted an elevated porch to duck under, behind a store, while the drops began. Busy with our surgical movements, we failed to notice the store was a front, not in the Corleone sense, but a nice house was attached directly to the high-end audio shop. The couple were quite welcoming to our encroachment, and offered to drive us ahead to avoid the storm. I felt uncomfortable handing our card over (which promotes donations) in a situation like this, but the genuine conversation lead to discussing our cause anyway. Having no contacts in this region, hearing a random stranger telling us 'he had us covered' should disaster strike reiterates how lucky we've felt to meet caring people. And maybe we should thank the accomplice of coincidence too: the rusty nail.

Besides the elastic of my rain booties causing my calves to breakout pubescently, the hot rain was welcomed. We needed 40 more miles to a campground, and its pounding energized us. A gas station's 99 cent half-gallons of chocolate milk was a good choice, so we emptied some waterbottles and we charged on, once again paralleling a busy interstate. A lapse in my mapping skills put us along a road that passed Fuller Lake, which was fortunate and appeared planned. We only went a half-mile west...

When we neared Monticello (not pronounced like Jefferson's homestead on the nickel) my dad pointed out that weathering the storm in our tents would just lead to a miserable morning of mildew and constant rotation of drying clothes while we rode. We also had an inkling that if someone responded to an email I had just sent out, we might be in for a big day of riding, so a solid rest was essential. The motel (and dryer) were a nice change of pace.