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www. FavoriteRidesAndDestinations. com | ridermagazine. com
FALL 2016 ISSUE 02 / VOL. 01
Just miles from Chicago we encountered farmland. One-word signs, weathered with age announced: HAY. SOD. CORN( the latter sometimes adding the qualifier“ SWEET” to distinguish their offering from corn grown as feed or ethanol). Out here, everything that is not road is a cash crop.
We rode through towns that haven’ t seen a paint salesman in this century. Every other house posted notice of a garage sale. We passed a house, the front yard filled either with incredible antiques, or debris from a flood. There were signs of desperation, signs of pride. I noticed details: a mailbox shaped like a John Deere tractor, another with a planter of flowers. This was how people living on a rural delivery route announce themselves. Every town had a civic directory on its border— like knights of old hanging shields on the walls of Arthur’ s court, to signify alliances. Here there be Lions and Rotarians. Baptists and Lutherans. The local legends who won the AAA high school state championship some decades in the past. It’ s the same town, over and over— the water tower, the body shop, the salon where women pamper their nails, the bar named for whatever road you’ re on.
As we neared the Mississippi the terrain changed. We wound through hills, threaded exposed rock bluffs. The signs now announced ski resorts, golf courses and equestrian academies.
In motion, you notice other things in motion. Sort of like entering a dance hall. The moment comes when you don’ t see the floor, only the dancers. I became aware of two egrets, necks outstretched, wings pulling them forward just there. A chevron flight of geese. A hawk flaring its wings, landing atop a fence post. On the river, the white wake of a speedboat. A three-engine train pulling 100 boxcars, light glinting off the steel wheels.
A road trip reminds one that the business of America is motion. That rails follow rivers, that roads follow rails. We followed the roads. It was a sublime state, approaching grace.
Spending the night in Red Wing, we woke to a crisp, cool morning. We set out, the river on our left, and almost immediately felt the dance of movement. A tug pushed four barges, the white curling wake stark against the indigo water. A bicyclist pumped
We followed the roads to Red Wing, Minnesota, home of Red Wing Shoes.
Above: Along the road are numerous farmers’ markets like this one. Below: The wild bunch stops for scenic markers.