Bicycles and Bicycle Touring

My First Bicycle Tour

For me, nothing compares with the freedom I feel while touring on a bike

“No type of riding inspires and thrills me more than fully loaded and unsupported touring.”-The author

Cycling runs through my veins. Even my oldest son Nick, an engineer for a major bicycle manufacturer, and whose life is centered around bicycles and bicycling, said to me about cycling, “I got it from you.”

Although I enjoy many types of cycling, and sometimes ride thousands of miles in a year, no type of riding inspires and thrills me more than fully loaded and unsupported touring. For me, nothing compares with the freedom I feel when touring on a bike.

My first bicycle tour, taken fifty years ago, was an impromptu affair. At the age of twelve, my friend Craig and I packed sandwiches, potato chips, apples, and cookies into paper sacks. After we tucked them, and canteens filled with water (I used my dad’s canteen from when he was a US Marine during the Korean War), into our backpacks, we set off into the countryside. The sun warmed us as it rose on that summer day. We headed south on old Highway 105, better known as the river road, from our hometown of Austin, Minnesota. We planned to return home by midafternoon.

“When the spirits are low, when the day appears dark, when work becomes monotonous, when hope hardly seems worth having, just mount a bicycle and go out for a spin down the road, without thought on anything but the ride you are taking.” — Arthur Conan Doyle

I rode my three-speed Schwinn bike with wide 24” tires. It was painted metallic green and was well-suited for the day’s ride. Craig rode his Schwinn Stingray bike with a banana seat, five-speed shifter mounted on the top tube, and slick tires. His bike was made for riding around a city block. But we did our best with what we had.

By midmorning, our canteens ran dry. So, we turned into Woodbury Cemetery and rode up the hill to its handpump. I filled my canteen while Craig pumped the water, and then did the same for him.

Minutes later, we reached the Iowa border. Paved Highway 105 didn’t meet with its counterpart highway in Iowa, so we rode east for one-quarter mile on the gravel border road. Then, we turned south onto a paved highway and pedaled into Iowa.

After a few miles, we turned into the driveway of the Kenny Goplerud farm. Mr. Goplerud was the widower of my father’s stepsister, so he welcomed Craig and me onto his farm. He was happy to see us and supplied us with snacks and water. Mr. Goplerud recounted the story of our surprise visit to his farm over the years at many family gatherings. Each time he told the story, he seemed amazed that Craig and I had ridden so far at such a young age.

We rode by the now-gone drive-in theater, common, like others, throughout the US at that time. A few miles later, Craig and I arrived in St. Ansgar, Iowa. We were tired and dirty, and we knew we lacked the time or energy to ride home. So, we pedaled to the house of my grandmother, Anna Voit, to surprise her. Both of my grandmas lived in St. Ansgar, and my family and I visited them every Sunday, so I knew the town well.

Although grandma had emigrated from Europe more than sixty years earlier, she greeted us with her East Prussian accent. She was surprised and seemed happy to see us. But her face turned to bewilderment when I asked if we could stay the night. So, I dialed her telephone to call my mother and ask her for a ride home. I still remember that phone call, along with the placement of the beige-colored Bell telephone hanging on the east wall of grandma’s kitchen. Even though Austin was only twenty miles north of St. Ansgar, my mom declined to pick Craig and me up. So, grandma was stuck with us.

“It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them.” — Ernest Hemingway

Grandma fed us supper. Then, Craig and I rode the mile to a dam on the Red Cedar River (now shortened to Cedar River) to go fishing. Based on my experience fishing there, it was a good place to catch rough fish like carp and suckers.

Grandma lacked fishing equipment, so she had set us up with cotton string and safety pins. Because a safety pin lacks a barb like a fishhook has, an earthworm easily slipped off, of course. Also, there was no way to set a safety pin in a fish’s mouth like one would set a fishhook. We felt some nibbles, but neither of us hooked a fish.

“The first day of the tour is etched into my memory…”

Craig and I must have slept well at grandma’s house that night. But I remember nothing of the next morning or our ride home to Austin. The first day of the tour is etched into my memory, though. It comes to mind and makes me smile whenever I drive or ride past the cemetery, Kenny Goplerud’s old farm, or grandma’s house in St. Ansgar.

“Since then, I have taken several multi-week self-supported bike tours. I am happy to say that the practice has finally formed into a habit.” — The author

Fifty years have passed since that first interstate bicycle tour in Southeast Minnesota and Northeast Iowa. Twenty-four more years passed before I took my first planned bike tour, a four-day ride covering 396 miles from Ely, Minnesota, into Wisconsin, and then to home in Rochester, Minnesota. Since then, I have taken several multi-week self-supported bike tours. I am happy to say that practice has formed into a habit.

“Smile, wave, and say hi.” — The author

Happy riding. And remember to smile, wave, and say hi when passing motorists, pedestrians, and fellow cyclists.