The Awkward Pose

June 22, 2015 – Puffy clouds, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 55

Miles to Date: 2,907

States to Date: 14

There were three men sitting at separate tables when I entered the Coachman Cafe for breakfast on a grey post-storm morning. So I took a place at another table. I got a cup of coffee, ordered eggs, toast, and hash browns; then topped that off with more coffee, biscuits and gravy. While I ate, the room dynamic shifted, and seven men sat in the center table, talking, playing dice, cajoling one particularly jovial, simple guy. During the hour I enjoyed breakfast, more than a dozen men came and went and passed the time of day. The only woman in the Coachman Cafe was the waitress, who circulated with her coffee pot every few minutes. It’s more difficult for me to engage in conversation with men than women, especially established groups, especially so early in the morning. So instead of asking my question I just eavesdropped on the conversation: weather, corn, hail, pick-ups, rain, driving to Fargo, washouts, fertilizer, weather. By nine, all the men were gone and everything changed at the Coachman Cafe. The place was full of women. I even met one lady from lunch the previous day in Page.

I rolled north a few miles to visit the Ronald Reagan Minuteman Missile Site. Director Guinn Hinson gave me a two-hour tour of a sober but fascinating place.

Heading back into town I began to worry about tomorrow – not a good thing for a guy with my question. I was supposed to take a rest day, and then pedal 113 miles to my next motel. Instead, I found a place 48 miles away, checked out early, had a hearty lunch of beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy, and rolled out of town by 2:00 p.m.

Those 48 miles were the hardest, but perhaps most rewarding, of my trip. The day was fine, the air sweet, the road smooth, the drivers polite, the grass giant waves in a billowing green sea. But the wind hammered me. Ten miles an hour was tough, even though the terrain was flat. I struggled for miles. And then, I stopped the struggle. Cycling in North Dakota is a Zen thing. Give up expectations; give up the idea that flat is easy; give up the idea that I’ll cover ten miles an hour. Downshift and just pedal. That’s all. Breathe, hum, or even sing, but don’t keep checking the odometer.

I stretched at a railroad crossing – there are few places to prop my bike here. Around mile 36 I needed a real break, but there are no side roads, no shade, nothing but a single strip of asphalt and the immense wind whistling past my ears. It’s easy to see why so many pioneers went crazy out here – the wind is relentless. The earth is silent, but the wind is deafening. I couldn’t hear vehicles coming from behind. Fortunately, they all gave me wide berth. I was so tired I considered stopping at whatever house appeared, just to get off my bike, eat a power bar and do a forward bend. Then, a little church appeared, abandoned but quaint as any in a model train village under a Christmas tree. The first church I’ve seen in North Dakota, a solitary silhouette against the giant sky.

I rolled my bike up the church lawn, leaned Surly against its steps, and stretched out on the porch. I surveyed the world from my perch and wondered what the heck I was doing here, at six o’clock in the evening, absolutely nowhere. Then I realized why we do this, why humans push our endurance and test our fortitude. We take our measure against nature, to understand how we stack up against the great forces. But also to appreciate the majesty of creation; to discover nuance in a place a broad as North Dakota: hearing the shimmering grass, triggering the bird flocks that rise up as I pass, feeling the temperature dip when a cumulus cloud casts me in shade. From the stoop of this postcard church on the High Plains, the earth is formidable, but I’m invigorated by its energy.

I didn’t go any faster the last 18 miles, but they passed with great enjoyment. I sang and wove and laughed at the wind. It was eight o’clock by the time I got to Carrington; I averaged just eight miles an hour. Carrington offered a nice motel and a pleasant view for two more hours of sunlight, but it’s not such an outstanding destination. Today was all about the journey.

June 22, 2015 – sun, 90 degrees

Miles Today: 93

Miles to Date: 2,852

States to Date: 14

I woke refreshed, had a big Super 8 breakfast, and headed out on a beautiful calm morning. My route out of Fargo turned into gravel roads, so I reverted back into town and had my first experience riding my bike along the Interstate – four miles along I-29 until I hit old 81. It’s safe and easy, but I was happy to get on a local road. The wind was light, the Sunday traffic even lighter.

I turned west at Gardner for my thirty-mile stint to lunch. Every mile the wind picked up, and soon I was working hard just to maintain 8 or 9 miles per hour. With the wind in my face, North Dakota feels like Pennsylvania – without any downhill coasting. But when I picked my head out of my troubles, the landscape was huge. I’m always frustrated by the magnificence of my surroundings and how puny it appears in my 5S viewfinder. So I took a series; perhaps they will give a better perspective. Otherwise, the only way to experience the vastness is to cycle out here.

By the time I arrived in Page, the wind was fierce and I was bushed. I knew Page had a grocery and a cafe, but I didn’t know whether either would be open on Sunday. Worst case, the town would have a shade tree where I could sit and eat food from my pannier. Lucky me, the cafe was open, so I settled into a long break. I arrived at the end of the after-church rush, talked with folks, and then ordered the Sunday buffet – a collection of salads long on mayonnaise and pasta, with enough veggies, tuna, and chicken to make them both filling and healthy.

Within thirty minutes I was the only customer, but the place was open all afternoon, so I stayed over two hours. When I paid, the waitress explained that the Cafe is community-owned. “No one could make a living running this place, but the town wants a cafe.” That probably explains why I saw waitresses sitting with customers and people wandering in and out of the kitchen.

As I rode out of town I noticed that half of the main street storefronts were now community enterprises – a senior center, an auditorium. What Page lacks in commercial enterprise it replaces with community services.

The wind died down as the mercury rose. It was 94 degrees when I reached Hope around 5 p.m. I spotted a gas station off the highway and hoped for a cold drink, only to find everything shuttered and one vending machine humming in the shade. Seventy-five cents for a can of soda. I had a single quarter – a mangled thing I picked off the pavement when I locked my bike in Becker MN – and a five-dollar bill. I was debating whether a cold soda was worth five bucks, when I noticed two quarters sitting in the change tray. So, I got a Coke Zero thanks to a two guys too busy to collect their change and a quarter picked off the ground: the benefit of being a slow moving, observant, touring cyclist.

I sat on the concrete in the shade of the gas station, enjoyed my drink and appreciated Hope’s happy water tower.

Back on the road, I ground out the last 25 miles. The risk of taking a long lunch break is that the afternoon thunderclouds will catch me in a storm. Fortunately, I ducked them all and arrived at Cooperstown around 7:30 p.m., tired but content. The motel office isn’t open on Sundays, but the staff left my key in the door. Despite being the center of our Cold War nuclear missiles, security’s not too tight here. My housemate Paul wanted to know that kind of room $46 a night buys in North Dakota: clean but not fancy.

I took a short walk around town, cycling always leaves me needing to stretch my legs, and had a long Father’s day chat with Andy. My daughter is in Cambodia, my son on the Hamptons, and I’m in North Dakota: a pretty diverse family. When the sun finally set, the thunder exploded and the sky poured rain, I was safe and asleep.

June 20, 2015 – rain, fog, clouds, sun. 55 degrees to 80 degrees

Miles Today: 63

Miles to Date: 2,759

States to Date: 14

The problem with pedaling 115 miles one day is that it wipes me out for the next. When I opened my eyes, after seven, everything ached. I got myself upright and stretched, but I was moving slow. My host, Jen, had a 4 a.m. bakery shift, but Jen’s so sweet that while I slept she’d bought my bike indoors to stay dry through last night’s thunderstorms, and left me a generous breakfast. There seems no bottom to the kindness of warmshowers hosts. I enjoyed my breakfast, oiled my chain, loosened my bones, and stopped by Jen’s workplace to thank her and say goodbye. It was nine when I cycled out of town, a very late start.

I was sluggish for the first five; make that ten, no make that twenty miles. Intermittent rain, rolling hills, and a hefty headwind compounded my fatigue. I took a Diet Coke break; the caffeine put me in gear. Complete fog replaced the rain. There was no traffic on old highway 52; I was the only moving thing, though the wind made sure I didn’t move fast.

After another energy bar and diet coke break, my highway was barricaded and the detour sign arrowed me backwards. I hate going backwards. I peered down the closed road; it appeared paved but not striped. I decided to gamble that it was passable and I wouldn’t be caught on a somnolent Saturday. My hunch was rewarded with six miles of the smoothest pavement and nary an oncoming vehicle. The wind still taunted me, but the land turned flat and I was doing okay. By three, the sun was shining. I rolled into Moorhead and stopped at Walgreen’s for provisions. By four I entered the King China Buffet in downtown Fargo for a long overdue lunch / early dinner.

North Dakota. Months ago, when some asked me what I was most looking forward to on my trip, I replied, “North Dakota.” I’ve never been here, but I love tall grasses and broad horizons and feeling like no one on the face of the earth knows where I am. All attributes I bestow upon this rugged state. Yet as I arrive, I’m filled with apprehension, which contributes to the hard cycling I’ve had the last two days. My mind is distracted. Tomorrow, when I pass beyond Fargo city limits, so much about my trip will change. It’s exciting, but also scary.

North Dakota requires a level of strategy places East don’t demand. I have no warmshowers hosts in North Dakota. For seven nights, at least, I’ll stay in motels, all booked in advance, many spaced at challenging distances from each other with few if any services between. My preferred rhythm of riding 50 to 60 miles and then meeting with people in the afternoon is impossible here. I will have 90 to 100 mile days, followed by rest days. If the weather is kind and winds are good, I’ll be able to handle the distances. But they are both notoriously fickle here.

I’ve already modified my route. For years, bicyclists traversed U.S.2, and I planned to follow that road to Minot and Williston, the heart of the oil and gas boom. However, the boom related truck traffic on U.S.2 is so strong cyclists have been advised to stay away, so I pulled my route south accordingly. North Dakota actually allows bicycles in Interstate 94, which may not be pleasant but at least the road has wide shoulders.

I’m also traveling heavier. Instead of two water bottles, I’ll carry five, plus more food than usual. When I tackle my 90 miles to Cooperstown tomorrow I’ll tote enough to go the distance. One advantage – I’ll have plenty of daylight. I’m going to my northernmost destination on the longest day of the year.

All this worry washed away with plate upon pate of fresh vegetables, egg rolls, chicken in sticky sauces, puff pastries, almond cookies, vanilla pudding and ice cream. Chinese buffets lose money when I walk in the door. I left around six, wandered Fargo’s funky downtown, got some bike accessories at Great Northern Bike Shop, located in the former railroad terminal, and then pedaled over to the Fargo Red Hawks Minor League baseball game. It was a perfect night for baseball, and the Red Hawks have a good following.

Everyone I talked to in Fargo, except the two old-time loiterers on the park bench in front of China King, is bullish on Fargo. Unemployment under 3%, 11,000 vacant jobs ready to be snatched, $600 signing bonus advertised to work in a restaurant, and a population projected to grow by more than 50% in ten years over the next ten years. The passenger train station may have been turned into a bike shop, but the long oil-car trains that rumble through town on a Saturday afternoon whistle that in North Dakota, they’re pumping money.

June 19, 2015 – Blue skies, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 115

Miles to Date: 2,696

States to Date: 13

Cycling conditions were perfect today. After seven early morning miles out of St. Cloud, I was on the Lake Wobegon and Central Lakes bike trails for over one hundred miles – all paved, all car-free, all with the wind nudging me north and west from behind my left hip. Still, even under the best conditions, 115 miles is a very long day in the saddle.

Minnesota has an impressive system of paved rail trails. Another cyclist told me state law mandates that after a set period of time after a railroad right-of-way is abandoned, the land reverts to private property owners on either side. In order to avoid this, a state bicycle trust takes over many right-of-ways to keep them in the public domain. This may have another positive upside, as rail traffic is increasing and it’s possible they may be needed for rail service again someday. Once lost, it would be very difficult to reassemble these right-of-ways. Outside of St. Cloud I actually saw a construction crew installing a third set of tracks on the main line that runs from Minneapolis to St. Cloud. Proof that everything comes around again.

Since my cycling was long today, I took several well-spaced breaks. On A Prairie Home Companion Garrison Keillor riffs on Minnesota Lutherans, but in fact the Lake Wobegon Trail ties together Minnesota’s Catholic belt. I stopped at the solid, and thriving, churches in Albany, Freeport, and Melrose. The trail parallels I-94 for about fifty miles, but at enough distance the highway is just a steady din. Alexandria is the largest town in these parts, the hub of the Central Lakes region. It’s a lovely town, and I ate lunch in a local restaurant that’s been in the same family over ninety years.

The wind picked up by mid-afternoon. The grass along the sides of the trail billowed and shimmered like waves on vast verdant sea. I passed a cool house made from a grain elevator. Around mile 90 I needed a beak but there was no place to stop. Fortunately good size trees grow along the path, and I found a shady spot, stretched out flat, and enjoyed a Cliff bar and bottle of water.

Despite ideal conditions, the rest of the ride was a chore. Around mile 108 I hit the wall. I dismounted and walked my bike for half a mile. Just allowing my legs a different cadence helped. I arrived at my warmshowers host’s house just after six: eleven hours of cycling time. After a shower and fresh clothes, Jen, who works in an artisanal bakery, her boyfriend David, and I had fresh bread and hard cheese. Then we walked through the charming town of Fergus Falls to a pizza/microbrewery joint. The minute we walked in I hit my second wall of the day. I needed sleep. I excused myself and missed out on really great local food, but was happy to be horizontal in bed before ten.

June 18, 2015 – Blue skies, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 59

Miles to Date: 2,581

States to Date: 13

It’s always great when a warmshowers host can ride me out of town, and this morning Frank rode with me 35 miles toward St. Cloud. Frank is a brisk cyclist who took me along highways with good shoulders. He turned around when we reached US 10 and I headed on my own. I had plenty of time, so took an Internet break and met on of the happiest McDonald’s employees anywhere.

I had enough highway riding so found a nice side road for the last twenty miles into St. Cloud. River Road went past giant irrigating sprinklers that reminded me of dinosaurs and I was mesmerized by a yellow bi-plane crop-dusting the fields.

I got into St. Cloud by six and stayed with another phenomenal warmshowers host. Susan made a picnic of fired chicken and barbeque ribs, quinoa salad, and grilled cauliflower. Then she topped it off with ice cream with fresh fruit and a sour cream ‘bar’, a Minnesota term for a pan crumble. Oh, and after we were finished, local beer!

June 17, 2015 – Blue skies, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 30

Miles to Date: 2,522

States to Date: 13

I woke up feeling pretty good, considering the shock I gave myself yesterday. Still, I was glad to have an easy day ahead of me. A nice breakfast and visit with my yoga buddy Ellen and her boyfriend Derrick, then an easy ride to downtown Minneapolis to visit the Cedar Cultural Center, a non-profit music venue in the heart of the Somali immigrant community of Cedar-Riverside and then the American Swedish Institute, an elaborate mansion along Minneapolis’ first paved street, to talk about tomorrow with their key staff.

It was almost five o’clock before I headed out of town, along great bike paths, to reach Medina. My warmshowers hosts, Frank and Connie, welcomed me with a great Italian dinner and interesting conversation. They are adventurous cyclists who have been to California, Montana, and New Zealand. As Connie says, “There’s nothing like the two-wheeled view of the world.”

June 16, 2015 – Blue skies, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 96

Miles to Date: 2,492

States to Date: 13

A perfect riding day. Rochester has bike paths along the main roads, but construction obstacles prevented me from connecting to the Douglas Trail. Eventually, the giant suburban boxes cloaked in murky aluminum siding came to an end. My wide sidewalk ended. The road narrowed, then it turned to gravel. Seven miles out of Rochester and I am on a dirt road!. But the Midwest is nothing if not logical, so I just kept north and west, and, sure enough, found the trial I wanted.

U.S.52 is the main route running NNW from Rochester to St. Paul. Bicycles are allowed, and the shoulder is good, but the traffic is constant. So I zigzagged north and west and north again along County and State roads. Rather, boulevards. In Minnesota a ‘road’ is often gravel, while a ‘boulevard’ is paved. The land grew broad, the sky huge. Intuitively, one might think such a grand landscape would make me feel tiny. Actually, I feel expansive rolling across the immense, taut surface of the earth.

I stopped at 48 miles in Cannon Falls for lunch – my first Chinese Buffet! Chinese Buffet is the ideal lunch on a long riding day; a great amount of food, including soup and vegetables, that’s healthier than most other roadside options. Besides, I got spot-on fortune: Soon you will be sitting on top of the world.

Sure enough I had 20 more miles of high plains cycling. I passed my first irrigated farm, another sign of heading into remote terrain. But I have one more major city: Minneapolis.

By mile 75 I was in the city exurbs and looking for a break. Instead I found only miles of wide four-lane roads with wide sidewalks that double as bike paths with subdivisions off either side. I believe separated bike paths are actually more dangerous than bike lanes integrated onto the street, because motorists don’t see me as easily at intersections. At every crossing I have to watch for cars in all directions and make sure they see me. Making sure that I can be seen, I managed to miss seeing a curb rise between a pair of sidewalk ramps.

There’s this instant of unity and light when cyclist and bike are suspended in midair, unburdened by friction. You know instinctively that things are going to get very bad very soon, but at the apex of your flight you are suspended, together, in bliss.

Then I am on the ground, disconnected from my bike, my head on the concrete, eyelevel with grass and shoes. “Are you alright?” One, two, three people hover over me. “I think I’ll just lay here a moment and see how things feel.” My response to trauma is always deliberate. I take a deep breath, two. I move a hand, an arm. I might be rousing from savasana. My left side hurts, and my knee, but all my joints move. I get up on my knees. Make sure I’m not dizzy, and then I stand. My elbow hurts. That’s not good. I broke that elbow in my last bike accident, 19 years ago. “Are you okay? I’ve got a first aid kit here. Can I clean you up?”

Two men in uniforms stand in front of me. Men in uniform are comforting, even if there are from Bartlett’s Tree Service. We discover I have a bloody knee and elbow and a terrific raspberry bruise on the left side of my belly. Thank goodness I ate so much at lunch; I’ve got more padding there than usual. We clean my scrapes with iodine. Ouch! We apply bandages. I appear to be fine. The Surly, the warhorse of cycles, is fine. Actually, the left pannier seems to have cushioned the fall. Saved by my trusty two-wheeled steed! I take a picture of the offending curb, which is a poorly designed obstacle that ought at least to be painted yellow. I am shaky but there’s not much to do but bike on. Less than an hour to Minneapolis.

In city after city I cycle through miles of big box stores and fast food joints. Now, when I want one, I find nothing. I take the bike path across the Mississippi Rive on a perilously high bridge; take in the view from the bluffs of Fort Snelling. Minneapolis is rational to a fault. Numbered streets and numbered avenues run at right angles without the hierarchy of New York where Avenues are wide and rare and streets narrow and often. Minneapolis is a square grid. I have to get to the 4800 block of 38^th Avenue, but after ninety miles plus an intimate connection with a sidewalk I am confused and go to 38^th Street. Eventually I find my way and my yoga friend Ellen and her boyfriend Derrick have a great dinner for me, wild rice and salad and that Minnesota State Fair staple: pork chop on a stick. We talk until near midnight. I fall sound asleep wondering how sore I will be in the morning.

June 14, 2015 – Wind and rain, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 61

Miles to Date: 2,396

States to Date: 13

I rode straight north on a still grey and humid morning to Minnesota. Then the country road began to wind and the land turned hilly and the pavement turned to gravel for six miles. I couldn’t help thinking, ‘Is this the best route across the country?’ Pavement returned and I stopped for breakfast at the Preston IGA – the only food option in town – before finding U.S. 52 and a nice wide shoulder. The wind picked up, the rain came down, and I was happy to have the country road behind me.

Rain is not conducive to dawdling; I arrived in Rochester at one o’clock. I was interested in talking to an editor of the Mayo Clinic’s online site – one of the most extensive and respected online resources – but had been tardy in contacting them. Their public affairs guy tried to make a connection without luck. I will try again, with more advance notice, when I am Scottsdale or Florida. The Mayo Clinic has satellites.

However, as is often the case, I may have learned more by simply camping in their lobby, borrowing their guest Wi-Fi, and observing one of the world’s leading medical institutions in action. I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals, often to observe, but I’ve never been anyplace that comes closer, in atmosphere and attitude, than the Mayo Clinic when it comes to creating a hospitality experience. Most hotels only dream of having such well appointed spaces and polite yet professional staff. The choreography of so much activity transpiring in an atmosphere of subdued calm is impressive. I visited the public spaces, museum, and 1930’s era offices of the brothers Mayo and came away assured of that fundamental truth of any business: put the emphasis on people and they will flock to you. Rochester is full of hotels, all of which have shuttles to the clinic. People come to this small city from all over the world for healthcare. Yet there’s no reason why Rochester should draw so many patients, except that the Mayo invented patient-centered care, and probably no one does it better.

The sun was shining by the time I left Mayo. I found a great little motel on the edge of the hospital district, had a nice meal in a cafe, and strolled the streets in summer’s lingering daylight.

June 13, 2015 – Rainy then overcast, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 112

Miles to Date: 2,274

States to Date: 12

My first century of the trip! Not too difficult on a cool day with flat terrain and little traffic. Still, good practice for heading further west, where there will be more, harder ones.

I woke to birdsong and was riding the drizzly streets of Madison by seven. I rode through lovely residential neighborhoods and more of UW campus. When I passed Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unitarian Church, I stopped on a whim and pulled on the doors. They opened! I had a few quiet moments in the meeting hall, and rather like how the ‘altar’ area is like a huge hearth.

I pedaled forty miles along U.S. 14, ‘the Frank Lloyd Wright Highway’, in various amounts of mist and rain. I wondered why ‘the biggest shoe store in the Midwest’ is in the tiny town of Black Earth, but I loved their whiffle ball field (85’ to the fences). The fertile earth truly is black. I skipped the formal tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin; the visitor center alone provided more reverence for the gifted megalomaniac than I could stomach. However, I enjoyed riding through the town of Spring Green to see how Wright’s influence played out, with varied success, in local buildings. Still, my favorite structure in the small town was a 1915 bank more elegant than any of the Wright stuff.

When I turned onto Route 60 in Gotham, I could tell there would be few services ahead, so ate lunch at the only available place – a bar where a couple of Harley riders had already settled themselves into a rainy afternoon watching a loop of Weather Channel disaster stories. The waitress thought me ordering a Diet Coke lame, but she made a good pizza and I learned how to escape an avalanche.

After lunch the rain ceased and I had fifty miles of the most beautiful scenery of my trip; a meandering highway that followed the Wisconsin River west, with occasional portions through lush farmland. After almost two weeks of city to city along Lake Michigan’s urban corridor, I was far from people.

Stopped for a snack at the local grocery in Wauteka and downed 32 ounces of Powerade plus a box of six ice cream sandwiches. I know, it’s disgusting, but they were so good. My gluttony turned out to be good planning. Many of the motels in Prairie du Chien were full, and the town wasn’t pleasant. So I crossed the mighty Mississippi and found a clean but remote motel in McGregor. After so many miles (and ice cream sandwiches), a hot shower and comfortable bed were the only amenities I needed.

June 12, 2015 – Rainy, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 52

Miles to Date: 2,162

States to Date: 11

My warmshowers host Herb and his parrot Barney rode me out of New Berlin at 6:20 a.m. They brought me though Waukesha, and got me started on the Glacial Drumlin Trial for my 70 mile ride to Madison and 2:30 p.m. appointment with the Director of Wisconsin Veteran’s Museum. Along the way Herb told me about Kevlar tires – he hasn’t had a flat in over 40,000 miles. In one of life’s odd coincidences, as soon as l learned about Kevlar, I really needed it.

After twenty miles the trail turns to crushed stone and grey skies delivered rain, so I was riding in mud. When they trail came parallel to U.S. 18 I switched to the highway, which had little traffic and a good shoulder. A few miles later I got a flat. The repair meant ‘d have to grab a quick lunch rather than a sit-down meal in order to make it to Madison. Then I got a second flat. I was super fast in this repair, but when I pumped up the new tube, the valve snapped: flat number three, and I was out of tubes. I packed up my pannieres and stuck out my thumb, thankful to be on U.S 18 instead of the desolate bike trail.

Within half an hour a Samaritan stopped, loaded my bike in her SUV, and drove me to a bike shop in Madison. I called in advance, and when I arrived Bryce replaced my tire (with Kevlar!), hung a new chain, checked everything else, and replenished my spare tubes. Total cost, including gas money for my Samaritan – less than $200. And I arrived at the Veteran’s Museum half hour early.

After my meeting, I spent the afternoon touring the Museum’s exhibits, the gorgeous State Capital Building, and chatting up Madison characters, like Art Paul Schlosher, who serenaded me with a bicycle song.

Jean and Jon, my Madison warmshowers hosts, served a delicious dinner of fresh fish, potatoes, and salad from their garden; finished off with homemade raspberry sorbet and chocolate chop cookies. We ate and talked while we watched the U.S. Women’s Soccer team tie Sweden in a World Cup match.