Moving a rolling city of 15,000 people across the state is a logistical nightmare, of course. Riders in the 36th annual "Register's Annual Bike Ride Across Iowa (RAGBRAI) don't notice the difficulties because so far things are falling into place.
Dozens of food and drink venders line the highways, which are closed to cars for the most part. Local communities of several hundred people put on their best dress and their small downtowns and parks are filled with every manner of special booth to feed this crowd.
But you can't control the weather. At 2 a.m. Monday morning the civil patrol rolled through town, sirens burping and loudspeakers warning the thousands of people in tent villages to make their ways to more stable shelter. The area was under tornado watch.
The sky loomed ominous with strange light and bursts of wind tugged at the moorings of fragile shelters. People in the 60 tents occupying the backyard where I stayed milled around the host house, wondering where the shelter was to which we were supposed to flee. And we wondered whether or not to actually go. No one wanted to go but no one wanted to go airborne either. My riding buddy Steve and I reasoned that if we left for the shelter, who would be there to hold down the tent?
So we nestled down, the storm blew over us and caused havoc 40 miles away; corn fields flattened and trees down that we saw when we rode through the next day.
But we stayed in the tent and snored away our best three hours of sleep; before rising at 4:45 to start what for us was going to be the challenge of our riding lives--a 100-mile "century" ride.
And it was the day we discovered Iowa is not flat. Western Iowa, rising away from the Missouri River, is an incredibly beautiful, steeply hilled terrain covered, as is the rest of the state, by cornfields. The vistas were inspiring when we could look. Mostly our eyes are glued to the wheel ahead of us so we don't run up on them, and so we can quickly adjust when they suddenly change direction.
Locals describe the terrain as rollers: constant up and down. No flat spots. You're either racing down or grinding up. But then you get to a little town like Harlan, or Ogden or Boone or Coon Valley and the cheerleaders are greeting you; kids cool you off with hoses as you ride by, Chamber of Commerce reps drape beads over your neck and they express their appreciation for you coming.
By the end of our ride Steve and I had done 110 miles, racing a storm the last 10, and losing. While the wind was scary, the rain refreshed.
Today in Boone we needed some shade, so we pulled over under a tree on main street in front of a house. We didn't see till later the homeowners were sitting on the porch watching the parade of riders. It takes hours for the stream to pass. When we noticed them and asked if we could use their shade they enthusiastically encouraged us, and even when to get us some chairs, which we pulled up in front of the porch and we chatted for a half hour.
As they say in this state, with the hospitality and food and midwestern, heartland spirit, "No, it ain't heaven. It's Iowa."
You'll forgive me for a brief moment of confusion.