July 6th to 8th: Mostly Wisconsin

Day 23: Twin cities-ish, MN to Eau Claire, WI. 136 miles. 9:24 saddle time.
Day 24: Eau Claire to Stevens Point, MN. 116 miles. 8:46 saddle time.
Day 25: Stevens Point to Valders/Manitowac, WI. 107 miles. 7:15 saddle time.

"we are capsules of energy."
"you'll pass this on, won't you?"
"thank you thank you thank you...you're far too kind."

A half mile out the door and we were crossing the Mississippi River, which felt as strange, huge or exciting as the continental divide or having our back wheels in the Pacific. It wasn't a particularly early start for us, and we found the neighborhood to be in a great mood. In a 20 minute span, we heard two happy horns, got one thumbs up on a country road, and then two separate truck drivers held up traffic to chat once we hit signaled streets. I felt like I had a golden ticket and was storming the candy factory. On a related note, our bicycles are made in a suburb south or the twin cities, but we were told via email to not bother visiting unless we were interested in watching a bunch of guys "drink beer and work on computers." We didn't.

And after 40 miles of terror along a 'highway' shoulder (four highways merged to madness), I got a text from Seth, a guy from Eau Claire who I hadn't met or spoken to, but we use the same website to trade records. He said he'd could put us up for the night.

"How are you feeling Dad, is this the one?"

"Yes it is."

"The One" was discussed before the trip; I wanted to ride further than my longest (around Lake Balaton, done last September on a knobby mountain bike with no training. Hi, Zsolt.)

We had another 100 to go, so I reset my odometer to fake my way through the day. The twin cities' spread of suburbs lasts until the Wisconsin border, and riding through this portion was a lowlight of the trip. Once we dropped to the St Croix river, the bridge was up and we weaved through the gridlocked small town until we were at the bridge barrier (the pedestrian part, we're not jerks.) It was reminiscent of my mornings to work or school, always separated by one of two drawbridges that dictate my tardiness. I love blitzing across a drawbridge that has just come down, it's an unexplainable rush.

The Wisconsin side of the river (Houlton) had the highest grade we've seen thus far for a quarter mile, and I realize now that you can't capture steepness in a photograph. We rode rolling farmland until mile 110, and the change from flat helped us gain a crank/coast rhythm to carry us through a long day.

The last 26 were flat, relaxed, and calm since our host was at band practice, and his lady friend wouldn't be off work until 9 to let us into her place. There was a 10 mile stretch of fresh blacktop, possible laid that day, which allowed for some side by side chatting. No stripes, no stones, no sticks. Ask me how sticky it was.

The part of town where we stayed had old homes with neighbors congregating on front porches and yards, a quality of neighborhoods I've been eyeing since talking to Amanda in Fargo. John and her built a porch because everyone else hung out on them, and it was their window into becoming a part of the older neighborhood. I also got to catch the bicycle ride of a elderly couple that Amanda says they do every night before dusk; I forgot to mention how cute that was.

Right, Eau Claire. Seth and Nicole were easy to get along with and I wished I could have stayed awake to chat more than two hours about records, Japan, and how to judge a town in America on arbitrary criteria. Their local organic truth serum made me a chatty cat, and I still find it weird to have hung out with someone from the internet and got on so well. As for Dave, he was asleep as soon as their one-eared Boston terrier cleaned all the salt from his (exposed) skin. His name is Gizmo.

My half hour of tooling around Eau Claire doesn't warrant an evaluation, but after coffee, muffins, and quiche at the Acoustic Café downtown, I swore I was in Bellingham, Washington, minus the Subarus and blonde dreadlocks. When my eye caught both of these on the long slope out of town, I realized my theory was bunk.

We had hoped for an easy day after the long one, but it didn't pan out. We had a morning of hills, and an afternoon of flat. An uneventful day because we were pretty tired, and riding with muscle memory at this point in the trip. Not looking around much, just moving along content that our bodies wake up faster and can function for 8 hours of pedaling without complaints.

"Share the road" has more meaning in some of these stretches, as a two lane highway will have a two-foot paved shoulder for our use, and an outer, ten-foot compact gravel strip for families that ride exclusively by horse and cart. The first buggy we crossed paths with had a family who smiled wide and waved with an enthusiasm I didn't expect. I figure they approved of our chosen mode, and we were pleased to see the
smallest tike embracing a tractor-wheel sized innertube, likely not for its intended use, but for the local creek.

Google maps sent me to the office of a campground in Steven's point (complete with reviews of the facilities), but the grounds were another 15 down the road. At 110 miles and feeling defeated, we found the nearest motel (30 dollars a night of shadiness). All full but too lazy to change their vacancy status, we had the desk man yelling at us where to try next (think Carl of ATHF minus the gold chain, and definitely on a stimulant of some kind) when a guy walks up declaring his basement is free. We would normally consider this shady as well (he followed us from the road, into the motel's parking lot), but his enthusiasm and "Life is Good" shirt that my parents love to wear was convincing.

Three miles later and we were enjoying the company of Bruce and his wife Jan, empty nesters keeping busy with five cats and still pleased with their long careers. Besides finally catching up on posting pictures on this site, we talked shop with Bruce about his adventures around the country on his recumbent bike, and we discussed food consumption for the long distance rider at length (a topic we'll summarize when we're done; my dad enjoys that we're eating Lance-style).

Breakfast and coffee was made up when I awoke, and the falling apart of a saddlebag proved that running into Bruce was essential to us making through another morning of riding. We feel lucky that he'd be on his way to get ice cream and notice two rubber legged and filthy guys making poor decisions for sleeping arrangements. He said it was a returned favor for all the help he received on his last adventure. He even drew out his favorite country road route with gauntlets of sprinklers, and caught up to us on his way to work, just to be sure we were going to make it.

A few minutes later, the owner of Bruce's favorite bike shop had pulled over and suggested we go back to his place to draw out a better route to Lake Michigan. He had recently worked with the Adventure Cycling team to plot this route out, so it was fresh in his mind. Meanwhile, his wife drove down the road to check the status of some construction that could alter the planned route. The selflessness we've been seeing is hard to fathom.

His scenic route, besides the portions I sweatily wiped away, takes the mundane straits out of the ride, but we would eventually return to the boredom of highways to make better time to a farmtown on the coast.

Arriving at the home of Leon and Linda, we weren't ready for a photo shoot, but the community reporter was ready with a camera and a list of questions about the trip and FHSSA. Leon #10 was a chef, and they both treated us to a meal far beyond what we've been doing with a camp stove, well, any stove for that matter. The numbering system is used to keep siblings straight; there are 13.

The wide house cooled quickly from the winds of the lake, and it was the breeziest night of sleep we'd seen in these humid states. The bay windows likely make heating an issue in the winter, but their view over the property's pond and rows of crops makes you want to grab another cup and sit down to watch the still-life do absolutely nothing.