With only a week to go before the end of the world, I was never so impatient to just get home. Stewbert and I had planned to make the commute from San Diego to Wisconsin in three days, tops. Thanks to lousy weather, it was taking us all week, and, the clock was ticking. On Friday, May 13, 2011, we strapped our bags to our bikes one last time. Finally, we were on the home stretch. Good thing, too; remember, life on Earth was set to end on Saturday, May 21. I have never known such a run of bad luck, as our return to Wisconsin. Although nothing short of Judgment Day could be as bad as the two-day winter storm we rode through in Colorado, conditions from there hardly improved. East of Denver we linked with the interstate and drove through Nebraska, and into Iowa. The entire time, it rained. This was a constant and oppressive shower that had no beginning, and no end. At a fuel stop we warmed our hands and grabbed coffee. I was grateful to have Stewbert as a travel companion. We were both frustrated, and sick of being cold and wet. But, there was nothing we could do. We each dealt with the misery in our own way, not taking it out on the other. Conversations were limited to, "You ready?," followed by, "Yeah, let's get this over with." All we could do was just keep going. We'd get home eventually.
In every other cross-country bike trip we've taken, there was always the promise of a blue sky and sunshine on the horizon. Every other trip, we'd get wet, but after an hour of highway travel we'd ride ahead of the storm. The clouds would always break, the warm air would dry our suits, and life would be good. Riding through Nebraska in May 2011 carried no such outlook. Every hill crested, every bend in the road only offered an outlook of chilled soup. Conditions did not improve when we skirted north into Iowa. Cedar Rapids was socked in. Dubuque was soggy, and as we crossed the Mississippi into Wisconsin, we couldn't even muster our traditional aerial fist-pump to celebrate the prospect of being home. I did notice something as we headed east on Highway 11. Riding past Shullsburg, it actually warmed up. I was soaked to the bone, but no longer cold.
At the Monroe bypass, Stewbert and I split up. He waved over his shoulder and I beeped the horn. It was 6:30 p.m. when I rolled down the gravel driveway at the farm. At least it was still raining; I'd be a converted atheist had it stopped then. I parked the bike and dismounted. Water squished out the top of my boot; not even rainproof gear could hold back the thousand-mile deluge.
Chris, my relief milker, was just finishing up. I stepped into the barn, leaving puddles. Chris, arms folded, gave me the kind of look that typically precedes, "You're freaking crazy, man." Even the cows looked amused. I had not seen blue sky since leaving California. Even though I was wet, I wasn't cold - also a first since leaving the Golden State. Man, was it good to be home.
Unfortunately, the two thousand mile ride from San Diego to Monroe would wield one final thorn. As I totaled the costs for the journey, I noticed an odd charge from the Best Western in Montrose, Colorado. I remembered the hotel vividly - Stewbert and I stayed there as a reprieve while crossing the Rockies during a blizzard. I remember peeling off my sopping gear, ordering a pizza, and falling asleep on top of the covers before 9:00. I also remember that the heater did not work, and we had to put on wet gear the next morning.
On my bank statement, I was charged twice - once for the room, and then an erroneous $150 the next day. Not a big deal; I'd just call the hotel and figure it out. But, nothing ever came of it. Seven times I called. I left messages, voicemails, talked to the receptionists, but could never seem to catch a manager who could answer why I was charged an additional $150. This drug on for weeks, until one evening I accidentally connected with the manager. She sweetly informed me that she'd gotten my messages, but had not returned my calls due to a family emergency. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. The best part is, I finally found out that we were charged $150 for, get this - smoking in the room.
I laughed; neither of us smoke, Stewbert is a firefighter, and we were both so wet that night, that we couldn't have started a fire with a leaking tank of propane. I was quickly assured that the money would be refunded. Now, as I sit here typing this, I realize that three months have passed, and the $150 never did get refunded. I now realize that with the hectic summer schedule of running a dairy farm, I got caught up in other priorities. Looks like it slipped through the cracks, which is obviously what the Best Western in Montrose, Colorado had planned on all along.
Well, in other related news, I arrived home just in time to allegedly spend one final week on earth with my wife. But then, as we all know, the world did not end on Saturday, May 21 as predicted.
I knew that it wouldn't. If God had any intentions whatsoever of ending life as we know it on this planet, he probably would have done it with the Kardashians.
Snooki certainly would have been the last straw.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
In every other cross-country bike trip we've taken, there was always the promise of a blue sky and sunshine on the horizon. Every other trip, we'd get wet, but after an hour of highway travel we'd ride ahead of the storm. The clouds would always break, the warm air would dry our suits, and life would be good. Riding through Nebraska in May 2011 carried no such outlook. Every hill crested, every bend in the road only offered an outlook of chilled soup. Conditions did not improve when we skirted north into Iowa. Cedar Rapids was socked in. Dubuque was soggy, and as we crossed the Mississippi into Wisconsin, we couldn't even muster our traditional aerial fist-pump to celebrate the prospect of being home. I did notice something as we headed east on Highway 11. Riding past Shullsburg, it actually warmed up. I was soaked to the bone, but no longer cold.
At the Monroe bypass, Stewbert and I split up. He waved over his shoulder and I beeped the horn. It was 6:30 p.m. when I rolled down the gravel driveway at the farm. At least it was still raining; I'd be a converted atheist had it stopped then. I parked the bike and dismounted. Water squished out the top of my boot; not even rainproof gear could hold back the thousand-mile deluge.
Chris, my relief milker, was just finishing up. I stepped into the barn, leaving puddles. Chris, arms folded, gave me the kind of look that typically precedes, "You're freaking crazy, man." Even the cows looked amused. I had not seen blue sky since leaving California. Even though I was wet, I wasn't cold - also a first since leaving the Golden State. Man, was it good to be home.
Unfortunately, the two thousand mile ride from San Diego to Monroe would wield one final thorn. As I totaled the costs for the journey, I noticed an odd charge from the Best Western in Montrose, Colorado. I remembered the hotel vividly - Stewbert and I stayed there as a reprieve while crossing the Rockies during a blizzard. I remember peeling off my sopping gear, ordering a pizza, and falling asleep on top of the covers before 9:00. I also remember that the heater did not work, and we had to put on wet gear the next morning.
On my bank statement, I was charged twice - once for the room, and then an erroneous $150 the next day. Not a big deal; I'd just call the hotel and figure it out. But, nothing ever came of it. Seven times I called. I left messages, voicemails, talked to the receptionists, but could never seem to catch a manager who could answer why I was charged an additional $150. This drug on for weeks, until one evening I accidentally connected with the manager. She sweetly informed me that she'd gotten my messages, but had not returned my calls due to a family emergency. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. The best part is, I finally found out that we were charged $150 for, get this - smoking in the room.
I laughed; neither of us smoke, Stewbert is a firefighter, and we were both so wet that night, that we couldn't have started a fire with a leaking tank of propane. I was quickly assured that the money would be refunded. Now, as I sit here typing this, I realize that three months have passed, and the $150 never did get refunded. I now realize that with the hectic summer schedule of running a dairy farm, I got caught up in other priorities. Looks like it slipped through the cracks, which is obviously what the Best Western in Montrose, Colorado had planned on all along.
Well, in other related news, I arrived home just in time to allegedly spend one final week on earth with my wife. But then, as we all know, the world did not end on Saturday, May 21 as predicted.
I knew that it wouldn't. If God had any intentions whatsoever of ending life as we know it on this planet, he probably would have done it with the Kardashians.
Snooki certainly would have been the last straw.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
