Searching for Lewis and Clark

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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 on Cliff bars, bananas, and peanuts, though, curiously, the pickled sausage went untouched. There were trials. My dad fell of the bike in Yankton, battled winds in Iowa, and choking dust from harvesters.

So when Monday came around, I knew I had to show up to witness the brutal endgame of Tour de Dad. Connie and Terrey Culwell, my aunt Linda and I came up from Lincoln and joined my mom and the sag team. We were surprised when we learned that Fred had mounted up and was riding. And then we settled in. We waited awhile. The riders, apparently, were basking in each moment, stretching out their final day on the bike. Those were 29 long miles.

But they came across the finish line. Following the congratulations and laughter the riders expected their well-deserved Coors Lights. But those beers were in the cooler, which was in the sag truck, which Lois had locked. With the keys in it. A flurry of action followed. My mom worked the smart phone for a locksmith, while the Culwells and my aunt Linda and I drove off to the town of Crescent to in search of someone in possession of a slim jim (not the snack stick but the tool used to break open locked cars). There was one such man. He had a garage in town, but it was noon, and he always took an hour for lunch. We decided instead to visit Caseys and get a six pack of Coors regular and drive back to the top of what must be the highest point in all of Iowa where the assembled riders, saggers, and hangers-on paced back and forth. We should have got a twelve.

We waited some more, but this time we had beer, and that made all the difference. My mom had found a mechanic with the requisite tools, but he said it’d take him a half an hour to get to the top of our hill, which is more like one hour and a half in townie time. That’s why 12 would have been better. In any case, Iowa giant showed up to applause. He lept from his tow truck and withing minutes had the sag wagon oppen again. After a round of handshakes, our giant sped off. We broke up the party. My mom went to get her teeth cleaned and peruse Costco with Linda – the rest of us had lunch at Henry’s Diner (“Nothing Finer).” I remember feeling deep disappointment that neither rider ordered the Farmer’s Burger: two half pound patties with double cheese.

The riders had followed, with admitedly less than perfect fidelity, the Lewis and Clark Trail, and so it seemed fitting that after lunch they should seek the Lewis and Clark monument, located somewhere outside of Omaha. There they could reflect on the historical connections binding the Tour de Dad to the Corps of Discovery. The monument was said to be, most frequently by Terry Culwell, somewhere near Omaha’s Epply Airfield – just off the river. And we found monuments. One was a twisted piece of metal triangles built for an office park that never was. This monstrosity had been left in a decaying, weed-infested field, waiting to be born anew when a call center or perhaps an insurance company decides to put down stakes. Another monument, located in a park next to Carter Lake – that strange sliver of Iowa that is in fact within Nebraska – was more promising. This stone slab appeared to have been wrapped in electrical tape. It had been planted facing the river, and, even better, it was Lewis and Clark material. The taped slab memorialized York (“His name was York.”) William Lewis’s slave.

The riders came away deflated, but my reading of the Iowa map indicated that a different Lewis and Clark monument existed. But it lay on the other side of the river, almost exactly where we had been waiting for that lock breaking giant. Tired and weary, the riders decided to at last give up the search and they parted at the Mormon Bridge – Fred and Lois riding across the Missouri to I-29 and my dad, myself and the Culwells heading west to Lincoln.

The Tour de Dad was a great adventure with heroes, trials, pickled sausage and a warm homecoming.

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Photos

The final ascent
Fred and my dad climb Mt. Iowa and complete the Tour de Dad.

Memorializing the feat
My mom and Lois set up a photo with, from left to right, Connie Culwell, Terry Culwell, Linda Sanchez-Masi, my dad, and Fred.

Comments

[Karen and Larry Odegard]

YOU DID IT!
While I (larry) questioned the sanity of this, I had no doubt that you 2 could and would take the challenge. We are all (including Odie) very proud of what you did as well as proud to be a part of your lives! Sincere congrats to all of you and we will really miss the Blogs Chris! A stellar job was accomplished by everyone who was a part of this endeavour and accomplishment!

[rose and Steve]

End Game
Way to go fellas, we are proud of you. You now go down in the annals of Hubbard Bike Lore (not sure, but you may be the first entry). Hope to get together next weekend in PR. A very impressed, Rose and Steve

[steve edwards]

vicarious ride
I enjoyed every grueling moment you described. Great job, thanks for the adventure...not as good as being there but good enough.