Day 0: Twenty-seven beds

Tonight’s lodging comes with throw pillows, a price tag, and a story.

This couch—where I’m typing—is the kind that fell off a truck. Literally. Tara Brick tells me it happened during delivery. “We’ll try to spruce it up and sell it at a discount,” she shrugs. It’s that kind of place. Brick Furniture. Fourth-generation. In Mason City, Iowa. Still standing, still welcoming.

Tara owns the store and offered me a bed —well, one of twenty-seven, my pick —down in the basement of the 3,000 square foot showroom. A maze of end tables and reclining chairs creates an unintentional obstacle course between mattresses. Some of this weeks riders might be still at home, in a tent, or at a hotel. I get a showroom basement. And somehow, it feels perfect.

I’ve never slept in a furniture store before.
Or in Iowa, for that matter.
Or biked across a state.
Or biked with a group of strangers.

It’s not, however, the first time I’ve set out for a journey without knowing what was around every corner.
But it’s been a while since I’ve felt this, the indescribable feeling of being so present and alive in a minute at the outset of new. And I couldn’t be more excited.

Here I am.

The night started in Mason City at 9:30. Right on time, having crossed the Mississippi River long before sunset, and then driving west and north. I listened to The Emerald Mile on audio on the route, inviting tales of adventure through the car speakers in into my soul.

I arrived at the wrong address first—Tara’s home—and got to meet the family who was knee deep filling bins with freezer bags stuffed with daily outfits and rain jackets. Then, after the shortest hello from the doorway, rerouted to the right place: a bike shop, just a mile away. Tara texted as I was en route. We’re here. Come on in. I parked, and entered.

Tara was wiping down her chain and turned to smile and greet me with a hug. Her friend and the team’s hero who owns a bike shop, Robin, helped me stash my gear in the corner—gear bags and boxes and bins piled around us, as if they were stocking up for a small village. A half dozen fantastic bikes were up on lifts and parked next to work tables.

I took a quick inventory, and in one corner, saw what had to be 35 bottles of chain oil. We are not underprepared.

I dropped my duffel, made a comment about overpacking, and watched them not flinch. “We’ve got space,” Tara said. “Only nine of us this year.”

Making sure the message was conveyed, I said that I packed a SodaStream. I, uh, kinda really like that fizzy water.

Tara’s eyes widened. “I’ve never had one. I love carbonated water.”
Boom. Ice broken.
Gift found.

i made the first trip back to the car to get my bike, and beamed with pride as Robin gave it a once over. That’s a good one, he said. I looked past him at two stunningly crafted bikes behind him, clean and shiny and new and built for speed. He is no stranger to bikes, having built and sold and fixed them for decades. Leaving back on my handlebars, I felt a twinge of pride for my own, thinking of the miles it had taken me.

As I returned to the car and brought back camping gear, Tara nodded and said, “I see you’re no stranger to camping.” Well, no. I am, in fact, quite a stranger to it. But I couldn’t be less worried, I replied, wondering if I should have actually set up the tent once in my living room, or at least made sure all the poles and stakes were in the bag that clinked together as I’d felt around the outside of the bag yesterday. Nah. Where’s the fun in that?

I’m fairly certain the last two times I camped were in Colorado with Justin surrounded by mountains 15 years ago, and in Kenya with Jeff surrounded by hyenas and elephants 10 years ago. In other words, I am as brave as my companions, and a step above inept otherwise. For all my lack of foresight and missteps, I know when and where to lean into others.

The full-sized bus parked outside the shop is leaving tomorrow for Orange City.

So for me, this is where RAGBRAI begins.

And tomorrow, RAGBRAI’s expo and festival. The official unofficial start. Pedaling begins Sunday. Unless… well, there’s supposedly a way to hitch a ride from the starting point during the expo a little further west to South Dakota and tire dip in the Missouri River. Then make the quick 20 mile ride towards the start on the back of the wind. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

These are the extent of decisions for a while as my daily to-do list for the next week is:

wake
ride
eat
sleep

Anything else is a bonus

Tara will stay here tonight as well, upstairs above me in another corner of the furniture store, just to make sure I’m comfortable. Her family is across town packing up.

Who does that?

That kind of reckless generosity. That unfiltered, radical hospitality. That “join us” spirit you usually only read about in small-town novels or your favorite kind of summer. Simple, kind. When I’d texted her earlier , an update on my arrival time saying I’d crossed into Iowa, she sent a smile and short reply. “Welcome.”

Tara told me, “A few years ago, we had 60+ riders. Everyone slept here [in the furniture store] the night before.” No words. Just awe.

However many RAGBRAI traditions I’m about to learn, this one—this odd, cozy, unforgettable welcome—is the first. And already the most meaningful.

Speaking of traditions, to the folks back home…

Yes, mother. Tara had a box fan in the basement of the furniture store too. It’s loud, kinda like the one that Grandma Landeck had upstairs. I’ll sleep like a baby.

And yes, Pat & Tucker, I shoved a whiffle bat and balls into my tent bag. As one of the two of you would combine to say, “It’s not like we have a lot of work to do… finding 3 people out of 15,000 bikers who want to play wiffle ball after a long day… we just gotta find them.”

Time to drift off to sleep.

——-

Morning edit:

If you’re in the market for a new mattress, might I suggest the Sealy Posturepedic Brehham Hybrid Firm?
No matter where you’ve been—or where you’re going—you’ll sleep like a king.