R. Bruhn's Best and Worst of RAGBRAI ® XXV, 1997

"Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined." --T-shirt slogan

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

Sink Photo: R. Bruhn

Best Team

Not an easy choice this year. Last year's candidates, Team Bad Boy and the Limp Pickles (a.k.a. Team Cucumber), were both sadly underrepresented this year, the former due to several spineless no-shows who thought that being in places like mainland China constituted a sufficient excuse for missing the ride, and the latter due to the inevitable attrition which results from the team's being categorically banned from RAGBRAI by the SS Patrol at the RAGBRAI office. But never mind. The awards must go on--so I guess I'll just give it to the Bad Boys again. Style, you see, is what I like in a team. Not cute style, like the Killer Bees or those guys with feathers on their heads, but real style, like, you know, Van Gogh of the Sunflowers or Picasso in his Blue Period. Lots of folks carry all kinds of crap with them on their bikes, but the Bad Boys raise mere Conveyance to an art form. Show me anybody who carries a cooler half as large or half as tacky as the Bad Boys'--to say nothing of the full-service bar. They have--in the past, at least, when they've had a full compliment of riders--carried everything on their bikes but the proverbial kitchen sink: and this year they had that! It had real running water, too. At night they filled it with daiquiris or something.

Shy Girl Photo: R. Bruhn

Pimp Photo: R. Bruhn

Other Pretty Good Team

Team DRAGBRAI, the group of Iowa bike racers who dress one day in drag and present comical little fashion shows in various towns along the route. This year's theme: "Ride for the Pimp," the pimp being a large, menacing-looking guy in a too-tight grey suit with a loud, open-necked shirt and gold chains. He also had a cane--a persuader for deadbeat johns, I suppose. My nephew and I hooked up with them along the road one day and followed them into a town where they did their show and, with the help of the hooting crowd, crowned the Queen of DRAGBRAI. Personally, I thought the Shy Girl should have won, but the judges went for the Hairy Girl, probably on the strength of the MC's claim that she is even hairier in the winter, before she sheds.

Worst Team

The DRAGBRAI imitators, a group of old farts who were also dressed in drag one day. To their credit, they admitted that it wasn't exactly an original idea.

Worst Team Name

If, like me, you are the parent of a teenager, and if your teenager is not totally mortified at your very existence, not to mention the dopey way you act and nerdy things you say, then, in all likelihood, you're doing something very wrong and need some heavy parenting lessons. Which brings us, quite unexpectedly, to Team Feces. On the road one day I saw a young lady, about twelve or thirteen I would imagine, who was sporting what I thought was, for one of her presumed innocence and youth, a very zippy team moniker: Team Feces. I casually mentioned to her my admiration for the name and she smiled weakly and said that it was her dad's brilliant idea. Dad, in fact, was present and proudly accepted the accolade; mom seemed pleased, too. Another girl, somewhat younger than the first, was also there, beaming brightly. "Fine," I thought, "it's the Shit family. Nice going, Dad." Actually, I would have thought the kids would have been more humiliated than they seemed to be, but given the literacy scores I've seen for school-age kids, maybe they just didn't know what feces means.

Best Team Name

Team Stealth. Now, I have to be careful here. Some teams, as mentioned above, were banned this year. Some teams, however, may have come anyway, under assumed names. I'm sure, for example, that I saw a very cheesy-looking outfit on the road one day called Team Chettar [sic]. So maybe Team Stealth, with its camouflage jerseys and mysterious motto, "Wish We Were Here," was really a front for some other, more notorious clan. I wouldn't know. The whole affair, though, raises some interesting philosophical questions, like, when is a team not a team? Is a team a super-entity, above and beyond the members that comprise it? Can a team be absent though all its members be present? If your team is banned can you all come anyway and just leave your bus at home? If it takes a day and a half for a chicken and a half to lay an egg and a half, how long does it take a woodpecker to hatch a doorknob? Or the RAGBRAI office to hatch another harebrained conspiracy theory? Tune in next month to "Larry King Live," where we'll answer these and other pressing questions.

Hilly Photo: R. Bruhn

The Hellaciously Hot, Horribly Humid, Hideously Hilly, with Humongous Headwinds Award

To the weatherman and the RAGBRAI route planners, for one of the toughest routes in recent memory. That first day was a killer. Could it be that a challenging route was purposely chosen for the 25th anniversary of the ride in order to tire everybody out a little and put a lid on the partying? Hey, am I paranoid, or what?

Best Restaurant

Court Avenue Brewpub, in Des Moines. Good eateries were in short supply this year, so the Mediterranean and Cajan pizzas, the wheat beer (with a faint taste of bananas?!), and the jambalaya with real andouille sausage at the Brewpub were welcome treats. And get this: the Court Avenue Brewpub's idea of a RAGBRAI special was not to add 50% to the price of the meal (plus five bucks for unregistered riders) but was, rather, a 2-for-1 pizza and beer special! Yes! A RAGBRAI first for this year! An actual good deal. A great deal, as a matter of fact, since the fare was first-rate, too.

Worst Restaurant

Another hard choice. In some places--France, for example, or Mexico or India--some of the country's really great cuisine can be found in the countryside, far removed from the large cities. This emphatically isn't the case in Iowa. (Or in Nebraska either, where the area beyond the limits of our (2) major metropolises is known as the "Chicken-fried Zone.") In fact, I'd have to give the Worst Restaurant Award this year to the Nebraska cafe in which we ate on the way to Missouri Valley: the Chinese joint in Blair. In all fairness to Blair, however, I would point out that the Cafe on Main, in which I dined a couple of weeks earlier (and where we were headed this time, but found it closed), was truly wonderful, its location in a small town notwithstanding. I can't think of many places, even in Lincoln or Omaha, where you could get such a fine luncheon serving of mostaccioli with walnut pesto with such fabulous homemade breads. My "dining companions," as restaurant reviewers like to say, had unbelievably great-looking salads with things like feta cheese and calamata olives. Downside: they're only open for lunch.

Best Wine in the Second-Worst Restaurant

One of the advantages of having your own sag vehicle is that in the evening you can hop into it and drive to a restaurant someplace where the madding crowd isn't. We thought we had found such a place in the Knotty Pine Inn, outside (I think) Creston. My nephew, the designated eunuch, had come all the way from Germany--where he lives--to do the ride and had brought with him, as usual, a fine selection of Italian wines. We chose a nice bottle and took it with us to the Knotty Pine, where we ordered a round of the house wine, swilled it down, and then surreptitiously refilled our glasses from our own bottle. (My apologies to the Knotty Pine for this subterfuge.) Unfortunately the Knotty Pine's food was no match for the smuggled wine. The Knotty Pine's food wasn't much of a match for its own wine, for that matter. Great atmosphere and a beautiful panoramic view of the rolling, wooded hills, though, for whatever that's worth.

Best Coffee, When There Was Any Coffee

The search for good coffee for a spoiled and snooty urbanite like me entails a lot of frustration. My enquiries with the locals about coffee shops usually brought quizzical looks and questions like, "You mean that gourmet coffee?" Yes, that gourmet coffee. I like that prissy Eye-talian cap-poo-chino--and not that weird stuff they sell under the same name at the "neighborhood" chain convenience stores, either. On a corner in Indianola, we found a dandy little place with pretty good coffee and very good pastries. But, in the finest RAGBRAI tradition, they had staffed the place with confused teenagers, some of whom clearly had never steamed a cup of milk in their lives. This turned what should have been a 15-minute wait into a 45-minute ordeal, but the reward was--gourmet coffee!

Sioux-weeee! or The Hog Calling Award

I've written previously about Mr. Pork Chop and his fine, if overpriced, smoked porcine product. This award, however, is for neither the product nor the o'erweening capitalist greed, but rather for the distinctive holler, the medicine-show barker's yell, the come-on howl of the hog farm, as Mr. Pork Chop calls the hungry troops to the trough from his perch alongside the road. The holler itself defies my poor power of verbal description, but it goes something like this:

Pooooooooooork ChoooOOoooOOoooOOoooOOoooOOoooOOoooOOoooOOoooOOoooO...(p)

the alternating upper and lower case letters indicating a guttural vacillation in pitch and volume on the 'ah' sound and the parenthetical 'p' a kind of (g)aspirated consonant which never quite occurs because by the time he gets to it, Mr. Pork Chop is totally out of breath. Maybe you had to be there.

Pork Chop Photo: R. Bruhn

The Ongoing Slime-Water Report

As amazing as it seems, not one of the homes in which we stayed this year featured that aqueous abomination, soft water. I did see an ad for it, though, in one of the local papers. There it was being touted as drinking water, as if it were some local variant of Evian or Perrier. Yeah, right.

The "Tacky, Tacky, Tacky" Award

Yes, I know it's a lame pun; it was a fairly lame act, those thumbtacks strewn in the road around Beebeetown early Sunday morning by some sadistic anti-pneumatic prankster. Fortunately the Harem Girls and I hit the road at such an luxuriously late hour that all the tacks were by that time in someone else's tires.

Most Boring "Entertainment"

That would be that hypnotist guy, who kept reappearing in town squares all week. Our sag driver, Ellen, and I watched him for a while one evening. Put me to sleep.

The Serial Killer Snit

My innocent observation in last year's Best and Worst, that serial killers and recumbent riders shared a statistically significant number of personality traits, was not taken lightly by either group. Below is a sampling of the reaction, which fell into four basic categories:

1. Those who felt compelled to first defend the recumbent as a superior means of human-powered locomotion--as if the perceived slight to their modus locomodi were more serious than the suggestion that they were serial killers;
2. Those recumbent riders who, the merits of their transport aside, were incensed at being linked to serial murder;
   
3. Serial killers who were insulted at being linked to recumbent riders; and
   
4. Those who cheerfully admitted that I was right all along and threatened to prove it to me.

In the first category the following email, from a recumbent rider and NRA supporter, was typical: "...you talk yourself blue in the face about how much easier it is to ride, how your butt, back, & neck never hurt, how much better visibility you have from the bike, how riding a recumbent saved your cycling career, & how climbing hills is a matter of how good the rider is and then the person you're talking to says "But I've heard they're slow up hills"!! Talking to upright riders is like talking to stone(d) brained pedal-mashers whose only view of the road ends ten feet in front of their front wheel."

As an example of the second category, the following email exchange:

Recumbent Rider: In your 1996 Best and Worst you say, " I now believe that probably not more than 25% of recumbent riders are actually serial killers. Another 25% or so may be terrorists, but I'm still working on that. I'll keep you informed." On what do you base this belief?

Me: I channel telepathic email with the Ayatollah Khomeni.

RR: I'd like an honest answer.

Me: The honest answer is: you've got to be kidding. What do you think I'm doing here, writing a doctoral dissertation?

RR: You are right (seriously, no sarcasm intended). You made a joke which I didn't like and I wound up taking myself (and my recreation) too seriously over it.

In category three, a serial killer responds: "This is highly insulting. I've never ridden a recumbent in my life!"

In the last--life-threatening--category, a sampling: "It's lonely when the rest of the riders have: 1. Dropped behind. 2. Taken a rest stop to relieve their sore bottoms. 3. Are missing limbs after being attacked by some crazed recumbent axe-murderer." Or, "Us serial killers on the HPV Digest have your number now, buddy boy!" Or, "You'd better watch it. We've been having a side discussion about how to get boosts up hills with do-it-yourself solid rockets. There ain't nothing like Neighborhood Nuclear Superiority." And, "Serial Killers? Give me a break...lighten up.... I know who you are, I know where you live." I withhold the names of these writers to protect them from the FBI. Now I only hope the FBI will protect me from them.

Pissoir Photo: R. Bruhn

Best Pissoir

A pissoir, for those of you who are challenged in either French or things of a urinary nature, is a public urinal, usually located in the streets of European--mostly French--cities. Rarely seen in this country; in fact, I've never seen one--until this one in Bloomfield. Note that it's three-sided. In Europe (and apparently in Bloomfield) the functions of bodily elimination are thought of as natural and are acceptable (for men, at least) even if performed discreetly in public view. Anyplace else in our bluenose, puritanical society, however, an act of public urination can land you in the slammer. More's the wonder then at the Bloomfield pissoir. What morally enlightened citizen, with 2x4s and blue plastic tarp and PVC pipe and garden hose erected such a thing? And did anybody but me actually use it?

The "On RAGBRAI the Sky is the Limit, But Watch Out for Those Motel Canopies" Award

To J.C., the sometime sag driver for a team whose name I cannot mention, who, upon leaving the Royal Rest Motel in Chariton for dinner, eschewed the sky-high and mile-wide free egress from the motel parking lot and instead chose to drive the sag vehicle--which had four very expensive bikes on its roof rack--under the motel canopy, which proved too low by half to accommodate the traffic. The result? Oh, I would hazard a guess of about $10,000 damage to the bikes (carbon fiber breaks like a matchstick), the racks (ripped 'em right off the car), the vehicle itself (ripped off the built-on roof rack, too), and the motel (they just don't build canopies like they used to). J.C., to his credit, seemed perfectly calm about the whole thing, as if he'd just run over a bug, and nonchalantly went about the grim business of picking up the wreckage. But Dick, whose brand-new LeMond was now a pretzel, was a little heartsick. The motel guy wasn't too thrilled, either.

Worst Motel, Not Made Better by the Above Incident

The Royal Rest, Chariton. I don't really want to go into this, but let's just say that the proprietor was one of the less pleasant individuals we ran into this year. And this was before the canopy thing.

Best Overnight Host

The very fact that people will gladly accept a bunch of sweaty, smelly strangers into their homes, give them free-range privileges to their bathrooms and showers and front porches and back yards is already a pretty good indicator of the kind of good will which is so abundant among residents of RAGBRAI overnight towns. Still, some stand out--like the our hosts, the Durhams, in Des Moines, who in addition to supplying all of the above amenities, invited us to a great dinner of grilled brats and watermelon (which we had to decline) and let us luxuriate in their whirlpool bath (which we gladly did).

Maybe Not the Best Overnight Host

Well, the gentleman was very nice--no problem there--so maybe I should just shut up. But there are times when you are amazed that housekeeping styles can be so, shall we say, individual.... So you think your house is a pigsty: well, you ain't seen nothin', buddy, 'till you've seen (and smelled) this place. Made me feel good, I can tell you that.

Best Overnight Host Who Wasn't Even Our Overnight Host

To the guy in Bloomfield who let the Team Harem girls and me (and the resident eunuch) shower at his house when our overnight host(ess) for some reason wouldn't let us shower at her house.

Best Idea for New Money-Making RAGBRAI Ripoff Scheme

I haven't seen this yet, but I'll float it out here free of charge for any enterprising future entrepreneur who wants to use it: In order to save riders the trouble of riding all the way over to the Missouri to dip their wheels in the river at the start of the ride, you (and a large-bladdered staff) could drink a lot of water in Omaha and then charge riders $5 ($7.50 for nonregistered) to piss on their wheels. Just a thought, but I'll bet it would go.

The "Truth in Advertising" Award

To Jim Green, RAGBRAI Coordinator, who openly admitted in the pages of the Des Moines Register that there were 17,000 riders on this year's ride, fully twice the number of rider passes issued. He even allowed as to how there may have been 22,000 in Des Moines. Curiously, other articles on RAGBRAI in the paper consistently put the number of riders at 10,000.

The "Greening" of RAGBRAI

In order to obtain the designation of an official RAGBRAI vendor, the Register requires you to inflict a surcharge on unregistered riders for anything and everything you sell. The actual percentage seems to be variable, and some vendors disguise the practice by offering a "discount" to riders with a wristband. I understand that it takes money to put on an event such as RAGBRAI; but I also understand that RAGBRAI provides the largest single-event influx of tourist dollars that Iowa enjoys (who else comes to Iowa in these kind of numbers?). I also understand that 20,000 people will, by a large margin, drop more money than 10,000. Do the towns and vendors on the RAGBRAI route really want to see their profits cut in half? Why do the powers that be want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg?

Best RAGBRAI Special

In Missouri Valley, 20% Off on Tombstones at the local funeral supply store.

French, Not Remuddled Photo: R. Bruhn

Best Courthouse

That would be the as-yet-unremuddled Davis County Courthouse in Bloomfield. A nice French Second Empire Revival number, it has thusfar (miraculously) suffered little at the notorious hands of mindless county officials, whose only sorry accomplishments at the moment are a couple of small, tacky additions on the northwest corner. The building is not in good shape, however, and, given the precedent set in nearly every other county, I'd give you odds that once they find the money they'll set loose the tin window man and a horde of other historically-challenged racketeers (many of whom will be blood relatives of the county bid-letters) and let them do their worst. Or maybe they'll just tear it down. (A note to Davis County residents: Don't let them do it. Take a clue from the restoration of the magnificent Iowa State Capitol. You have a minor masterpiece here; do something to save it and ensure its historic integrity.)

Worst Courthouse

Warren County Courthouse, Indianola. Too bad about this one. Tell me, is that attractive addition of razor wire up on the roof intended to increase the warmth and visual appeal of the building or is it there to contain the unfortunates who are compelled to take defensive driving classes?

Best Overnight Town

Understand that we (the Harem girls, the eunuch-designate, and I) were not able to ride the entire route this year, so we missed Fairfield and Fort Madison. But from what we did see, the hands-down winner for best overnight stop was Bloomfield. They had three--count 'em, three--bands playing downtown and the place just had a good feeling about it. I believe that this was RAGBRAI's first time in town and they really seemed up for it. Bloomfield is, by Midwestern standards, an old town--and a charming one. The downtown square, with its fine courthouse at the center, is lined with funky small shops and businesses. One gets the feeling that there is more than a little civic pride in this town, even if there isn't much money. The town as a whole is a lot like the courthouse--timeworn and a little ragged around the edges, but it has maintained its integrity and hasn't been compromised by a lot of tasteless rehabbing. I loved the fact that every single available second story window on the downtown square was graced with a planter of (unfortunately probably artificial) flowers. It's really a jewel of a town. I hope they have the sense to keep it that way.

Neatest Person Photo: R. Bruhn

The "Snooker Me, Please," or Best Pool Hall Award

Ray's Recreation, on the town square, Bloomfield. I don't remember when I've been in a more genuinely retro environment, one which more reminded me of my misspent youth, one which was more like stepping back into a simpler, if not gentler, time. Ray's Recreation is like a time-warp. Everything about the place--the tables, the creaky floors, the stuff on the walls, the big cans of free peanuts sitting everywhere, the long-neck bottles of pop (I didn't know you could even get longneck bottles like that anymore), the old cash register, even the people--was seemingly right out of the 1950s. I felt so at home I could have spent the entire evening there had not my nephew tired of the shellacking I was giving him at 9-ball. Oh, but the prices... Did I mention the prices? Well, after an hour or so of 9-ball we racked up a staggering bill of...$2.50! The place was fairly busy with neighborhood kids, all of whom were absolutely terrible pool players. The one snooker table remained vacant, those little pockets apparently beyond a teenage hacker's remotest hope of sinking a ball in. When I asked the proprietress if I might take her picture she said, "Why would you want a picture of me?" Without hesitation, one of the neighborhood kids answered for her, "'Cause she's the neatest person in the world!" I can believe it, too, because she runs one of the neatest places in the world.

Best Music

I usually give this award to one-man blues band phenom Patrick Hazell. Pat was playing in a few towns, too, but because of the heat and my general dislike of the time of day (late afternoon, early evening) he's scheduled, I never saw him. So this year I'm going with something entirely different: The Night Wing Air Force Band, appearing, among other places, in Bloomfield. Music lovers, bear with me here. If you didn't catch this band you're probably thinking, "Yeah, right. Who wants to hear a rock version of 'The Wild Blue Yonder,' or 'The Stars and Stripes Forever'?" But, hey, these folks knocked out some really great renditions of old rock 'n roll tunes and an impressive selection of newer stuff as well. The lead (female) vocalist had, among other attributes too politically incorrect to mention, a great voice and the (also female) bass player was first-rate, too.

The Incongruous Oxymoronic Music Award

Also to the Air Force Band, for the jarring visual experience of watching someone belt out a Jerry Lee Lewis tune while dressed oh-so-primly in an Air Force uniform. The lead singer definitely had what it takes, and then some, but it was so tightly cinched she could hardly have shaken it if she'd tried, which she didn't. (Against regulations: Uniform Code of Military Uniforms, Sec. 36(b), Item 19, lines 12-23). This didn't seem to matter very much to the teenage boys who were bellied up to the front of the stage, though, their eyes fairly popping at the spectacle. Maybe it was the uniform. Or not.

No Underwear? Photo: R. Bruhn

Best Music by a Guy Not Wearing a Kilt

To the guy playing the bagpipes at various places along the route. He camped next door to us one night and roused us all out of bed the next morning with a snappy little strathspey. The Scots, you know--who did wear kilts, but no underwear--liked to play the bagpipes as they marched into battle, which tended to scare the living crap out of their enemies, who presumably were wearing underwear and then had that whole mess to deal with when they besmirched themselves in fear. Given all that, I guess it's no mystery why the bagpipes just never seemed to catch on in other cultures.

Worst Music

Candidates too numerous to mention, but local gospel types are always high on my list. I didn't see the usual compliment of geezer bands this year. Maybe they all keeled over in the heat.

Music I'm Glad I Never Heard

The Macarena. God save us from this stuff.

Aerodynamic Photo: R. Bruhn

The Scientific American Aero Banana Award

There is a discouraging lack of research at the present time into the aerodynamic properties of fruit. So I'm just going to go out on a limb here and throw my considerable intellectual weight behind the theory that the banana is the aero king. When someone finally gets around to conducting a proper wind tunnel test--and haven't we waited long enough?--I know I'll be vindicated and probably hailed as a pioneer in this important new field. Oh, I know there are those out there who support the cucumber. But, aside from the fact that the Cucumber has been banned from RAGBRAI, it's really too blunt and clumsy-looking and warty to have a really good aero profile, don't you think? Look at the Concorde: does it look anything like a cucumber? Of course not. The Concorde looks like a mosquito. (Hey, it's French--what do you expect it to look like? A banana?) Anyway, in the interest of empirical exactitude, my daughter and I conducted some tests while on the ride this year, and I can tell you one thing for sure: the watermelon is right out.

The "Bridges of Madison County" Award

To the (covered) bridges in Madison County, one of which we rode over (under? through?). Aside from the sappy novel of the same name, could someone please explain to me what all the fuss over covered bridges is all about? Whence the high Gothic romance? The blood-bubbling passion of unrequited love? The squishy sentimentality? Write to me. Tell me. I really don't get it.

Mouse Photo: R. Bruhn

The "Adopt-a-Mouse Program" Award

To Team DRAGBRAI, who found along the road one day a mouse--or at least a guy who thought he was a mouse and took being a mouse seriously enough to dress in what had to be the heatstroke special of the week, a head-to-toe terrycloth mouse outfit complete with floppy little ears. The Mouse wasn't the fastest rider I've ever seen, and certainly no match for the DRAGBRAI girls--who are no slouches--so they pushed The Mouse up every hill for 30 miles. The technique here (these folks are professionals, so don't try it at home) is for one pusher to get on either side of the pushee (in this case, The Mouse), put one hand in the middle of the pushee's back and propel said pushee up the hill at breakneck speed. For an even greater boost, other riders fan out in a V-shape, and push the pushers. In my photo you can see one of these Vees just starting to form, with the dazed Mouse at the apex.

Hottest Costumes Not Worn by an Adopted Mouse

The retro 19th-century clothing worn by Amish women and children. In the Victorian Era the notion that women were frail creatures, much given to swooning and fainting at the slightest provocation, could easily be traced to the fashion of the day: it wasn't a weak constitution which caused all that loss of consciousness--it was heatstroke, Fred.

Gratuitous Nudity Photo: Not R. Bruhn

The Totally Gratuitous Nudity Award

Maybe I just wasn't in the right place at the right time, but I didn't see, or even hear reports of, a single incident of the dreaded act of indecent exposure which so enflames the moral indignation of prurient puritan prudes and the local cops. I even got some email from a young woman who hinted that she might just flash a little flesh for the camera, should I happen across her in one of the beer gardens. I hung out in the beer garden in Mo Valley for a while and tried to project the image of a guy whose day would be made by a little gratuitous sex, but got bored with the garden-variety drunken behavior before I got any takers. But because a day on RAGBRAI without a strutting display of milky-white breasts or some guy with cute buns climbing a tent pole naked is like watching a hockey game with no fights--and because I love to give prigs something to get upset about--I include the photo at the right and claim the award for myself.

Best Yellow Brick Road, or The "I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore" Award

You gotta believe that a town really wants you there when they paint the whole damn street yellow for you for about a mile or so through the middle of town. Bloomfield again. It took my daughter to point out to me what my pea-brain was incapable of grasping on its own, that the yellow road was the Yellow Brick Road from the Wizard of Oz. (I've never read the Wizard of Oz, O.K.?) That revelation also neatly explained the three Wizard of Oz characters running around town, too--though I still have no idea what any of that had to do with either Bloomfield or RAGBRAI. Maybe somebody can enlighten me.

The Kamikaze Uphill Award

To the young, fit-looking guy I saw one day running up a hill with his bike on his shoulder. I'm thinking, This can't be one of those out-of-shape types who have to walk their bikes up hills--he must be training for cyclocross races. So I asked him. No, he replied, he was a downhiller and these uphills were just killing him. I always wondered whether downhill was an actual sport or just an organized demonstration of suicidal tendencies, and now I think I know.

Hand Job Photo: R. Bruhn

The "Is That a Fish Flopping Around in Your Pocket or Are You Just Glad to See Me" Award

To those salmon-happy Seattlites of Team Spawn, who again this year were "spawning" anyone who would stand still for it. The act of spawning (as practiced by the Spawners, at least) is rather less interesting than it sounds, though I've never actually witnessed the rumored mouth-to-mouth spawn. Maybe there are other forms of spawning, too, practiced only in the privacy of the tent or the motel room. We can only hope.

The Annual "Sappiest Coverage of RAGBRAI by a Major Metropolitan Newspaper" Award

May I have the envelope, please.... IT'S...IT'S...The Des Moines Register! Unbelievable, Jay...25 years in a row! [Applause] Now, let's move on to the award for Cutest Bridal Costume....

The Smooth Talkin' Schmoozie Award

To the Smoothie guy, the original Smoothie guy, the one with the tie-dyed banner. Yes, he's a smooth talker and a schmoozer, but, damn it!, he does make the best Smoothies. You had only to try some of the imitations which were in evidence in some of the overnight towns to discover the difference. The beautiful thing about a Smoothie is, unlike almost all of the other food products available on RAGBRAI, it's actually good for you and doesn't contain a boatload of fat. (A Smoothie is a blended concoction of pineapple juice, strawberries, bananas, and ice. The Smoothie guy's not a real professional, so you can safely try it at home. I made some at a party after I got home and people went nuts for it.)

Sundry Apologies, Disclaimers, Observations, More Whining, Etc.

First of all, my sincere apologies to all my readers with an impaired sense of humor, especially those with handguns. I would remind you, as I reminded my recumbent friends, that this ain't a doctoral dissertation and that, to me, a fact is just about anything I can work with. Truth has very little to do with it. So lighten up. I know it's always easier to be on the giving, rather than the receiving, end of a joke, but that's the way it is: if you want to make fun of me, get your own web page or newsletter and have at it.

Secondly, sorry about the somewhat political tone of some of this year's rant. I have stated in previous years that I would love to get one of those Official RAGBRAI Letters of Censure to frame and hang on my trophy wall, along with my other mementos of dubious distinction. Well, last year I got two. One was for taking the name of RAGBRAI in vain: mea culpa, I forgot to include the ® symbol on the word RAGBRAI when I published last year's Best and Worst. It's on this one, though just in the title at the head of the piece. My high-powered team of crack copyright lawyers have assured me that that will take care of it.

The other letter, which expressed Mr. Green's dismay (sadness, actually--his characterization) at my failure to obtain a rider pass last year, was more interesting, and both astounded and impressed me. Astounded because I can't believe that people around the RAGBRAI office have nothing better to do than rummage through their files looking for the name of one unregistered rider among the thousands who are out there; impressed that they think I'm important enough to have gone to the trouble.

I have pretty much the same reaction to the banning of certain teams. I'm amazed that anyone would be dumb enough to try something like that, inasmuch as it is a free country and you can't exactly exile someone from your state, and inasmuch as it couldn't possibly have any effect anyway because those banned would just come back under another name (which they did), and inasmuch as it was almost sure to backfire--as censorship nearly always does--and make martyrs and folk heros of the intended victims. All this aside from the fact that the complaints against these teams seemed, at least in the one case I know anything about, to be completely spurious and unfounded, with the RAGBRAI office imperiously acting as judge, jury, and executioner.

Finally, there's the matter of the ballooning cost of a RAGBRAI rider pass. As I understand it--and anyone with better info please feel free to correct me--the number of people whose stuff is carried on the Official RAGBRAI Sag Wagon is dropping every year, as more and more people opt for private sags, catering services, motorhomes, etc. And since the now $90 fee which is levied for a pass includes a portion for the use of the official sag, shouldn't those who are not using that service be charged a lower fee? Why should someone pay ninety bucks for a pass which includes a fee for a service he doesn't need or use? Come on, folks, this needs to be addressed.

The "If There's Anything New Under the Iowa Sun I Certainly Didn't See It" Award

This was my sixth RAGBRAI, my now 15-year-old daughter's fourth. I have done the ride in just about every conceivable fashion--tenting from the RAGBRAI sag trailer, tenting from private conveyance, motorhoming, staying in motels, staying in private homes. I have yet to try one of those catering outfits like Pork Belly Ventures, but I may yet give them a whirl. And I have never hauled all my own gear on my bike, nor am I about to. But know what? I think I've seen about all there is to be seen on RAGBRAI. I've seen all the nutty characters, the weird bikes, the outlandish costumes, the silly and stupid behavior, the nude dancing and naked riding and pole-climbing, the motorized picnic tables (even got a ride on one this year), the inflatable companions, the fabulous babes in skintight lycra, the gaudy team busses, the cute slogans--the whole nine yards. Remember, as I've often said, I'm not a real party hound, and hanging out in beer gardens getting shit-faced for its own sake lost its appeal for me after a few episodes back in high school, during the Pleistocene Era. And what with the Register's campaign to reduce the experience of RAGBRAI to the level of a visit to Disney World, I don't know if anything really new and interesting will ever happen. Consequently, writing the present report was a bit of a stretch for me, as I felt like I was just revisiting and rehashing a bunch of stuff which I'd visited and hashed earlier, and to better effect. So maybe I'm getting bored with the ride, or maybe it's getting bored with me.

In any case, I remain an aging, liberal hippy dipshit, my antiestablishment, anarchic attitude intact as ever. I'll no doubt be back next year, notebook and camera in hand, on the lookout for the naked soul of the ride--well, the naked soul and a few naked bodies. So, come on, girls. Try to help me out here, will you?

Questions, comments, corrections, subpoenas, hate mail, blackmail, email, chainmail, etc. may be sent to: R. Bruhn 1344 C Street Lincoln, NE 68502 rbruhn@alltel.net This document may be freely reproduced and distributed by any means available so long as you don't charge for it and you give me credit. Offer good only in continental United States.Void where prohibited. Not sold in stores. ©1997 R.Bruhn.

Aging hippie liberal Photo: L. Ireland

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

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