RAGBRAI. rewired.

The group talked about salt a lot in the morning. I remember overhearing a final checklist command on this morning: “Everyone have their salt?”

To the surprise of nobody reading this, I don’t pay much attention to the nutritional insights of a bike ride. I like water over Gatorade, a peanut butter sandwich instead of any kind of energy bar, and I always pass on those goo packets filled with sugar or whatever else is in them.

But by the time I reached the second big stop—after riding hard for more than two hours—I was craving the saltiest food I could find.

It’s not hard to picture what these host towns look like on RAGBRAI. Just imagine being in a rural place, and then imagine that place is hosting its annual summer fest. There are 50 people in line at every vendor tent. Hundreds are wandering up and down the main street. The crowds are shoulder to shoulder, the bathroom lines are 30 deep, and bikes are propped against every tree, sign, post, bench, wall, and rack in sight. The water stations (picture: PVC built into a frame so that a cross section is 3 feet off the ground and extends 7 feet horizontally, with 12 holes drilled into it) are always placed at the beginning and end of a town.

When I saw the sign for a pizza buffet, I knew two things:
(1) Pizza and I don’t always get along.
(2) I didn’t care.

Over lunch, I sat and talked with two incredible guys for about 20 minutes. One of them—Tanner—has an unforgettable story. His life took a turn when his legs became paralyzed. I’ll gloss over the details here, but I’ll share the question I eventually asked him, after we’d spoken for quite a while:

“May I ask… how did your mind get through the hard times?”

His answer brought awe. And gratitude. And a quiet reminder that none of us are on a solo journey.

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If it’s possible to have a favorite moment, I thought I had mine for the entire week just after lunch.

I’d left my bike up the street, and getting back on it was… a little rough. You know those moments when you sit down or stand up in a way that doesn’t feel quite right, and your body lets out a little comment.
“Oof.”

Okay, I thought. Thirty miles down, forty-something to go. There’s no hurry. Just enjoy.

And so, less than a half mile up the road, I decided to start looking at the RAGBRAI license plates—those little rider tags distributed to every bike, fastened just below the seat. A 4 x 6 index card-sized badge listing the rider’s name and city, with a bold square on the left to show how many times they’d been on this ride.

I went hunting for zeros.

And I found one—actually a pair—just a few pedals later.
“Hey rookies, great job!” I called out.

And like so many others that would join me on this ride, we aligned our pace, turned toward each other, and exchanged smile-filled questions for as long as the conversation lasted. While the entire week would become a fraternity beyond comparison, I learned to love being Year 0.

Then came the moment. One of them asked the question nearly everyone asks:
“Are you with a group?”

And just then, as if scripted, Team Zippy roared past. Tara’s voice lifted above the breeze:
“There’s David! From Team Zippy!”

I glanced left and right—the rookie pair beside me smiled knowingly.
“That must be them! Go get ‘em!”

So I pushed down, veered left, and sprinted to catch up with Zippy flying up the road.

But just ahead, I spotted Tanner, riding his recumbent bike alongside his teammate. I veered back right, called their names, leaned in for a fist bump, and then turned left again, returning to take my place at the back of Team Zippy’s line.

This was my third time in the pace line—a tight formation where riders draft off each other to cut through the wind. (Yes, that’s what it’s called—pace line, not “draftline”.)

I knew what to do now. Eyes on Robin’s shoulders, not the wheel directly ahead. Keep my tire staggered just to the right—eight inches behind the next rider. Look for hand signals. Listen for shouts. At this pace, a surprise rumble strip wouldn’t be fun.

My favorite learning, though—the one I finally applied this time—was how to anticipate the pattern. When we slowed to overtake riders clogging the left lane, Robin would almost always burst forward to return us to pace. In the morning, that created gaps I had to fight to close. This afternoon, I stayed ready. No gaps.

We went another 7–8 miles together, flying up to 25 mph, and I marveled at how good it felt to move through the wind like that.

As far as scenery… well.

I’m almost certain that if you stripped away the riders, the party towns, the sheriff-patrolled intersections, the RAGBRAI tents, the clapping spectators in lawn chairs—if you took all that away and asked me to retrace my steps, alone—I wouldn’t remember a single landmark.

It’s northwest Iowa. There’s green. There’s corn. There are gravel roads to the left and right. There are some rollers, but nothing I’d describe as a hill (yet). There are farmhouses, but none distinguishable from the next. And that’s it.

I’m just over halfway through my ride today.

Part 3 to come.