Ever seen a Naked Beer Slide? It's Slip-and-Slide with beer instead of water, sans clothing. Ever seen somebody take a shower in a car wash? I bet you're wondering about the scrubbers.... Ever hear of 10,000 people taking a week off work to ride their bikes 500-plus miles across the state of Iowa? Yeah ... that part surprised me, too.

This annual oddity is called RAGBRAI: the Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa, and it is the longest, largest, and oldest touring bike ride in the world. For the past 29 years, the Des Moines Register has sponsored the seven-day ride (not race) from one end of Iowa to the other during the last full week in July. The cyclists begin by dipping their back tire in the Missouri River on the western border of the state and complete the ride by dipping their front tire in the grand old Mississippi on the eastern edge. And you would not believe the amount of beer consumed along the way.

I heard about the ride from my mother: this was her fifth year participating. When she told me she would be heading out again this summer, I begged to drive her there and tag along. I don't know why, but she said yes. I enlisted my good friend Ronnie for social and alcoholic support, and she suspiciously obliged. We took along a mountain bike to share, but let's not delude ourselves. We were tourists, not cyclists. The only part we'd even mildly trained for was the drinking.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Like leeches, we attached ourselves to Team S.N.I.F.F., a raucous group primarily based in and around Iowa. They told me two very important things: a) "What goes on RAGBRAI, stays on RAGBRAI." So who's the idiot who invited the reporter? And b) "If we ever cross the line ... just accept it!" Somehow my mother befriended this radical bunch, and they let her ride with them and camp each night at the homes of their host families, even though she's not on the team. After meeting them briefly, this struck me as special treatment. They are, in a word, elite. They ride well, drink well, and tell a tall tale. When I grow up, I want to be like Team S.N.I.F.F.

The members wear matching black t-shirts with catchy slogans and drive a jet black bus with each of their nicknames painted under their individual windows. The seats have been replaced with couches and lounging areas, and there's a spacious deck on the roof for bike storage and mid-trip relaxation. Now, how do the 20-some members of the team find each other in towns swarming with thousands of other riders? Simple: "Meet at the first bar on the right ... unless it's on the left."

Their shirts warn "Don't ask," but I think "Gee! That's what I'm paid to do!" So I ask. "Hey, guys, what does S.N.I.F.F. stand for?" After a pause, one answers: "Ask Kenny." Kenny is a fairly talkative member of the team, so I suspect they push difficult questions like this onto him. "What does S.N.I.F.F. stand for, Kenny?" He considers me silently. Holly (" Hollywood") chimes in: "Sensitive Nice Intelligent Funny Fellows." Somehow I doubt this. Lars (" The Gnome") walks by and declares, "The 'N' stands for 'Knowledge' ... I know that."

Oh. I see. Nobody is feeling friendly today. And so what, pray tell, did I learn from this? Simply, never inquire facts from S.N.I.F.F. They'll smile, nod, and insinuate you're fucking foolish for asking. So naturally I faced facts, and fled. See? Now I feel fine.

* * * * * * * * * * *

This bitty little paragraph is dedicated to the actual ride, though I can only honestly report on it from afar and in part. My friend Ronnie rode a six-mile stretch between Washta and Quimby that was rumored to be "not so bad." She was still able to breathe and even walk when I next saw her, so we'll rack that up as a success. I was slated to ride the stretch between Mount Olive and Storm Lake, but big surprise, it stormed (this of course did not deter the thousands of other people on the ride). So I'll do some conditions- reporting instead: this year's ride was rainy and hilly early on. Chance of headwinds were high all week. Highs were in the mid 90s, lows in ... maybe the 60s or so at night. Tune in next ride to Doppler Center Too Drunk for all your route stats. Or better yet, just have a good time and don't worry about the conditions: most of the people I talked to admitted that the ride itself isn't that tough for experienced cyclists. I mean after all, it's not the Tour de France.

Speaking of the Tour de France (chuckle, chuckle), the first day I was there in Iowa I spent in a bar-- from 1: 30 in the afternoon until 10: 30 that night-- with Team S.N.I.F.F. Now, if you follow cycling at all you know that the extremely celebrated Lance Armstrong just competed in (and won, for the thrid straight year) the Tour de France. Someone turned on the TV in the corner of the bar, and lo and behold, it was Lance, leader of the pack. I had no idea that bike-riders are in fact just like basketball fans. And football fans. And any fan of a sport that may be viewed in a bar setting. When Lance Armstrong appeared on that big screen, everyone in the bar-- and I mean everyone-- pivoted until they were riveted to The Man. I looked to Ron (" Whoop Ass") for clarification. Over the neck of his Bud and in total seriousness he told it just like it is: "Lance Armstrong is the Alpha Male."

Q & A: I asked six different cyclists the same two questions:

1) Why do you ride RAGBRAI?
2) What's the strangest thing you've seen on the ride?

Dave Bender.
Muscatine, IA Team Melonhead. 6th ride.

1) "It's fun. You know why people ride bikes on RAGBRAI? Otherwise everyone would be here."
2) "A guy was naked ... he jumped from a silo onto a Port-a-Potty."

Barbara Moore.
Denver, CO Free Agent. 5th ride.

1) "It's a time when I can be carefree and truly relax." [Relax? Is that a joke?]
2) "The Santa Claus guy. Full Santa costume pulling a trailer of Christmas presents and playing Christmas music."

Richard Thompson.
Des Moines, IA Free Agent. More than 20 rides.
(Pictured with Lipstick Man.)

1) "Force of habit."
2) "Lipstick Man. He's saving the world from chapped lips."

[When I first asked his name he replied: "I don't remember. Last thing I remember is a big cat."]

Gail Tracy.
Miami, FL Team Stroking, Subteam Oreo. 1st ride. Pictured with husband Scott.

1) "My husband made me. My butt hurts."
2) "The tiger guys." [long, striped tails on the backs of their bikes with testicles]

P. J. Hutchinson.
Long Beach, CA Free Agent. 1st ride. 5 years old.

1) "...[ silence]..."
2) "...[ silence]..."
[P. J. rides in a bike trailer behind his parents' tandem bike. His kid sister rides in a trailer behind him. With help, he managed to admit RAGBRAI is "fun." Thanks P. J.!]

Kathy Jackowski.
Chicago, IL Team S.C.U.M. 2nd ride.

1) "Because I'm a long distance cyclist, and I like to do a ride that's a lot of fun. Once a year we can be tasteless and immature."
2) "People actually having oral sex on stage. But I didn't learn anything new."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Though I was plenty content to follow Team S.N.I.F.F. around like a stray, cross-eyed dog all week, I was on a mission: I needed to locate the Colorado teams. I had heard rumors ... Team Bad Boy from Boulder supposedly rides towing a fully-loaded bar, a home component stereo system, a full-sized working grill, and a huge cooler full of beer, not to mention all the camping gear. And I heard the team has a whirlpool bath on its bus or something. So they get the fancy flair award, but where were they? Dear Team Bad Boy. It's me, Margaret. I looked for you. Don't be pissed you're not in my article in greater detail. Just consider your absence fuel for your legend.

My quest was not a total bust, however. While passing through a town, I stopped to take a picture of a man with a toy troll mounted on his helmet and a blow-up doll riding on the back of his tandem bike. Oh Providence, he turned out to be Jeff Miller of Denver (pictured far right, facing page), riding his third RAGBRAI. Jeff is something of a cycling legend: he's been riding tandem with Wilimena Rubberta (the doll) for three years. Sometimes she stokes (back seat), and sometimes she rides captain (front). Wilimena is also a registered rider on the MS 150, a Colorado ride to benefit the Multiple Schlerosis Society. Last year, more than 2,000 people found sponsors and raised money for the event, their bib number determining their placement in the fundraising. Wilimena the Rubber Doll beat out 1,500 other riders to have a bib in the 600s. And Jeff's tandem still proudly sports his bib-- the impressive number 128. He began riding the MS 150 in 1992, and fell in love with organized rides; shortly thereafter and in one of those strange twists of fate, his brother was diagnosed with the disease. Now Jeff rides as a member of the Troll Patrol and keeps Wilimena with him "just for the fun of it," inspiring other cyclists with his strength and sense of humor.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Next I found Team Red Dog, based in Colorado but boasting members this year from six different states. Considering my mother was hoping to hitch a ride home with them on their bus, we were pleased as country punch to see their red jerseys zigzagging through the crowd in Quimby. After some time, the tour director for Red Dog, Rich "T.D." Lyons, cruised into town. I spotted the fit, strawberry-blonde, 40-something Highlands Ranch resident from a distance and approached, and Rich gave me the scoop: of the 20-some members, ordinarily about 12 or 13 are from Colorado, but this year only nine were able to join them. So why is he the tour director for this motley crew? Because, quite simply, "Somebody had to do it," and he's "good at organization." (I later discovered through someone else that Rich is, in fact, one of the founding members of Team Red Dog, along with teammates Wendy Martin and Alan Lees.) I then asked an apparently stupid question. "What do you do in Denver?" He hesitated a moment before regretfully informing me, "We're not allowed to talk about work on the ride. So ... I bike." I smiled invitingly. He continued in a friendly tone: "It's a team rule. If I get caught talking about work I have to buy everyone I see a round. So! It gets expensive." His turn to smile. We then scheduled a team photo shoot for 7:30 the next morning and parted ways.

About that, fellas ... the team pic didn't come out, and I'm really sorry. It's funny, you see, because a lot of the people on the team had me take the picture with their cameras, too, so they each probably have an entirely suitable copy. But alas, mine was too blurry to even sneak into print. But look at teammate Bob Wilson, the Colorado Cyclist! (Pictured far left, facing page.) He looks good, right? I saw Bob and figured that his jersey alone justified my entire assignment. Despite the blurry team photo, it was not at all a wasted morning; I befriended Rick Rounds from Dayton, Ohio, simply because his jersey promoted "I'm an Arrogant Bastard Ale," and I always talk to arrogant bastards just on principle. He met some members of Team Red Dog while doing the annual "Ride the Rockies" bicycle ride in Colorado a few years back. Next I met Dan Marshall, who just finished cycling 21,000 miles around the world with teammate "Wild Bill" Huseman. The best place to ride? "Iowa!" he proclaimed loudly enough to be appreciated by all, including their gracious host family. Most difficult? "Death Mountain, Costa Rica." Yeah. As if the name's not a total giveaway.

Dan sneaked away, so I introduced myself to the infinitely charming Katie Martin from St. Louis, daughter of team co-founder Wendy Martin. She's supertoned and all smiles with fantastic white-blonde hair. I asked her how old she was, and she pulled me close to whisper confidentially, "Sssshhhh ... 17." I think the team thinks she's 21. Do not despair-- your secret is safe with me, Katie! I'll publish it in a magazine your whole team will read, but I'll never say it out loud! I then asked Katie how the ride was going, and she excitedly answered, "Good! I made yesterday ... I'm tired, and I'm sore, but I'm ready for another day." And will she come back next year? "If I make it through this!"

* * * * * * * * * * *

Something fantastic happened after my botched photo shoot. I was driving down Might-As-Well-Be-Main Street, drinking a machine-processed cappuccino thing purchased at a general store, when I drove right past an enormous orange school bus. The bus said "Team CO2-- Denver, Colorado." About five 20-somethings were standing around outside the bus, looking like if they noticed they were standing they'd soon fall down. Oh Lordy, Lordy: they're under 40! I parked the car at a ridiculous angle and walked over, introducing myself as a writer for a Denver magazine. "Which one?" they inquired. I answered, "Go-Go," and they said, "Oh. Yeah." Finally! I'm in my demographic.

They gave me a rundown on the bus perks: a margarita machine, two kegs (the taps are actually built into the back of the bus so you don't even have to go inside to drink), a huge 2,000-watt stereo system, coolers full of beer, and ... no generator. It died the night before. They were either not too concerned about this or too tired and hungover to really think about it. I commented on the taps and team member Bryan Headley confirmed my suspicion. "We're on schedule on the drinking. We're a little behind on the riding." A girl came around the corner of the bus with spikey orange hair, complimenting both the bus and her team t-shirt. I asked if she was the only lady on the team. The guys all laughed because I said "lady." Ignoring my diction, she introduced herself as Arva Adams and promptly replied, "Kind of ... I think Tim's getting a sex change next week." Quick to the core.

Team CO2 let me peek inside its bus and take a picture of the still-sleeping members, and they gave me all the info they had on other Colorado teams. Besides those I knew of, they said to keep an eye out for Team Emu and Team Slacker. Listen, I tried okay? I tried. But I am only one, and ye are many.

* * * * * * * * * * *

During a torrential rainstorm in Quimby and while waiting for Ronnie and my mother to roll in, I took shelter under a tent where volunteers for the Quimby Fire Department were selling tickets for sandwiches, homemade pie, and watermelon. I didn't feel like spending money, so I decided to satisfy my appetite with an authentic interview with a native Iowan.

My addiction started the first night when our host family was Mr. and Mrs. Fall; they are perhaps the nicest people I've ever met. We pitched our tents on their sloping lawn at the edge of their 40-acre property which boasted a pond, two swings hanging from huge trees, a trampoline, and a couple of horses, cats, and dogs. They chatted smoothly about the life cycle they're creating by adding the pond to the area and about the local wildlife. They also reminded us that the front door is always open and to please make ourselves at home. I became addicted to Iowans then, and now I needed more.

Across the field I spotted 6-year-old Nathan Zubrod and his 11-year-old sister Jessica selling bottled water and Powerade. I ran into the rain and tucked myself under their tent. They all asked if I wanted a bottle of water, and I asked if they were excited about RAGBRAI. Nathan nodded, but wasn't sure if he wanted to talk out loud to me yet. Jessica cautiously bailed him out: "I think it's pretty neat." I asked if they were Quimby residents and this seemed to give them both a great deal of pause. Fortunately, Mrs. Zubrod smiled easily and saved them both, scooping them out of their confusion like a graceful mother goose. "We go to church here in town, so we're helping for our church." Jessica then opened up, bit by bit, informing me that she has lived her whole life in the countryside just beyond Quimby. "We have a farm. We take care of animals, we harvest crops, and we have a garden." Jessica is excited to be volunteering on the ride. "It's pretty good I guess. It's fun to help out and watch them go through the town." I then took the Zubrod's address in Marcus, Iowa, so I could send them a copy of the magazine since they don't have Internet access, and Jessica scurried away to sell more Powerade with Nathan.

Over my shoulder, a woman asked me about the article I'm working on. She was eager, friendly, funny, and a picture of midwestern hospitality. Her name is Renee Perry, and she and her husband Steve moved to Quimby from Fargo, North Dakota, three years ago. Now they're both helping to facilitate the activities in town; Renee reacts to all the excitement with a mixture of awe and I think envy, asking me rhetorically in her thick Fargo accent, "I mean, would you want to be drinking a beer at 8:30 in the morning?" She laughed heartily, and then told me a RAGBRAI secret: there are cheaters. Renee said she's seen some people drive into town with their bikes on their car, unload, ride one block to the party, drink up, and move on. Renee's reaction to this? "You little shits! You cheated!" I found it hysterical to hear her call them "little shits," so we kept talking. She said the best thing about RAGBRAI is "just to see all the different people, all the different bikes ... just to see how wild some people get." She wasn't sure about the worst thing, but hubby Steve could safely say, "There's really nothing bad about it." Agreed.

Registration for RAGBRAI is $100 per cyclist. Cheating is easy but not recommended. Iowa sweet corn is $3 per 16 ears purchased from roadside vendors, and it tastes great raw. More information about RAGBRAI is at www.ragbrai.org

GO-GO * ART * MOVIES * MUSIC * BOOKS * STYLE * THEATER * DINING * BARS * YEARBOOK * ABOUT GO-GO * * BACK ISSUES * MUSIC SAMPLER * MEDIA REVIEWS * REVIEW INDEX *