RAGBRAI. rewired.

(limited pictures today, the wifi is abysmally slow).

If you want to join me for a moment, imagine this.

It’s sometime just after 6am, although you don’t know it yet. Your first thought of the day is not about a to-do list. It’s not about anything. But it’s the one where you are trying to remember what happened yesterday.

You are lying on a mattress pad and sleeping bag, it’s far too warm to be under more than a thin blanket inside your tent. Outside, there’s a sound of a car alarm going off and the faint rhythm of footsteps, both near and far. No—update—the nearby sound is just the wind brushing against the base of a tent.

You’re still tired, but far too curious to disappear into sleep. You start to remember the last thing you did last night. You said goodnight to someone and they told you that the world would be moving by 6am.

So you lie still, latching onto the sounds for the next few minutes, imagining what’s around you. People are awake , that’s for sure, but they’re still talking in hushed tones. There’s light, but it’s not bright. An occasional car engine—maybe—but it’s distant, fading almost as soon as you notice it.

Eventually, you glance at your watch. 6:10am. You peek out through the fabric screen and then crawl out of the tent. Two companions have already emerged, and they’re looking past you.

You turn, to follow their gaze. What are they looking at? And you see it.

As the sun rises, endless line of bikes is already moving down the road and over a hill.

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My team and I all wake around the same time. Riley and Tara first, actually. Everyone else knows the routine, but I do not.

Coffee is made in a pot outside the bus. A few begin taking down their tents. I grab a toothbrush and a bottle of water and walk to the roadside. Sometimes one rider. Sometimes four. Sometimes 10. It’s nonstop—all just beginning a 72.5 mile journey. It’s cloudy. The wind will be light, but against us. A field to my left is still filled with tents. So from wherever these riders came from, there are hundreds and thousands still to come. Robin says it will be like this from now until 9am, and many were on their way in darkness. Rush hour never looked so beautiful.

Breakfast is eggs with sausage or pancake mix sealed in bags and cooked in hot water. I choose the eggs, served in a tortilla. Eggy in a baggy (pronounced beggy to rhyme).

Our bus—long and filled with every supply imaginable—is narrow from all that it holds. The space between couches and storage bins is barely a foot across. So when half a dozen people all need to get in and out and around, it becomes a delicate dance. Sometimes it’s easier to disappear out the front door, circle around, and re-enter through the back.

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, there are two hours for which I simply don’t know the sequence. I remember folding the tent. I remember someone handing me a banana. At one point, someone asked about sunscreen, and someone else laughed about underwear. But if you asked me the order, I’d just shrug. Somewhere in that blur, we all changed, ate, organized, packed, brushed teeth, and paused several times to watch the bikes go by.

After it all, I looked back at the field to my left, the tents were gone.

We set out as a team, all together, waving goodbye to our driver just before 8:30.

I felt no soreness or fatigue from the previous day, though I was curious how the wind would affect our pace. That question barely had time to form before it faded into the motion of the ride.

Robin—who I’d previously described as a bike shop owner and Tara’s friend—is more than that. A minute into our ride, easing under a flag and past hundreds of waving onlookers, I realized there was already a 20 foot gap between me and the team.

Hmm. Okay. This is not a warm-up lap. Noted, and I pull behind them, taking my spot last in line.

We turn a corner and ease up a hill. We are single file—Robin first, Tara right behind, then the kids.

“Do y’all move up and back in the pack?” I ask. No, they reply—almost surprised by the question. Robin pulls the entire way, they say. Okay. Interesting. So maybe we won’t go fast?

In response—or rebellion—I separate slightly from the rear and let myself glide downhill. A few pedal strokes for emphasis, and I’m cruising wide and past them all, dodging in and out of other riders. The other riders now seem to move at a pace that makes for an easy obstacle course. I continue for a mile without looking back, just enjoying the moment. And when I finally ease off the pedals for a half a second, they appear and tear past me.

Tara yells with a smile, “There’s David! Go Team Zippy!” They are fast. Fast as a team, and fast compared to the 90% of the RAGBRAI riders who ride in groups, but not in a line, and not with a Robin.

That first feeling will happen quite a few more times today, but I don’t know it yet. I quickly pivot to grab onto the back of the pack. A few miles later, I rotate up a few spots being waved up by Riley and Scott. We’ve already passed 700 people and I think—with the smile of a ten-year-old—we’re going to pass everyone. We are going to pass everyone. This is fun.

I see jerseys and team names and riders in groups and solo. Team Duzer, and Team Stray Dogs, Burrito Bandits, Miller High Life, Pink Flamingos, the Iowa Valley Bike Club, and hundreds more. I want to memorize all the team names, but there are too many.

The first celebration town is 10 miles in. We dismount and ride the obligatory down-and-back past a church pancake breakfast and dozens of tents selling coffee and everything else that can be consumed on a summer morning. None of us need food or drink, so we’re back on the road in a few minutes.

About five miles later, the road turns north. For the first time, we’re no longer heading straight into the wind. I expect a break—maybe a chance to push a little—but I’m not prepared for Robin to take it over 25 mph.

At around mile 17, I’m ready to drop off. For a moment, I wonder if that means losing the team for the day. And then, as if the road was listening, we see fists raised and palms open—signals to slow down. There’s an accident about a quarter mile ahead. Gridlock on a country road. It’s the first jaw-dropping view and it’s the first time I see the sheer volume of bikers.

We dismount and wait and then walk. I’m bewildered and thankful for the break. We pass the ambulance and mount back up.

I stay with the crew for a few more miles and then I break off watching as they disappear ahead in line of an endless line.

They day has only begun. Part 2 to come.