Starting in Medford, I had one goal for the day, to make it to my grandmother’s place in Princeton. The immediate challenge is that Princeton is a tad more than 130 miles from Medford. But it just didn’t make sense to stop for the night within an hour or two of the free bed waiting for me there. Also, grandma had baked a pie.
Passing south of Medford, I seemed to hit another one of those intangible boundaries. I have left the great north woods and now entered America’s Dairyland. Sure there were still trees, but they were now borders or backdrops to farmland. Great grazing pastures, rows of neatly planted corn and fields of burgeoning green cereals were now rolling past me. The hills had flattened slightly, not dropping nearly as dramatically as the road crossed rivers and streams. My observation about the dairyland was proven when, not 20 miles south of Medford, I came to the town of Colby.
Colby, as you may know, is known around the world for its fine haberdashery. Men’s hats and gloves of the finest quality are produced there. Also, I guess they make cheese. In the center of town park, there is a historical marker about the world famous Colby cheese, first created in a cheese factory just outside of town. In all of the historical markers I have stopped to read along the way, this was the first one dedicated to food production. I suppose when there’s no gold or silver to mine, you find something else to do. On the way out of town, I stopped at the Colby Cheese Shop and bought a small block of Colby. More moist and mellow than its cousin cheddar, Colby is usually served relatively fresh, with the oldest cheese in the shop only 3 months old. Cheddar is usually aged 6 or 9 months, though it is not uncommon to age it for a year. I have once seen a three year old cheddar, but that’s more unusual. I guess Colby just likes to get eaten earlier.
South of Colby, the shoulder widens out to a very comfortable 8’. Other than one little patch of construction in which I had to actually slow down to get in line with the car traffic, I traveled unbothered by the motorists. I passed through several small towns most either slightly smaller or a bit larger than the city of 1600 I would wind up in at the end of the night.
I came to Marshfield, a city of 18,000 known for its medical services, and a bike path lead me nearly the entire way through town. Unfortunately, I missed a cutoff that would have saved me about 4 miles, but didn’t realize until I had stopped at a gas station on the southern end of town to take a break and pulled out the map. Oh well. A few miles south of there, I stopped at a wayside to read the historical marker, and met a family who were on their way up towards the Apostle Islands. We talked for a while, and it turns out the man’s brother had ridden across the country three years ago, upon his turning 50. They wished me luck and we went on our ways. It is always nice to meet nice people though.
South of Marshfield is the junction of highway 13, which I had ridden since just outside Superior and highway 73 which would carry me as close as four blocks from my grandmother’s. Unfortunately, those four blocks were still over 70 miles away, and I had already covered 60 miles. In Wisconsin Rapids, I crossed the Wisconsin River, which looked to me just as slow and lazy as I remembered it. Maybe the rapid part was elsewhere. I passed the minor league ballpark, (home of the Rafters) which had an ad saying ‘It’s easier to catch a fly ball when you have cotton candy in your hands’. That may be true, but then you’d have to lick the sugar off the ball.
I stopped at a fast food joint and noticed that the padding on one of my gloves was starting to free itself from its mesh bonds. Joy. I didn’t think they would last me all the way across, but I was hoping they would. Less than a mile later, though, I found a bike shop and took that as an omen to get a new pair. I did, but not until I was a way down the road did I realize that I really should have gotten the XL size and not the L. I guess I just have XL hands, the gloves are a bit tight. They will stretch though. The other slightly annoying part of new gloves is that it will change my glove tan lines. My glove tan is strong enough that it started drawing comments back in Minnesota.
Unfortunately, the clouds that had been thickening and darkening for most of the afternoon had now started to open up. I put on my leg warmers and for a while the rain was pretty light. But, from Wisconsin Rapids to grandma’s is about 58 miles, so even a light rain multiplied by that distance will get you wet.
Highway 73 was now traveling by itself, going east below town while 13 continues south to Wisconsin Dells. Some of the land use began to change again, I was now passing efficient rows of cranberry bogs and diagonally planted ranks of pine trees. Coming from the unchecked growth of the national forest in the north, the orderly precision of the tree farms seemed foreign. Trees don’t just line themselves up like that, but I suppose corn in the wild wouldn’t either.
Then, in a markless spot between a cranberry farm and a cornfield, Penny and I hit mile 3000. I got to 3000 miles in about 247 hours, which doesn’t seem too bad to me. It was rainy steadily by then, I got a couple shots of the spot with my camera and rolled on. There were still more than 40 miles left to my day. The highway went under Interstate 39, and I stopped at a gas station for water and a snack. Standing under the eaves of the building, I leaned against a window and ate. A couple came out of the station and asked where I was headed. ‘Right now, just to Princeton, but I’m going to New York.’ They had been to the Flea Market in Princeton just the previous Saturday. That happens to be three blocks from grandma’s house. Not only did they know where Princeton was, but the street she lived on.
More miles passed and it was starting to get hungry. Entering the town of Wautoma, I couldn’t help but grin against the cold and the rain. There was a sign pointing straight for Oshkosh and Princeton and to the right to get to Montello. I know all three of these places. I stopped at a bar downtown for a burger and some beer. I was pleasantly surprised when my meal came with freshly fried potato chips. Yum.
A few blocks past dinner, at mile 3022.0, I came to the intersection of 73 and Oxford St. When I was so small, I was not yet speaking in full sentences, my family lived in one of the houses on Oxford Street, just a couple blocks down from the highway. It was getting late and I wanted to get to Princeton, so I didn’t go down to find the house (my dad couldn’t remember which house number it was anyway). I did pull out my camera to get a picture and made a horrible discovery. The camera wouldn’t turn on. I had kept it in a pocket of my raincoat, but apparently enough moisture got inside that it was now not working. This is a bad thing. The rain had at least abated, so that was positive.
I had 19 miles left to Princeton and only one town, Neshkoro, remaining to go through. Between the landscape and the lighting from the setting sun, this was some of the most beautiful scenery I had gone through since the Black Hills. I saw about 20 deer including a couple that didn’t notice me until I was about 40 feet away from them. She looked up, saw me and bolted. The other deer heard the first scramble to get away and watched her for a second before gazing to the road to see what caused her flight. I was within 20 feet of her at that point. And my camera wasn’t working. The second deer ran off too and I was left to myself again. The sun had set by now, but there was still enough light in the sky to see clearly.
Finally through Neshkoro, I now had less than 10 miles to go. There wasn’t much traffic which was nice as my helmet lights were starting to fail. I hadn’t charged them since Utah, but I hadn’t used them that much either. I passed the sign welcoming me to Princeton and, much to my surprise, didn’t recognize the landscape at all. I have never approached Princeton from the northwest, I usually enter town from Montello to the south or Green Lake to the east. But then I crested a hill and saw the cemetery that my grandfather has rested in for nearly 25 years. From there I could almost get back to my grandmother’s house with my eyes closed. That’s good as it was now starting to get dark.
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud from joy as I crossed the Fox River. I wasn’t home, but this was certainly a homecoming. I rode through the three block downtown and turned the corner past the old vacant Tiger Brewery on the river. There is still a deeply embedded notion in my heart that I should acquire that building and start my restaurant there. I rode past the familiar painted logo on the building’s front which has been fading since long before I was born. From there, I could see the light in my grandma’s living room window, as her's is the first house up the street from the river. I pulled up to her front door and both of us was very glad to see the other. I was relieved that my 130+ mile day ended in a familiar bed, she was worried that I said I’d be there around sundown and that had passed. The apple pie was worth the wait though.
Day 42, Medford, WI – Princeton, WI
133.2 miles for a total of 3041.4. Wheels spun for 9:20:59 today for 250:30:59 total and a high speed of 27.3
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