Up Over: 7/10/16 Making Tracks

Michigan released us from its grip today and we slingshot through two states in record time.

When rain is forecast, you suit up before you mount because struggling into your gear on the roadside is never a treat. And so we set out, swaddled in waterproof, hoping our precaution would allay the weather. We were out the door and into Wisconsin before Jules shifted into high gear and our suits proved worthy as a steady rain tracked with us over the top of Wisconsin and into Minnesota at Duluth.

We said our last goodbyes to Superior in hopes that the "10,00 lakes" we were about to encounter would make up for our loss. Flying up Route 2, one of the earliest cross country roads, we ate up Minnesota. The beauty of this highway is that it trundles you through deep forest and into lovely small towns, each with its own personality.

Gearing down into Floodwood, "The Catfish Capital of the World", we landed in the middle of the "Catfish Days" celebration. A parade, a car show , a fishing competition, a French fry eating contest and lots of fried catfish filled the day. A classic example of small town American life, we joined in the celebration for our lunch break.

We had left the rain behind and skinned out of our rain suits. Dry roads gave us the traction to eat up some serious miles as we flew west. More small towns charmed us with their personalities. In Deer River, traffic was diverted for yet another parade and shindig -- The Wild Rice Festival, celebrating the commerce of that crop, grown naturally for years in this area.

Then there was Bemidji. Home to huge replicas of Paul Bunyan and his sidekick Babe, Bemiidji is more importantly known as the first town on the Mississippi. Here the mighty river is a swampy stream, oozing out of Lake Itasca. To witness the origin of the Big Muddy is a lesson in life. It rises from a trickle to become a lifeline that defines the geography of the US. The soul of this river begins here in a small town in Minnesota.

From forest to farm, 350 miles of Route two brought us to Crookston. The terrain has changed and I can sense the open sea of the plains bearing down on us. As we rode, the temperature rose from 60 to 80 and trees gave way to grain farms and grassy expanses.

The weather map has become our bible and we plan and live by it daily. Yesterday we skirted some serious storms by heading north. More nastiness is on its way, but we will muddle through and and try to dance between the raindrops. In general, we are fair weather riders, but when there are places to go and sights to see, we suit up, and let the rain sting our faces as we become riders on the storm. With my captain at the helm and my trusty Rascal as my ship, we sail onward breaking through the storm into the sublime.