Redwood Falls, Minnesota

When my thought occasionally drifts transporting me to France where I’d ordinarily be this time of year, one of the things that jolts me back to home turf is an “Adopt a Highway” sign, something that is unique to the US.  One might think the French would have embraced or even inspired the concept with their natural inclination to community spirit, but they have no need of appointing a group to clean litter from the highway, as individuals do it on their own, as I witness year after year along the Tour de France route when no litter remains at the roadside despite its being lined with fans for hours.  Everyone picks up for themselves.

I don’t see all that much litter along the roads in the US, and not from do-gooders cleaning the roadsides, but because people generally know better.  I don’t know if the time of “Adopt the Highway” is past, inaugurated in 1985 by Texas, but I welcome the signs as I know they are spaced two miles apart and in most instances there isn’t more than one preceding a small town.  When I come upon such a sign it is a happy indication that I’m two miles from a town I may have been anticipating for miles as an oasis of some sort.  When the winds are against me, it also means I will soon have a bit of respite from it.

I’ve had a sense that I’ve been on the Tour de France route that last couple of days as I’ve been maximizing my time on the bike, as I must do when following The Tour.  I’ve had a rare tailwind and I don’t want it to go to waste, so I’ve been riding and riding.  I had my first century of the year yesterday and would have had another the day before if I didn’t have to turn into the wind for twelve miles to slip across the border back to South Dakota for a Carnegie in Milbank.  I spent an hour-and-a-half pushing into the hearty wind that had otherwise been pushing me all day.  

It was one of four Carnegies for the day and the best of the lot by far, even though it was no longer a library, but a museum.  It had a corner entrance and stone of two hues and trim of a third, all gleaming with pride.  

The first of the day in Browns Valley was vacant and almost as forlorn and dilapidated as its cousin across the border in Sisseton.  Its brick facade wasn’t crumbling as was Sisseton’s, but one of the light fixtures flanking the entrance was mournfully dangling.

‘Twas a shame it was being neglected, as it had a most attractive intricate yellow brickwork pattern.  If this town of less than five hundred inhabitants weren’t in decline, the building could certainly be put to a useful purpose.  It gazes upon the main street through the town begging to be saved, 

It was thirty-three miles to the next Carnegie in Ortonville riding along the Minnesota River which separates the two states. It was a joy to be back amongst trees after days of nothing but endless plains in Nebraska and South Dakota.  When I stopped at an intersection to study my map, a car with Georgia license plates stopped and a forty-year old guy got out, not to ask if I needed help, but to ask about my travels, hoping I was on some epic ride, as he said he was a cyclist himself.  He was up from Atlanta helping his father on his farm.  

He had grown up in Sisseton and had spent many an hour in its Carnegie library reading  after school every day.  He went on to be an adjunct professor teaching statistics, but presently worked as a mechanic for Delta Air Lines.  He said he had seen me bicycling out of Sisseton the evening before and thought I could use a reflective vest, the second person of these travels to tell me so.  He said he had a spare in his trunk and that I could have it.  He was so cordial and took his time in bringing up his concern for my safety rather than haranguing me about it from the start, as had an older woman back in Nebraska, I gladly accepted his offer.  Now I have an official Delta Air Lines vest that might allow me to bypass lines and wander about at will the next time I’m flying out of O’Hare.  

Only once before in all my travels has someone rebuked me for not being visible enough on my bike.  I wonder if twice on one trip is a new trend or just a fluke.  I wonder too if I’d be setting off concerned citizens if I were riding without a helmet.  I know of one person who isn’t hesitant in telling unhelmeted cyclists to get a helmet.  When she’s out riding with her dog, who’s wearing a homemade helmet, she’s known to say, “My dog wears a helmet.  You should too.”  

The Ortonville Carnegie still served as a library and had a lovely location on a hill looking out on the river.  It had been augmented by an elevator, but hadn’t been added on to.  It was still one large room with a second room in the basement.  It was most pleasant to sit at one of its original wooden desks surrounded by the original wooden book cases.  

From there it was back over the Minnesota River into a punishing wind to the magnificent Carnegie in Milbank.  I had to delay regaining the tailwind when I headed back to Minnesota, as road construction forced me to ride a rough dirt road for eight miles, further undermining my bid for one hundred miles for the day, having to settle for eighty-eight ending up in the town campground on the outskirts of Madison, less than a mile from it’s Carnegie, riding almost until dark with the wind hardly letting up.

The Carnegie still served as a library with an addition to its backside tripling its space.  A family of four patrolling the town in an ATV told me the whereabouts of the campground.  I had it all to myself, though I had to wait for the lone shower, as an older guy in a pickup truck had stopped by to use it.  Though I’d much prefer to be camping in the woods, I’ve come to appreciate these minimal town campgrounds, even when there is a service station across the road.  I almost feel a sense of duty to put them to use, to justify the town making one available.  As I was pushing on until the setting of the sun, it was assuring to know that Madison would most likely offer a place to camp and how nice it would be to have electricity and hot water.

I followed up a four-Carnegie day with just a single what with the next eighty-four miles away, mostly east but also a bit south in Redwood Falls, the second city of the day naming itself for some falls, the other Cedar. As long as I was going east I had a wind on my back.  Two southern legs of about twenty-five miles required me to summon a little more effort from my legs than when the wind was firmly on my back, but there was no worries about going over one hundred miles for the day.  

I stopped at 107 when I came to a state park, even though I had an hour of light left and the wind urging me to keep riding.

The Carnegie in Redwood Rapids, the second city of the day named for a rapids, the other Granite, stood gallantly on a slight rise it had all to itself and was now home to the Minnesota Women’s Indigenous Society (“Advocacy for native victims of sexual and domestic assault”). The town was large enough to have a slew of fast food franchises, so I was able to grab a McChicken and fill two of my thermal bottles with ice and water, all the reward I could want for my hundred miles.