Grrrr

Yesterday, Fred and my dad completed their 1,000 mile odyssey in the Loess Hills, outside Missouri Valley, Iowa. Cheers and many photo opportunities greeted the athletes as they climbed that final hill. Fred rode for the first time since throwing out his back three days before, while my dad finished off his 10th consecutive day of riding, the last one with a bum hamstring. Pretty impressive stuff. I had left my sag duties, and the Tour de Dad, Saturday. That's when I returned to Lincoln to watch a demoralizing Cornhusker defeat. In my absence, Lois and the temporarily-hobbled Fred ably took over as saggers. Their stops at three-to-five mile intervals made my dad’s bike ride through the final part of South Dakota and the first 60 miles of Iowa possible. My dad and his saggers feasted ... read more

The Tour de Dad has entered the brutal phase. Less than 250 miles remain, but each comes at a price. Yesterday, the Weather Channel had promised northwest winds, and the athletes gamely talked of another 90-mile day. The morning’s southeast winds, the riders knew, would fade. But they did not fade. They strengthened. Around noon, the winds seemed to shift, only to cruelly smash right back into the riders’ faces. And then there were those hills. “Baby Monster,” ravaged Fred’s legs – he nearly called it quits after the 26th mile. When my dad reached BM’s peak, he slowed to yell another joke in the direction of the sag wagon. Instead he wobbled and, still clipped in, the wind threw him to the ground. Yet the riders again showed resilience. The got their 60 miles. But ... read more

Fred and my dad resumed riding in Bismarck. Many might say, “but didn’t they stop at the Montana border – how can they have ‘resumed riding in Bismarck?'” I explain. It is true that the capital of North Dakota is not anywhere near the Montana border. In fact, Bismarck lies roughly 200 miles from where Fred and my dad ended the Montana leg of their quest. Did they cover 200 miles in one day? They did. On I-94. In their respective Chevy trucks. I asked my dad if he felt any guilt about taking the easy way out. He didn’t give a direct answer. “There are just too many big trucks. It would be mayhem.” The riders received their reward for playing it safe. They started out from Bismarck earlier than ever – dawn was just ... read more

This is our second night in Lewistown, Montana. We find ourselves accompanied friendly English setters, sautéed sharp tailed grouse, and lots of dust. Our two protagonists, also known as “the athletes,” have ridden 180 miles since Great Falls. And as befits the purpose of this Corps, they have made significant discoveries. Yesterday I rode with the athletes. Fred rides lead, and I quickly discovered how foolish it is to attempt to keep up. My father, girt in “hunters orange,” set a more congenial pace. So initially I stuck behind him. But this was hard to do because he was so slow. And why ride your brakes down the hills -- he just sucked all of the fun out the best thing about riding -- the coasting. So I took off, and Dad became an orange spot ... read more

Anxiety rose along with the elevation as we drove toward the heart of Montana today, making our way from Billings to Great Falls. The growing tension inside the Rasmussen Silverado had nothing to do with the previous night’s conversation, when, over strawberry daiquiris and the Outback Steakhouse's signature “blooming onion,” I chose to defended my particular political heresy against my parents’ orthodoxy. No! It was the upcoming Tour de Dad – that heroes’ quest – that cast such a long shadow. The wondrous mapping tools of our modern world provided my parents little security in that Silverado. Maps were double and triple checked and still the path remained obscure. Questions were asked, answered, and asked again. Certainty, it seemed, was all but impossible. “I wanna know where I’m going!” became a frequent comment. Outside, the plains ... read more