The first annual Real Joe ‘Freeze Your Buns’ Motorcycle Run is history. Fellow Joes (Jim Douglas, Larry Harmsen, Jim Winterer) and I fired up our bikes (two Beemers, one Yamaha SR 500, and one Harley) and departed from the Goodbye Blue Monday coffeehouse in Northfield at 10:30 am, heading east via the back roads. It was sunny, windy, and a balmy 45 degrees.
Jim Winterer and I have been riding motorcycles together since we were 16, but mainly dirt bikes. I’ve known Jim Douglas and Larry Harmsen since the late 70s, when we all worked for the Faribault school district. I’ve not had my own road bike since about ’78, so I’ve mainly borrowed their bikes over the years, taking a solo tour in the spring and fall just to keep road biking in my blood. So this was a first, a real treat for me to be going on a short day trip with these three.
After a short break to pee and adjust our ear plugs in Red Wing, we crossed the Mississippi and headed down the Wisconsin side of Lake Pepin on Hwy 35 to Nelson, Wisconsin, a popular touring bike run (part of the Great River Road) because of the twisty road along the big bluffs overlooking the lake (actually, the river but a mile wide at that point). We gassed up in Nelson, Wisc. and then headed for the real twisties, the alphabetized, hilly county roads (starting on Cty D just north of Nelson) of rural SW Wisconsin. We were in road bike heaven — hilly, banked turn after turn, some marked 10 mph, many 20-30, which generally means you can safely do twice that speed on a bike. The only thing we had to be careful of was some of the roads had new gravel shoulders. We had to watch for small rocks that had spurted up onto the pavement from cars that had gone off the edge of the road slightly. Not a problem generally, as long as you were looking for it and had room to straighten up to get passed them.
We took another pee break at Laura Ingalls Wilder’s cabin (Little House on the Prairie) just east of Pepin, Wisc. The skies began turning dark gray as the promised low pressure system began moving in. It was 2 PM. We’re getting hungry, and I had to have the Harley back by 4:30 so we headed back up Hwy 35 to Prescott, where the Mississippi and St. Croix rivers join. It started drizzling just as we pulled up to a restaurant right along the locks. And then it began to pour as we chowed down on some burgers. After a short discussion of our spouses’ attitudes about riding behind us on road bikes (one loves it, one so-so, two don’t like it), we chatted a bit about the “I pray. But not like that.” article. Both Jims and I were raised Catholic, Larry, Methodist. Can saying the rosary offer many of the same benefits as transcendental meditation? Could there be a genuinely helpful way to approach indulgences? We didn’t go too deep, as it was getting dark.
I phoned the Harley shop to see if they’d give me an extra 45 minutes. The woman who answered offered to give me an extra day to return the bike, no charge, as she said it was pretty nasty in downtown Mpls. I declined, as the weather forecast for Monday was much the same, plus I had all the right gear. She was happy to give me till 5:15 to return the bike, even though it would be pitch dark by then.
Jim W. had wisely tossed an extra rain suit in his saddle bags, just in case I needed it. Lucky for me. He even had booties. We suited up in the restaurant, to some strange looks from the patrons. I was psyched. It’d been a while since I’d ridden in the rain, and while not having a windshield would make it a bit more challenging, having Jim W’s rain suit and waterproof gloves, Larry’s full-face helmet, and Jim D’s leather bibs and vest made me confident that it would fun and relatively safe.
Off we went, crossing the St. Croix over to the Minnesota side at Hastings, where Jim D. and Larry headed south back to Northfield, and Jim W. and I headed up Hwy 61 to the Twin Cities. It poured but I was warm and dry. We took the freeway for most of the way back, but as I got into Minneapolis on I-94, the traffic got pretty heavy and it was getting too dark to see the pavement with all the spray. I baled out at Hwy 280 and took University Ave to East Hennepin, then across to Washington Ave to the Harley shop. I arrived about 3 minutes early, 50 miles over the 200 mile limit. The woman graciously declined to charge me the extra 15 cents/mile.
It was definitely a memorable experience. Good friends, spectacular roads, challenging weather. The Sportster was a hoot — gobs of power, surprisingly nimble, and very loud. The only problem was that I didn’t call Robbie to let her know I was okay. She was worried… and then pissed. More on that later. (See the entry for Sat. Nov. 18)