You Must Be Hot In That!

With many ideas on where to go and what to do, I finally decided on heading from Prescott through Mindoro and on to LaCrosse to see some painted cows. From there, I will head to Elkton, MN for a car show, Austin, MN to see the SPAM museum, and Clear Lake, IA to see the Surf Ballroom and the site of the plane crash that ended the lives of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, the Big Bopper, and the pilot.

All this will be done in one day.

Up bright and early and the temperature is already 84 degrees in The Cities. Everything is packed up, but I can't help but start sweating and fogging up my shield before I get the bike moving.

Gas up in Prescott and start watching my odometer. My bike is about to turn 20,000 miles and since I have a new-to-me camera with me, I want to get a picture.

Convenienlty, I hit 20k right at a rest stop.

Back on the road and as I go through Maiden Rock I notice the bank thermometer reading 84 degrees. It doesn't feel horribly hot, but the humidity is thick. It is supposed to get up to 100 today and this humidity is going to make it tough going.

I stop in Pepin and have a chat with a commercial truck tire supplier and an auto salvage worker. While I was in the store they parked their trucks so that I was perfectly boxed in and couldn't move. A conversation was necessary.

It was interesting speaking to the tire supplier. He lived in the area, but when I told him where I was going, he said he had never been to Mindoro. I guess it is true, in his case, that people from small towns seldomly venture further than 10 miles from home.

As I made my way toward Nelson the sky started turning an ugly black. Cars coming the other way had their lights on, but I didn't see any rain on them. Why would I bring rain gear on a 100 degree day? Uh, oh.

When I got to Fountain City the bank thermometer read 82 degrees and I was greated by this:


I needed to stop and take off my sunglasses so I could see; I pulled off on a side street in front this:


Does anyone else find the humor in a town named Fountain City putting up a production with that name?

I headed out and passed a guy on a Harley looking very wet. I figured I would go as far as I could and find some place to hide.

As I was making my way on twisty roads I started to get inspired, quit looking at my speedometer, and upped the pace. This was fine until I tried to read a sign off the road as I went by. I didn't take note of the upcoming turn and really scared myself. Note to self: Stop looking for things to take pictures of when riding.

Around this point I got lost. Fortunately or unfortunately, I seem to get lost on a semi-regular basis. I set up this route at the last minute using Streets and Trips, chose roads I don't ride that often, and forgot my Wisconsin maps at home.

After about an hour and a half of realizing that Streets and Trips has an even more liberal interpretation of North and South than I do, I finally got back on track and made my way to West Salem to ride Hwy. 108 through the Mindoro Cut.



When I arrived in West Salem there were about 50 motorcycles parked for some kind of rally. I quickly got something to drink and got back on the road. I didn't want to get stuck behind a parade of cruisers going down 108. This is a road that has some very tight, quick turns that don't accentuate the best characteristics of cruisers.

I stopped to take some pictures and heard the rumble of engines off on the distance. What came next was a parade of cruisers that easily numbered around 100 heading for West Salem.








They just kept coming, and coming, and coming.





Finally, I heard the last of the rumbling and headed out to find some painted cows at a Kwik Stop in Onalaska, WI, just outside of LaCrosse.

I find the Kwik Stop and there are no painted cows. I go inside and talk to a couple employees. They look at me like I may not be quite right in the head, and I'm not sure if it's because I am dressed in full gear or I am asking about painted cows.

It is unbearably hot, but my quest continues for painted cows as I swing by every Kwik Stop on Hwy 16 from Onalasky to the MN border. No painted cows, and a bank thermometer in LaCrosse is showing 100 degrees. It's hot. Really hot.

(I later learned that the painted cows are not "real" painted cows - they're fiberglass. The idea of real painted cows seemed so wonderfully wrong on so many levels that I am glad that I didn't find the fiberglass painted cows. I think I would have had to ask the painted cow people, "Why, really, why?")

Streets and Trips is bound and determined to send me in the wrong direction, but I am having none of it. I think I know where I am going and I have a map. Hwy 16 from the border west for a long, twisty ride.

I usually average about 43 MPH on rides, but those rides don't involve many stops and are usually on roads I am somewhat familiar with. This ride has long stops on some roads I don't know and I have already been lost for an hour and a half. On top of that, I figure I need to average about 51 MPH to make decent time. Now I'm going to make up some time.

I take off making a game out of passing any vehicle I see ahead of me. I'm surprised to find passing zones mid corner and so are the drivers I am passing. On more than one occassion they pull off on the shoulder as I go by. I give them wide berth, signal early, and I'm not at screaming RPMs. Go figure.

I think I mentioned that it is hot, really hot. It is getting to the point where the wind through my helmet mouth vent is no longer cooling. In some places I see the heat shimmering off the road. I can't help but think about the standard shot in every action movie anywhere near a desert where the heros come into focus as they walk through the shimmering heat.

There are no action heros out here, but there are miles and miles of people riding down the Root River on inner tubes. The anti-action heros, their white bellies soon to be turning crimson. I think about the fact that there are hundreds of people peeing in the Root River today and I no longer wish I had an inner tube.

I'm making good time and drinking a lot of water, but I am starting to fade. I've neglected to eat anything for over 24 hours, but I figure once I get to Elkton and the car show there will be food to eat there.

I'm getting close to Elkton, but Streets and Trips must get some money under the table from the small towns I'm riding through. If I followed the directions I would be making a circle tour of every town. I'm not in the mood and about 20 miles from Elkton I'm looking at directions that having me going all over the place. I stop in a gas station to get gas and directions. As I am filling up I ask an attendant who is out changing signs the best way to Elkton. She has never heard of Elkton and goes to ask her manager. She comes back and tells me her manager hasn't heard of Elkton either. I guess the small town 10 mile rule rears it's ugly head again.

I start seeing classic cars drivng by and I realize that my mid-afternoon arrival on the last day of a car show may leave me with limited viewing. I arrive in Elkton and there are still many cars left. Mainly Mopar as there is an awards ceremony and many of these cars are entered.

I forgot extra shorts and I don't want to walk around in my bicycle shorts. Neither would the people who would see me. I grab my camera and a couple towels and head into the heat.

I took a lot of pictures, here are few:



































What is amazing is the rare cars that were there. There are six Daytonas in existence and two of them are here. One is unrestored and in great shape. It goes for about $1.3million. I lost count of hemi coronets that the factory made for drag racing. There were only 219 made and they were sold without heat or windshield wipers with a strong warning that the engine was not suitable for driving on the street.

It was evil hot about now and there is a constant stream of people coming and going. They pull up, find a parking spot, walk around for about 15 minutes and quickly retreat to there air conditioned vehicles.

On occasion one of the cars will start up and the sound is absolutely amazing. You can hear and feel the rapid, sharp explosions and it leaves no doubt about the attraction to the old Hemi engines.

I walk back to the bike and I am exhausted. I drink as much water as I can, but that doesnt help revive me. I didn't find any food at the car show and my muscles are starting to cramp up. I understand that high heat and low blood sugar will do this to you.

I look at my clock and see that it is 4:00. The SPAM museum closes at 5:00 and I figure I am about 20 miles or so away. I gear up quickly and take off relying on the optimism of my speedometer to keep me out of jail.

I make good time, but when I get off the highway and into Austin the streets I need to turn on are closed. Some quick orienteering, a short blast the wrong way on a hospitals one way drive, a slip through the gates of a private parking lot and I see the SPAM Museum.

There is a security guard at the entrance to the parking lot and he directs me over to a concrete slab to park on.

There is even special SPAM parking.

I didn't know what to expect when I walked in, but I knew it would be air conditioned and it was greatly welcomed. You are also welcomed by this guy.

I expected something kitchy and bizare, but these folks take their SPAM very seriously. It is very well done with staff to answer questions and give you a tour and numerous interactive displays of very high quality. You could easily spend a couple hours there. Very impressive considering it's...well...SPAM!





















Here is part of the gift shop. I couldn't help myself and bought a SPAM t-shirt and a bumper sticker. I have a broken piece of plastic I repaired on my bike that I have a replacement for. I decided to cover it with bumper stickers until I decide to put the new one on. This one will be the first.

















I still need to eat, but no matter how impressive the SPAM Museum is I am not eating here.


















It is too hot to stop in what is not a high class part of Austin, so I get on the highway to head to Clear Lake, IA, to the Surf Ballroom and the crash site. I don't recall how far it is, exactly, to Clear Lake, but I make good time and pull off the highway to this.

I don't believe for a second that the person responsible for that name did not do that on purpose. Ya, and Hooters is an owl themed bar.

I pull into a gas station and fill up. I wander in and find some pita sandwich thing, two for $5, and get two, a couple liters of water, some soda, and more tape to hold my route sheets on my tank. When I was in the bathroom I looked in the mirror. I look really scary with the lines still on my face from my helmet. I got something in my eye on the highway and my right eye is nasty bloodshot and swollen.

I have now reached the point of not really caring too much about many things. I find myself belching and farting as I sit on the sidewalk with my legs draped across the walkway. I'm not moving. Walk around. People seem to only look at me briefly and then quickly look the other way.

Being just off the highway there is a lot of traffic here, but no one is interested in starting a conversation in this heat. A quick trot from their air conditioned cars to the air conditioned store.

Except one woman. She walks up, stops, and looks at me for an uncomfortably long time while I am stuffing my face with a messy pita. Finally she asked me if I wear my jacket, which is hanging off the back of my bike, when I ride. I reply, yes. Then she says, "You must be hot in that!" Before I can reply she goes on a soliloqy about how it is much safer to be hot and do that than what she sees most people wear while riding. I must have tuned her out because I don't remember the rest of what she had to say and I don't recall her leaving even though her car was parked right in front of me.

I finish as much of the pitas that I could eat, a liter of water, and two bottles of pop. The hotel across the way is looking very inviting and if I was 100 miles from my next destination I may have seriously considered it.

Off to the Surf Ballroom. I expected it to be in the middle of nowhere, but it is actually across from the lakeshore at the end of the old main street, now Buddy Holly Place. A bank thermometer shows 94 degrees and as soon as I stop I am covered in sweat. I take a couple pictures and figure out how to get to the crash site.
































I see in the directions that I will be riding on gravel roads for a while, but I don't think much of it. Then I start riding on the gravel road. I know my bike does not like gravel roads at all, but I usually manage. For some reason, on this road, my bike is twitching from side to side threatening to kick out and dump me. I don't know how far I have to go, so I struggle to keep my speed up to 30 MPH. I have little directional control and just rely on momentum to keep me upright.
















Fortunatly I only have to drive for a mile or so and come up to the spot where I see the narrow path between a corn field and a soy bean field that goes for a half mile to the memorial.

I can understand why there isn't much fanfare about this location. It isn't a claim to fame to say you live where the music died. If you don't know where it is, there is no chance you will just happen upon it.

I take off my gear and put on the tennis shoes I brought with for this trek. At this point I realize that being in, basically, your underwear doesn't afford you any place to put valuables. I grab my camera, roll my wallet in my sock, and figure that it would be really creepy if someone stole my stuff while I visited the crash site.

I start out on the path and quickly realize that walking through a corn field in your underwear doesn't feel good as the stalks cut at your legs. I can see fresh tracks on the packed trail, and keep heading slightly uphill. I see some trees way off in the distance and I wonder if that could mark the spot. That would be a very long walk.

The path starts to head downhill slightly as I'm still pondering the trees in the distance when the cornstalks suddenly open up and there is the memorial.



















People have come and left all sorts of things. There are coins, horned rim glasses, guitar picks, a couple little guitars, beeds, and assorted trinkets. The strangest thing, to me, are business cards. Why would you leave a business card at a memorial? Is Buddy a good referral source for computer networking?

There is a pole nearby and I wonder if this is the actual marker.


As I am looking at the memorial from all different angles I decide to walk behind the display. I didn't realize that there is an old barbed wire fence seperating the two fields until I found myself hopelessly tangled. Somehow the wire has managed to wrap itself around my feet and I can't get free. I finally took my shoes off and untaggled them.

After that I took this picture. Notice the eery apparition that appears in the image.

















I wasn't overcome with any deep thoughts or emotional revelations, so I started the walk back happy that it isn't more than half a mile to the road.
















I get back to my bike, covered in sweat, and pondered the idea of putting all my gear back on. I didn't have to ponder for long when I was attacked by relentless killer gnats.


By now everything I have is absolutly drenched in sweat, my hands and feet look like prunes, and I have heat rash in places I didn't think you could get heat rash. As I am hopelessly waving my socks in the wind, I realize I have the SPAM t-shirt I bought. It hasn't been washed, but it is dry.

As I take off my shirt I am overwhelmed by the disgusting stench it has aquired. I played sports and am no stranger to leaving sweaty clothes in a locker for extended periods of time. That was no match for this. I apologize to every gas station clerk who had to get a whiff of that. I have a meshed outer pocket on my Ventura Pack and the shirt goes there.

The food reenergized me and I am feeling good, hot, but good. I gear up and ride much more slowly on the gravel road. The sun is setting and I plan on getting on 35 and taking it all the way home.

After about 20 miles or so I see a giant wind farm off in the distance. I can't help myself. I've read about the Cerro Gordo wind farm further southwest in Iowa and I was curious to get an up close look. This must be a common reaction by highway drivers as there is a sign as you pull off the highway warning that there are no services at this exit.

Another evil gravel road. You can see a portion of my weaving path in this picture.

Is it just me, or does it seem odd that there would be an old windmill at the worker headquarters in a wind farm.

The last worker was leaving for the day and stopped to see what I was doing. We chatted for a while and I found out that there are 79 windmills here and another 148 further south. From what I read about Cerro Gordo it only has 55. It has a visitor center, so I guess it gets the press.

The sun has now set and it is starting to cool off. I feel good and I'm ready to head home. I might even try to make it non-stop.

The bugs had something to say about that.

17 hours, 551 miles, 31 MPH average speed, three states, and the first time out with my "new-to-me" camera.

Time to plan my next vacation!