RAGBRAI. rewired.

From Mason City to South Dakota and back again. Sort of.

Tara said we’d aim to leave by 10 a.m. to head to Orange City—our launchpad for RAGBRAI— which was only a three-hour drive*. My plan was simple: make the 2 p.m. shuttle and begin with the sacred tire dip in South Dakota, and then ride a quick 23 miles back in time for the opening ceremonies.

Spoiler: That didn’t happen.

At 9:15 a.m., I wandered across the street from the furniture store and grabbed a coffee and what may very well be the world’s best quiche at Three on the Tree in Mason City. No picture. Just trust me. By 9:35, I rolled into the bike shop—first to arrive, feeling ahead of the game.

And then time disappeared.

In the next two hours? Controlled chaos. Fifteen people crisscrossing the bike shop even though our team totaled nine. I met a mom, a sister-slash-aunt named Trisha, Gordon, a neighbor, and a mysterious man who materialized and dematerialized at will. Bikes were loaded onto the roof of a full-sized bus.

Gear was sorted, questioned, redistributed. Solo cups were debated. I tried to be useful.

I caught on to a few things.

• Keep your stuff in your drawers.
• Laundry bag goes up top.
• I’m borrowing the three compartments labeled “Greg.”
• Front tires get stored behind the bus’s couches.
• Coolers in front, help yourself to anything
• Hooks above, magnetic and marvelous.
• Speakers swing out when we stop.
• Bus gets 4 miles per gallon and plays ice cream truck music.

Ya know, all the usual.

By 11:15, I mentioned a quick bathroom stop and was sent back to the furniture store, then the house to leave my car in a garage then aunt/sister Trisha would drive me back. Sometime after 11:45, we hit the road.

Inside the bus, we sat on couches facing one another like a rolling living room heading west. I ran the numbers—I won’t make the final 2pm shuttle to South Dakota. But it’s RAGBRAI. Someone will be heading west from Orange City. Plenty of time. Plenty of daylight. I’ll find a way.

We stopped four times, for gas and red solo cups and to fill the water tank which will make showers and one other stop that I can’t remember why, but that I inspected every inch of the outside of the bus during it.

A little detour slowed us when a closed highway forced the bus, which has a max speed of 55mph, onto gravel roads and down to 25mph.

By 4:45 p.m.—25 hours after leaving home in Cary—I arrived in Orange City, 22 miles from the South Dakota border. The scene was electric: tents in fields, RVs in rows, bikes everywhere. Adrenaline hit. These are my people. Let’s go.

Team Zippy snagged a prime parking spot. We unloaded bikes, popped up tents, pulled out chairs. Once we were settled, I darted into my tent and changed into gear.

“Wind’s blowing west, not east,” I told Robin and Tara. “I’m gonna fly to the border and figure out a ride back. I want to do 23 miles today and tire dip—not 46.”

“Have fun,” they said. “See you soon.”

The ride felt like flying. I peeked down at my Strava app a few dozen times in the first five miles. Uphill, downhill, wind at my back—I was hitting 25 to 30 mph with ease. Passed at least 60 riders heading east. I was alone, in rhythm, and grinning.

By the time I reached the South Dakota border, I had logged 23 miles at a 22 mph pace.

The tire dip itself? Well… underwhelming, if not for the three locals sitting nearby, fishing. No doubt they’d seen dozens of like-minded visitors that afternoon, and they greeted me from afar.

“Woo-hoo!” I yelled. “I’m in South Dakota!”
They roared back “Woo-hoo’. It was perfect.

The plan was to find a ride back. A kind stranger, a friendly team, a spontaneous shuttle. But out near Hawarden, Iowa, it was quiet. No cyclists. No signs. I sat on a curb for 15 minutes. Waited. Listened.

Then I got back on the bike.

Somewhere around the 2nd of what would be 30 rolling hills, I spotted a jersey ahead of me, pedaling my direction. I caught up near the top of the next climb. Her name was Brittany—a paramedic from Cedar Falls—and when I asked if she minded a riding companion, she said sure.

For the next 20 minutes, we rode side by side. Conversation made the miles disappear. My first riding companion.

Then: lightning.

Brittany screamed—louder than expected—and I turned to assess the sky.

“I think we’ll beat it,” I said, lying.

It turned out, Brittany was once struck by lightning. On a camping trip. In a lake.

So we pedaled harder.

The rain caught us with 13 miles to go. Whatever words we exchanged in conversation before the rain turned into joyous exclamations as we became soaked to the bone. I remember seeing a sign that said we had eight miles left, and realizing that two strangers were laughing like old friends, pedaling through what felt less like a storm and more like a river. We were drenched. Every inch. It wasn’t warm or cold. It wasn’t harsh or gentle.

It was just… perfect.

I declared myself no longer a rookie. Said it felt like my first big-league home run: a 46 mile border ride on Day 0, caught in the rain, and a riding partner to mark the moment.

About half a mile outside of town, Brittany’s friend found us—concerned but relieved. He’d driven out to see why responses to messages didn’t get a reply. A quick picture, a high five. A smile. And we split.

I rolled back to the Team Zippy bus, dripping wet, to the sound of cheers and laughs. I was home.

Dinner? Two cold leftover chicken fingers and a Gatorade. There was talk of food trucks a mile up the road, but nothing sounded better than dry clothes with Team Zippy whilst sitting on a floorboard in the front of a converted school bus.

It’s almost 11:00 p.m. now. I’m warm, I’m dry, and I’m crawling into a tent that stayed dry.

They say the sounds of a new day will find me before 6 a.m. I’m ready.

Signing off.