RAGBRAI LII (2025)
“When you see that last water tower, it kind of dulls the pain,” he opined. Someone had asked the young man how many miles we had left, and he added this caveat to boost morale. Many Iowa towns have a water tower that becomes visible from a mile or two down the road.
Around 30 riders stopped a mere five miles from the overnight town in someone’s shady yard on Day 4 of our ride across Iowa. All of us were nonetheless in desperate need of a respite before finishing. The sun was intense, the feels-like temperature was hovering around 95-degrees, and the wind was right on the nose. We’d been plagued by headwinds for the better part of the ride. Riding mostly due south, the winds were blowing from due south as well, and gusting up to 20mph. A stretch of road where one might expect to ride about 15 mph, now hosted riders going around 10mph. In the heat. In the sun. And this was the second day of this nonsense. Day 3 was nearly the same distance and the same conditions.
I sat down next to a portly yellow labrador retriever, thinking that if I pet a dog, I might feel just a smidge better, but the dog wanted nothing to do with me. The young man/philosopher next to me retrieved a fresh-baked cookie from his pocket and the dog perked right up. Only then did the furry fellow show interest in us.
On Day 3, at my lowest point, I’d found a library in one of the pass-through towns in which I could rest and recover. Outside, there were hordes of riders, beer, music, smelly port-o-lets, sun, and oppressive heat. But in the library, there was A/C, flushing toilets, snacks, librarians, and books. I sat at a table with a couple in the Air Force cycling team who were expecting a baby in six months. They had met on Ragbrai the previous year and were surprisingly chipper. Soon another man sat down with us. He was trying to figure out how to get a ride for him and his wife to the end-town. It was brutal out there and they were done. After cooling off, grabbing a snack, downing a couple bottles of water, using the bathroom, re-buttering the burgeoning saddle sores on my rump, re-applying sunscreen, and filling my water bottles, I was on my way. The sharp pain in my neck had subsided and the numbness in my hands had dissipated.
Day 4 brought more of the same. “That was the best move I’ve made all week,” one of my camp-mates remarked on his way back from the port-o-let in the morning. I grimaced and continued preparing for the day of riding. I dined upon some disappointing biscuits and gravy in the morning but then was gifted a meat stick from a man handing them out to the legions of hot sweaty riders. Dejectedly, I sat in the grass for several minutes trying to remove the plastic covering from the meat stick. Fail. Soon a kind fellow sat next to me, who was packing a knife. Thankfully, he was able to liberate the meat stick for me. The library at the next stop was serving up cold brew, which I still believe saved my life.
Finding the camp site at the end of a ride is always an adventure. My camp mates would provide a litany of cryptic SMS messages that would have me wandering off in the wrong direction for several minutes. “Tent is on the left side of the trucks,” for instance without any reference regarding where one would be facing when referencing “left.” I’m quite certain that was done out of spite and malice as well as for their amusement.
After a long day of riding, a shower is generally in order, but finding said showers and waiting your turn can be painful. On Day 6, we followed the “Shower” signs and found our way to the Middle School adjacent to the campground. We paid the man $8 each and he assured us that there were a few private stalls. The men went one way, and the women the other way. Upon entering the ladies shower area, I quickly discovered that it was little more than a big round shower head with six nozzles on a concrete floor flanked by a few lockers and benches. Six women were in various states of undress near the lockers and four were naked and huddled underneath their respective shower nozzles. Adjacent, there were three occupied shower stalls with nary a curtain or door. I gasped audibly, turned around and headed for safety. A short walk away I found Joe’s Wet Shack, a bank of shower trucks of which I was familiar. While not ideal for a luxurious bath experience, they do provide a modicum of privacy in which to complete your après-ride toilette. Upon reconnecting with my male camp-mates, I discovered they had endured all there was to endure in the boy’s locker room. They were visibly unsettled and reluctant to share details.
One new discovery I made this year was the glorious Pizza Ranch. For $13, you squeeze in with scores of other riders and compete for slices of pizza served buffet-style. There is also a salad bar and some fried somethings, but we all know we are there for the pizza. The ravenous crowds our Pizza Ranchers were trying to satisfy would convene surrounding the pizza buffet table. Once a pizza, consisting of eight slices, was served, the masses would battle for the spoils. More than once, I found myself on the front lines wielding the spatula considering the moral dilemma of how many slices I could take and still be considered a good person.
Ragbrai 52 was quite the event with its high points and low points. Long shower lines, beautiful sunsets, new friends, and bad Mexican food. The memories will linger I’m sure, as will the saddle sores and the smell wafting from my bike shoes.
