R. Bruhn's Best and Worst of RAGBRAI ® XXIII, 1995

See R. Bruhn's RAGBRAI Page for additional reports on the ride.

This lovely document comes to us from R. Bruhn. Photos are Copyright © R. Bruhn, 1995; published here by permission of the author, who welcomes your comments.

"See triple, sleep double, stay single." --T-shirt slogan

Best Team
I can't do it. Even though I'd like to, even though they probably deserve it, I just can't do it: I just can't give this year's Best Team Award to Team Bad Boy. They've gotten this award for the past four years and I ain't gonna give it to them this year. No way. Oh, sure, they still exhibit the quintessence of style for which this award is given. They still carry more stuff with them on their bikes than most people have in their sag vehicles. Granted, they still feature, onbike, a full-service bar, a big BBQ grill, a cooler the size of Wisconsin, and the only stereo system on RAGBRAI ® which actually sounds like something other than a cheap, tinny radio (with great Cajan music the day I rode near them). And, yes, this year, affixed to the side of the box which holds the wet bar was the "Team Bad Boy Family Planning Center," a card full of condoms which they had liberated (or purchased?) from a corn dog stand earlier along the route. (The Planning Center's apropos motto: "For those really heavy loads.") They probably still had their portable whirlpool bath, though I didn't actually see it. All the standard stuff that has garnered them this coveted award in the past was there. And they rode every day. But I'm just not going to give it to them again. Not this year. So there.
Worst Team
Team Cucumber. Now don't get me wrong. I really like these guys. I hung out with them a little. I drank their beer, sat in the shade of their bus, ogled the beautiful women who were always milling about and rubbing up against them. They had style, something I always admire in a team. Under other circumstances I might even have given them the best team award. But when I discovered that they sagged about half of the ride-- well.... Team Cucumber? How about Team Limp Pickle? Come on, guys-- if you're gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk-- or at least ride the ride.
Best Team Bus
Team Cucumber, a.k.a. Team Limp Pickle: a 1952 R-Series International schoolbus. I hauled silage for a dairy farm in an R-Series International one summer when I was in high school. Fred Flintstone could not have driven a more intractable and primitive vehicle. I had to stop and fill it with water each time I left the fields. The exhaust manifold got so hot it actually glowed red. I can't believe one of these Pleistocene vehicles still exists, much less runs. Painted an icky green, it could be seen lollygagging in every accessible passthrough town, loud music blaring from its back door, beer and margaritas flowing freely from the front, providing shade for its hot, weary, pickled riders. And sagging their sorry asses into town, too.
Best (?) Motorhome, or What's the Difference between Black Water and Grey Water?
Code-named Emmet, Team Harem's 20-year-old Mobile Traveller. In my younger, more radical" Being and Nothingness" days, I thought that motorhomes were the ultimate bourgeois indulgence. I still do, but age has mellowed me to the point where I can now indulge a little indulgence. And anyway, Emmet isn't exactly the Ritz. For example, when the "holding tank" of a nice, modern motorhome is full, a polite little red light appears on the dashboard to warn you. When Emmet's bladder is full the floor drain in the bathroom backs up. Now emptying the "black water," (read: poop) from a motorhome is not an activity for the fainthearted. When finished with the toilet at home you simply flush and presto!-guys like Norton on "The Honeymooners" take it from there. Not so with a motorhome. Instead, you drive your bloated motorhome to a place with the romantic-sounding name of "dump station." This is where the fun begins. It is true that modern, really bourgeois motorhomes make this process relatively easy (just don't touch anything with your hands again for three days); but Emmet's cloaca, to which a nasty piece of 4-inch hose, which has been used countless other times for the same operation, has to be attached is up under the wheel well, inaccessible to all but the most accomplished contortionist. The rest of us have to get down on our hands and knees. If you own a full-body rubber suit, this would be a good time to put it on. You can bet your bananas that this procedure is not featured in the motorhome manufacturer's big four-color ads.
Cyclocross-Dressing Award
Team DRAGBRAI, a.k.a. Chicks With Dicks. Team consisted of a bunch of racers (already had the shaved legs!) from Iowa who dressed in drag one day, took over the stages and microphones in a couple of passthrough towns and presented trendy fashion shows. ("Now here's Bruce in a lovely little taffeta number...." ) In one town a lady on accordion who had been the previous act stuck around and provided appropriate musical accompaniment for their runway act. I never actually saw them on the road, but I was told that they cut quite a swath, riding in very fast pacelines, their silky dresses blowing in the wind.
Best New Teams
Team Harem, four girls and me in a motorhome; Team LocoMotion, Steve Kenyon and three fabulous babes (mother and two daughters) with PorkBelly Ventures. I think I see a trend here....
Honorable Mentions
I liked Team I.O.U., who were always trying to borrow money from other riders; Team Spawn, a great bunch of folks from the Seattle area who had fish (salmon?) on their helmets and "spawned" other riders by delivering, hand-to-hand or hand-to-mouth (why not mouth-to-mouth?), a brightly-colored, awful-tasting gummi fish; Team FükenGrüven; Team Diego, motto: "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life," submotto: "I'll sleep when I'm dead;" Team SXUL, with an amusing individual "B" word names on the backs of their shirts, like Hasta B (a guy, of course), Wanna B (a girl, of course), and (my personal favorite) 32 B, a small-breasted young woman with an obvious self-deprecating sense of humor; and you have to like Team Farm Naked.
Best Derriere
Girl in itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny string bikini at the fire station (where firemen stood ready to hose you down, if necessary) in some passthrough town on about the third day.
Best Dairy-Aire
The atmosphere surrounding the always-welcome Wisconsin ladies of Team Dairy-Aire. Motto: "Smell our Dairy-Aire."
The Moses-in-the-Busrushes Award
To the biblical-looking guy on a tractor, outside Turin, with flowing, fake(?) beard and white, powdered skin, a small horse tied to some kind of contraption, sitting, motionless, in a field, watching the ride go by.
The "Old Macdonald Had a Tandem" Award
To the guy in bibbers, riding one of those Linear tandems. The Linear, in case you've never seen one, looks sort of like an I-beam with wheels-- in fact, it is an I-beam with wheels. If you've never seen bibbers, you need to get out more, b'gosh.
The Bob Dole Tobacco Lobby Award
To the guy on the hellaciously windy day from Iowa Falls to Sigourney who stopped halfway up a long hill for a smoke.
The "She Could Charm Paint off the Wall" Award
To motorhomemate Joan Brogie, who convinced an elderly Lake View woman-- who was so terrified of RAGBRAI ® that she had installed a motion detector on her property-- to let us park our motorhome in her driveway, plug into her 110-volt AC, borrow her garden hose and store our bikes in her 1888 barn.
The "Tastes Great, Less Filling" Award
To the young lady of Team Beer Tricks, who inspired me to drink a domestic light beer. Didn't care for the beer, but the Trick was nice.
Most Gracious Host Family
Couldn't possibly chose one over the others, but here's a list of candidates. Mac MacDonald, in Iowa Falls. Mac already had about 30 bikers staying at his house when I called, late in the game, to ask if we could butt in with our motorhome. Of course, he said yes, provided us with beer, snacks, showers and videos of the Tour de France. Geneva and Clarence Hiveley, in Ft. Dodge gave us a lovely shaded driveway to park in, welcome warm showers, a ShopVac to clean up a toxic milk spill in the motorhome and cooked breakfast for us in the morning. Rob and Jan Wobeter in Tama shared their really charming 19th-century Victorian home with us, provided showers, hors d'oeuvres, beer and good conversation. And last, and certainly not least, Randy Kardon of Iowa City, who had a fridge full of Dos Equis and an hors d'oeuvres table laid out when we arrived, hauled me around in his car, bought us all a wonderful Chinese dinner, showed us around town that evening and then bought breakfast for us in the morning. It's hospitality like this that keeps us coming back-- but see the next entry.
The Peeping Tom Award
To Harley, the 65-year-old son-in-law of one of our overnight hosts (one not named above), who followed all of the women in our group into the basement, where the showers were located, and stuck his head in and inquired, "Is everything all right?" When my wife and I headed for the shower I told Joan, "If you see Harley heading for the basement while we're down there, find some pretext to head him off." Sure enough, we hadn't been in the shower two minutes when we heard Joan yelling, "Hey, guys, I think you forgot your towels!" Then we heard Harley, clomping down the stairs, somewhat startled to see Joan, saying, "Oh, what are you doing here?" Sorry, Harley. Maybe next year.
Top Ten Signs You've Found a Good/Bad Overnight Host
Good Sign/Bad Sign
10. Other riders' vehicles parked in driveway./Old refrigerators parked in driveway.
9. Host has 19-year-old daughter./Host has 79-year-old girlfriend.
8. Bike shorts and jerseys on clothesline./Host has his lace underwear on clothesline.
7. Host's fridge full of beer./Host's fridge full of body parts.
6. Host greets you at door with beer in hand./Host greets you at door with himself in hand.
5. Dining room table covered with snacks./Dining room table covered with carburetor parts.
4. Host offers to buy dinner./Host offers to be dinner.
3. Host has giant screen TV./Host has giant boa constrictor.
2. Fully equipped laundry facility. /Fully equipped crematorium.
1. Host's name is Mac, Rob or Randy./Host's name is Harley.
Best Furniture on RAGBRAI ®
Patio chairs and coffee table made from old bike rims by the Colorado espresso folks, who had them at their stand every day for riders to use.
Worst Rug on RAGBRAI ®
Carpet in our motorhome, which sustained a major environmental disaster when a gallon of milk came shooting out of the refrigerator onto the floor. Smelled great the following days.
Best Rug on RAGBRAI ®
Al Walton's bangs.
Coolest Bike
Joan's Colnago Technos. Nothing else even came close.
Heaviest Bike
The Bowden repro, 47 pounds, ridden by the Bowden repro man, about 165 pounds. The Bowden, in case you didn't know (I didn't), was originally manufactured between 1959 and 1961. Only about 500 were ever made. I don't know when the Bowden Repro man was made. The Bowden was designed by the futurist Preston Tucker, who designed the Tucker automobile and was the subject of the film of the same name. An original Bowden could be seen in the Bicycle Museum of America's display, which was set up in each overnight town.
Strangest Guy on the Heaviest Bike
The 165-pound guy on the Bowden repro who claimed to be a bike collector. Maybe he was, but he certainly didn't know squat about bikes in general. Question to me, looking at my LiteSpeed: "Is that one of them titanium bikes? They're real light, aren't they?" And to Joan, noticing her Ergo shifters: "Is that really how you shift gears? Wow!" I saw him on the road one day, in the hills, foolishly asked how he was doing and was treated to a litany of woes that lasted for three very slow miles.
The Big Ring Award
To the Bicycle Museum of America for displaying the bike which was used to set the world bicycle speed record of 108 mph in 1941. Had a chainring the size of a hula hoop.
Worst Bike
Powder pink Huffy "girl's bike," ridden by a comely young woman from Sioux City. She was wearing a "Jammer" helmet, one of those discount store affairs with four vents so small they would screen out mosquitoes. I couldn't resist the urge to fall back into my Team GUBADOR (Gratuitous, Unsolicited Bike Advice, Dispensed On-Road) mode and told her to tell her parents that a wise, old bike guru said that she deserved, and should immediately get, a better bike and a new helmet-- preferably before the end of the day.
The "Just Because I Slept with You Last Night Doesn't Mean I Have to Ride with You Today" Award
This popular award, named after a slogan oft-seen on RAGBRAI ® t-shirts, goes to one of the members of Team Harem. You know who you are.
Best Draft That Wasn't a Beer Award
To the folks from Cedar Rapids and their 4-person tandem. Becky Halm, who rode on the quad one day said they were cruising along on the flats at their usual 28 mph when she looked back and saw that they were pulling a line of about 15 riders.
Best Drink
Team Limp Pickle (alias Team Cucumber): the UpsideDown Margarita. It works like this: the "bartender" sits on the hood of the bus with his feet on the fender; someone stands with his/her (preferably her) back against the fender, leans over backward and opens wide [her mouth, you pervert]; bartender rubs a cold bottle of tequila against one cheek, a cold bottle of margarita mix against the other, then lifts the bottles and pours roughly equal amounts of booze and mix directly into the waiting mouth of the drinker; drinker then closes mouth, shakes head violently to blend the ingredients, then enjoys the sensation of sophisticated sops everywhere-- applause for having made sclerosis of the liver a household phrase.
Worst Reaction to Best Drink
Let's just say that the Webster County cops were unamused by the UpsideDown Margarita.
Second-Best Drink
The "Smoothie," a blended concoction of pineapple juice, fresh strawberries, bananas and ice cubes. Add a little rum to that and you'd really have something.
Best Pasta
Lo Mein, purchased for us by our host, Randy Kardon, at a little Chinese takeout place in a strip mall in Iowa City.
Worst Pasta
Now here's a culinary mystery for you. Last year, at Pucci's ("POO-cheese," by their own reckoning) Italian [sic] Restaurant in Perry (PAIR-eee) we experienced, for the first time in our gustatory lives, Drowned Pasta. This hitherto unknown delicacy of Italian cuisine is achieved by boiling pasta until it reaches an invertebrate state near death, then serving it, undrained, in the water in which it was boiled. This results in a soggy, gelatinous mess, which then oozes a cloudy liquid onto your plate throughout the meal. We were inclined to dismiss this as a mere idiosyncrasy of Pucci's, a case perhaps of the chef having gone off the deep end and taking the pasta with him. Well, guess again. Drowned Pasta is alive and well in the Methodist Church basement in Lake View. The methodistology here is somewhat different and more complex, but the result is the same. Boil a big pot of pasta noodles, drain it, transfer it to a turkey roaster and then, to our wondering eyes, dump a gallon of cold, distilled water on it. Serve without draining. People will actually pay money to eat this.
Longest Wait for the Worst Pasta, or The "Too Much Method in Their Methodism" Award
Three hours (!), at the Methodist Church, Lake View. When I go on RAGBRAI ®, I expect to wait. You stand in line for food, for water, for Kybos, for just about anything and everything. And that's generally O.K. It isn't as if you have anything better to do. So it isn't waiting per se that I object to, it's waiting because of someone's medieval, labyrinthine, Rube Goldberg method of getting a fairly straightforward task, like feeding a bunch of people, done in a way that is so overorganized that it takes five times as long as it should. After a two-hour wait just to get into the church, we waited another hour seated in the pews and then, finally, were summoned to go to the food line a pew at a time, like at a funeral where you get up to view the deceased. The mood was not dissimilar either. When we finally got to the food window, we noticed that fully half of the available seats in the dining room were empty!
The Pancake Epiphany Award
To me, for finally realizing, after only five RAGBRAI ®s, that, entertainment value aside, the Pancake Man's food really sucks.
The "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Chop Off Its Head and Eat It" Award
To the emu burger joint, set up in Sigourney and maybe elsewhere. Last year we had ostrich burgers. What's next? A nice lemur pie? Koala brats? Panda Pasta Primivera?
Best Rainbow at Sunset
In Lake View, just before sundown. A little squall came up suddenly and just as suddenly passed, leaving the most spectacular and intense horizon-to-horizon rainbow I have ever seen. It even had a faint second rainbow just above it.
Best Moon in Broad Daylight
Fetching young woman from Team Beer Tricks, near (where else?) the Cucumber bus in Jolly. One of her friends said, "Did she just moon you? She's always doing that!" In the photo you can see a string bikini tan line, evidence that showing her butt is clearly a frequent act of pride. Moral: If you've got it, flaunt it-- maybe you'll get on Geraldo or Jerry Springer.
Best Sign in a Passthrough Town on a Hot, Windy Day
"Will Sag for Sex." He might well have got some takers, too. The Des Moines Register reported that nearly a third of the ride sagged that day due to the combination of heat, hills and headwind.
Best Music
One-man blues band Patrick Hazell, this year appearing in three towns.
Best Response to Best Music
In Iowa Falls. People, even Republicans, actually got up and danced. I even got up and danced. With my wife, no less.
Worst Response to Best Music
In Sigourney. No one danced. Not even me. (Note to RAGBRAI ® organizers: schedule Patrick Hazell later in the evening, when more of the younger, less comatose riders are around. To see such hard-driving music go undanced-to is like seeing good food go uneaten or good deeds go unpunished.)
Worst Music
Karaoke, anywhere, anytime. What makes people think this is interesting? Hopelessly dorky songs made worse by wannabes who couldn't carry a tune in their jersey pockets. Face it, folks, the only people who are amused by your lame attempt at singing are your friends, and they're only amused because they're so drunk they've lost their aesthetic compass. Everybody else is embarrassed for you or bored shitless.
Worst Dancing to Worst Music
Line dancing to karaoke in downtown Sigourney. They were dancing to "YMCA," for god's sake.
Best Geezer Band
Two old fellows on accordions at a breakfast stop in a passthrough town. I especially liked their rendition of that late July favorite, "I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus."
Best Geezer Band with 7-Year-Old Fiddle Player
Ackley, Iowa. They had just quit playing when we rolled in, but the 7-year-old did a few solo fiddle tunes for us, including a pretty good version of "Orange Blossom Special."
The Annual Best Courthouse (With Reservations) Award
It wasn't a particularly good year for courthouses, but I liked the brick Richardsonian Romanesque Monona County Courthouse in Onawa, despite its remuddling by the tin window man and the braindead brick addition on the west front.
The Forbidden Fountain
To the folks in Sigourney, who had themselves a fine newly refurbished fountain downtown-- yessiree bob-- but had it surrounded with cyclone fence to keep the curious at bay.
Breck Giese's Top Ten Excuses for Getting Dropped
10. Drank too much beer in passthrough town.
9. Drank too little beer in passthrough town.
8. Didn't have a 53/12 gear.
7. Ambushed by Mexicans.
6. Lost concentration when girl in string bikini rode by and gave him the eye.
5. Couldn't stand creeping along in 38 mph paceline, so dropped out to hammer by himself.
4. Thought "draftline" meant "draughtline" and queued up for a beer.
3. Sweating ruins smell of expensive cologne.
2. Doesn't like looking at guys' butts, so dropped off the back.
1. Got dizzy from his own power.
The "I've Been Slimed" Award
To every private home I've ever stayed at in Iowa. Somewhere along the line the Culligan Man, probably in collusion with the aluminum siding salesman, convinced every homeowner in Iowa to install soft water. I remember when I was a kid and the slimewater man came to our house. His sales pitch included a neat little demonstration wherein he put some laundry soap and some of our hard water in a quart jar and about half that amount of soap and some of his soft water in another jar and then shook them up. Sure enough, our hard water produced less suds than the head on a glass of domestic beer, while his soft water filled the jar with suds until the lid blew off. Why, it was obvious we'd save thousands on Tide alone! Hook us up! Tie us into that nationwide network of savvy, modern, progressive homeowners who add some weird chemical to their water! Let's drink it, too! (And gimme some of that tin siding while you're at it! ) Then we took a shower. Slime City. We hated it. I hated it. My mom and dad hated it. My sisters, whom I then regarded as slimy maggots anyway, even hated it. Yet everybody in Iowa loves it. Go figure.
The Bellissima Premier Grand Dame de Soigner*, or Sag Bitch Award
"I can sag, I can bitch," said Lynne Ireland, who drove our motorhome, kept the cooler stocked with ice and beer, bought groceries, finagled fantastic places to stay when we had none, and generally did all those thankless tasks that good soigneurs do while the riders have all the fun. She can sag, and she never bitched once. (Well, O.K., maybe once; but we forgive her.) We love you. Thanks a bunch. (*Things you should have learned in French 101: soigner (SWA-nay) is a verb which means "to care for, to take care of." All of the pro cycling teams have soigneurs, people (usually men, but now an occasional woman) who take care of the riders-- arrange for hotels, food, drive team trucks, give massages, act as gopher, helper, confidant, whatever the riders need. VeloNews recently did a terrific (and occasionally very funny) series of articles on Shelley Verges, the first woman to be hired as a soigneur for a major pro team in Europe.)
Slickest Line Used to Secure Overnight Parking Spot
By Sag Queen Lynne Ireland to Rob and Jan Wobeter in their exquisitely appointed Victorian house "Hello, I work for the Nebraska State Historical Society and your house speaks to me." It worked, too.
The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle Award
To Steve Kenyon and Mary Nelson, who discovered that as Bianchis, like atomic particles, approach the speed of light (about 17 mph in the case of Bianchis) their actual position in space becomes a matter of some uncertainty. This led to a collision which created a great deal of heat, but shed very little light. Kenyon said the crash was caused when Mary was drawn towards him by "animal magnetism;" Mary said, "Kenyon rides like a dork." The ambulance driver, who had flunked high school physics, had no opinion.
The "Tsk, Tsk, Tsk" Award
I usually give this award to John Karras for railing about nudity on RAGBRAI ® in his column in the Des Moines Register, but I didn't see the Register every day this year, so I don't know if he railed or not. I did hear that the cops shut down the beer tent in Ft. Dodge or somewhere, because guys were climbing the tentpoles naked. That notwithstanding, this year's "Tsk, Tsk, Tsk" Award goes to the RAGBRAI ® official and junior high disciplinarian who made a bunch of guys stop lobbing water balloons into the crowd in Barnum. They had one of those water balloon slingshots that will hurl a water balloon a city block; two big hairy dudes would hold the ends of the surgical rubber tubing while a third pulled the thing taut and launched the watery missiles. Seemed harmless enough to me, but what do I know?
The Numbers Game Award
To the Des Moines Register, for consistently (and purposely?) underestimating the RAGBRAI ® population. How many people actually go on RAGBRAI ®? Chuck Offenberger lamented in one of his columns in the Des Moines Register that maybe 12,000 riders rode on the first and last days (the Register issues only 8000 passes). What's to lament? Won't 12,000 riders drop more money by half in the passthrough and overnight towns than 8000? Isn't that why towns host RAGBRAI ®, to get tourism dollars? So what if all the toilets back up. Anyway, my highly scientific survey of rider numbers, conducted by walking around eyeballing the fabulous babes, puts the daily numbers at around 15,000-- more if you count the concessionaires in the commercial entourage and other hangers-on.
Most Tattoos on a Couple Riding a Tandem Pulling a Trailer
Well, I would guess about 80, between the two of them. Looked like escapees from the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally and Stab-a-Thon. (No offense. They seemed like really nice folks.)
Best Bar, If Not the Brightest Boy, Award
To the guy who towed the trailer with the little bar and barstools on it. You have to admire his incredible tenacity-- I saw him out there every day-- but I would think the effect would wear thin as the miles wore on (not to mention the wind).
Best Cartwheel by a Guy in a Dress with No Underwear
In Lehigh, after climbing the 17% grade hill, by one of the DRAGBRAI ® boys.
Best Condom Cache, or the Safe Sex Award
Team Lumschovak, a miniature dome-topped garbage can full, handed out freely to all comers. (The author regrets to inform you that the pun is intentional.)
Worst Attitude Towards a Vendor From Colorado
The RAGBRAI ® office, towards the espresso stand folks. Are non-local vendors not welcome on RAGBRAI ®? Seems to me that espresso, latté, cappuccino, etc. were a commodity much in demand, and I didn't see a lot of Iowa vendors tripping over each other to provide it.
Best Impromptu Entertainment which Attracted a Local TV Crew
The Sombrero Beercan Catch, by a member of Team Cucumber. I think the record was something like five in a row. And they say TV is a wasteland....
Best Young Rider Award
To Mollie Bruhn, who met her goal of riding more miles this year than last-- 275 miles, including the killer day from Iowa Falls to Sigourney.
The Letter I'd Most Like to Receive
Admonishment from the RAGBRAI ® KGB for staying too long in last passthrough town. Or for raining down water balloons on the unexpecting crowd. Or maybe for compiling this list. If word gets out that they actually send out such letters of reprimand (and they do) it'll start a stampede to get them. I'd frame mine, and put it on the wall next to my certificate of membership in The Academy of Malt Scotch Whiskey.
The Yearly Donald Kaul Sighting
There was no Donald Kaul sighting, or a least I never heard of one. Elvis, however, was briefly seen mooning the crowd from the roof of Mutt Lynch's tavern in Barnum just before the Webster County cops hauled him away.
Best Ride Put on by John Karras and Chuck Offenberger
RAGBRAI ® XXIII. Congratulations, guys, you did it again. By the way, where the hell is Donald Kaul?
Most Fun Had by a RAGBRAI ® Virgin [sic]
Darla Munson, novitiate understudy with Team Cucumber, who quickly learned the No. 1 RAGBRAI ® rule: On RAGBRAI ®, all rules are suspended. Inexplicably, this rule was omitted from the Register's "Ride Right" list.
Author's Disclaimer
I can talk the talk, but I don't walk the walk. I'm not a drunken party hound, but, being a visual artist (photography) and professional voyeur, I do like to watch. The worst things I have ever done on RAGBRAI ® (besides compiling this list) are riding in the left lane in fast pacelines with the shaved-leg crowd and squirting the local kids with my water bottle. I never worked up the guts to squirt a state cop, as I said last year I was going to do. I am an aging, liberal, hippie dipshit, which may explain my anarchic, antiestablishment attitude. Everybody's gotta have a hobby.

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R. Bruhn
1344 C Street
Lincoln, NE 68502

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© 1995 R. Bruhn

See R. Bruhn's RAGBRAI Page for additional reports on the ride.

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