Blown away
What a day! We were blown away.
Welcome to the most memorable leg of our ride. From LaCrosse to Prairie du Chien was only 5 miles shorter than the previous day. We climbed nearly three times as much elevation. But it was all on pavement. And we had assistance.
Boy, did we have assistance.
Planning and accurate weather forecasts converged with a dollop of luck to keep us safe, dry, happy, and fast.
Our day began with Molly Ringwold on video loop, eggs, and bacon then ended with Brewers baseball on a TV over the bar, a Spotted Cow, and tender filet. In between were propelling tailwinds, biker bars, storm fronts, hot dog stand saviors, and rolling hills handily conquered.
We started at The Breakfast Club and Pub in downtown LaCrosse, a John Hughes-themed diner. The downtown spot serves drinks, too, and it seemed like a late-night destination for those who belatedly recognize they’ve had too much and come in for hash browns and omelets in a desperate, futile race to get carbs and fats into the bloodstream ahead of more alcohol.
We were in a desperate race ourselves. I knew storms were heading our way on another high-mileage day, the second metric century in a row. The trick, it seemed to me, was staying ahead of bad weather, both to keep dry but also to ride the waves of northerly wind pushing ahead of the storms.
Early on we were at cruising altitude along the Great River Road, with the Mississippi to our right, high bluffs to our left, black clouds in my rearview mirror, and clear skies ahead. We pedaled with a stiff and gusting wind at our backs along the rollers below LaCrosse.
You can get a tandem moving. Stoddard, Genoa, Victory, DeSoto, Ferryville – 10, 7, 7, 5, and 10 miles apart – slipped by in quick succession, as we rolled furiously. The towns ticked off as we scooted along at a sustained 20 mph with stretches of 25 mph and even 35 mph on the flats. I had to shout out a plea for Avery to let up. He likes to go fast. I like to go fast. But steering a loaded tandem on a 3-foot shoulder strewn with debris in powerful wind right next to highway traffic was stressful. A change of a few degrees in the direction of the gusts, a pothole, or a blowout would have been unpleasant. I white-knuckled the handlebars from the drops to keep us steady at a 20 mph clip.
We were in Ferryville and ready for lunch at the Sportsman Bar & Grill before its opening time. The Wooden Nickle Saloon next door was overrun with Milwaukee-made Harleys. The sun shone on a sparkling river and the black clouds at out backs all morning swept off to the east. Lunch was a leisurely pleasure of triumph enjoyed by the deluded.
I thought we had outsmarted and outrun the weather.
Riding after Ferryville remained a breeze. Then above the treeline of the far-distant Minnesota side of the river rose another bank of clouds. This cinematic shelf-cloud formation rolled toward us. For a time it seemed we might push around this front as well. I stopped to take a photo of the remarkable formation. As I focused the lens on Avery I could gauge the speed of its approach. It was coming fast and now we could see the sheets of rain dropping from the clouds, then we could watch the downpour roiling the river’s surface.
Pedal, Avery! Pedal harder.
Ever closer the rain came without shelter in sight. We zipped downhill toward Lynxville. Around the last bend before the city limits sign, buildings hove into view. Big drops of rain pelted us with force. A distinct wall of water advanced toward Wisconsin then was upon us as I steered us haphazardly toward the Dawg House and its postage-stamp porch and then hauled the tandem up on it, barely able to contain its length, our bodies and baggage while the rain came sideways, continuing to soak us even under nominal cover. A man yelled out from around the corner and over the din of the storm: “Grab your shit and get in here.” We followed instructions and joined Mike in the garage of his house behind the hot dog stand he owned. What had been a downpour showed itself to be merely prelude as curtains of water blew sideways on what I am perfectly comfortable judging as tropical storm-force gales.
But we were dry, along with Mike and Kim and a half dozen motorcyclists similarly sheltering here at the Dawg House refuge.
It was 40 minutes before we could venture out. Temperatures had plunged, but a steady breeze still blew from the northwest. It would propel us over hill and down dale, up and down at similar speed, topping hills at pace. Sun shone down to warm us in cool air the rest of the way into Prairie du Chien and on around to its southside outskirts. We were at a new hotel on the highway next door to the Jones’ Black Angus Steakhouse.
Beef was served all around, with the aforesaid Spotted Cow and a root beer raised in grateful acknowledgment of trailing winds, refuge in a storm, and father-son adventure in southwest Wisconsin.