Wild rivers, giant strawberries and other wonders of northern Iowa

Thirty five miles an hour on a downhill descent, past the quarry before Osterdock, the cold knocks against my ears like bags of marbles.  I almost look forward to climbing past the Turkey river and warming up again.  Sun glints off lingering ice and chunks of the concrete Osterdock bridge are missing.

Fatigue, stress, the worries of several weeks of life's turmoil since the Birkie, I seek to lose these in the rhythm of climbing.  North to Garber road, west to Elkader, south to Strawberry Point and east home.  Six thousand five hundred and forty five feet of climbing (so says my Garmin) and four hours of measured pain and freedom inducing endorphins.  The wind is out of the south, southwest and I stick my nose into it above the climb.  No speed records today, just a lot of time in zones 2 and 3, well below my lactate threshold.  Ploughman's Barn appears on my left, closed for the season, the collection of classic pioneer and early century buildings  sit together in a kind of historical ghetto.  Then the descent into Garber.

'Where Rivers Run Wild!'  declares the sign for Garber.  I can almost see the water stains on the sign from the last flood in '98 that nearly washed the town away.  Should they brag they have problems with flooding?  Another long climb and I notice the wisdom of the century old house perched above the new construction in the flood plain below.

The wind picks up on the ridge and my speed slows.  No matter, what's important are the watts, power, I'm producing

.  With a tailwind I'd be sailing along at 25 right now, instead I'm satisfied with 13.  Right turn for Elkader and a beautiful descent into the wind.  The land stretches out in waving series of hills and valleys.  The Volga meets the Turkey here and, like the interlocking waves of several stones dropped into the pond, the hills from the Mississippi intersect with the rippling ridges of the other two rivers. 

Full headwind going southwest towards Strawberry Point on Highway 13.  Twelve miles.  The speed drops to 12, but a curious thing happens; I'm passed by a

Caterpillar backhoe, a moving wall of steel 12 feet high.  Perfect, I slot in behind and cozy up in the warmth

of the engine.  The wall maintains a nice 17.5 up the climbs and screams along at 27 on the downhills.  Heaven until six miles later and he turns off.  Is he upset with me for following, interested or indifferent?  One more climb into the wind that reminds me of the small col north of Perpignan, radio tower and all.

Strawberry Point is a collection of antique homes, a drugstore that still has a real, working soda fountain and the world's largest strawberry.

The road flattens and I head east through Edgewood, tailwind in hand, maintaining a nice 22.  Home is reached with 66 miles on the odometer and I'm feeling the body hum.