Some Bikies know that several intrepid (crazy?) people from Chicago
managed to ride at least a portion of the "Bratwurst Triangle" last
weekend, despite the record breaking storms. (Chicago - Madison -
Milwaukee - Chicago)
Below is the text from the blog about that ride. Photos available at the
link provided.
-- Robbie
Folks,
Here's a blog on the Frozen Snot Century / Bratwurst Triangle that I'm
submitting to
a national bike website.
If you haven't seen 'em already, photos are available at:
http://flickr.com/photos/[EMAIL PROTECTED]/sets/72157594560668935/
Cheers,
John Greenfield
The Frozen Snot Century and the Bratwurst Triangle
[Alternate title: Bizarre Sausage Triangle]
By John Greenfield
Riding a century is daunting for most cyclists, but try doing two of ?em,
back-to-back, in the middle of winter, in the heart of the Midwest. Since
2004, dozens of cold-weather biking nuts from Chicago and Milwaukee have
done just that, rendezvousing each February for Bike Winter?s Frozen Snot
Century Ride. Actually, it?s a lot of fun ? the combo of physical challenge,
camaraderie and sightseeing is the perfect cure for cabin fever.
The Bike Winter organization ? with chapters in the Windy City; Brew Town;
Madison, WI, and Ann Arbor, MI ? promotes all-season cycling with how-to
workshops, rides and arts events. A few years ago when I was working for the
Chicagoland Bicycle Federation I met Dave Schlabowske, the City of
Milwaukee?s bike coordinator, at a conference in St. Paul. Over a few pints
we hatched a scheme to unite our fledgling local Bike Winter scenes with a
tag team tour.
The FIBs (F---ing Illinois Bastards) would spin up the coast of Lake
Michigan about 100 miles to party with the Cheeseheads and crash on their
couches. The next day the whole posse would pedal back to Chi-Town for a
reception at the Critical Mass Art Show, a display of pro-bike, anti-car
artworks. The following morning the Badgers would ride home while the
flatlanders slept in. Schlabo christened the ride after the crystallized
mucous that was sure to result.
Amazingly, it worked, proving the best advice for the would-be winter
cyclist is ?Just do it!? Over the years Snot riders have dealt with freezing
temperatures, stiff headwinds and horizontal rain, but as the Irish say,
there?s no such thing as bad weather, just inadequate clothing.
To adjust to changing conditions, I dress for the FSC with lots of layers: a
fleece skullcap under my helmet, a T-shirt, a wool flannel, a sweater, a
light jacket, polypropylene long johns, polyester work pants, wool socks and
neoprene booties over my bike shoes, plus a raincoat and pants in my
pannier. My skinny-tired, ?80s Panasonic Touring Deluxe is winterized with
lights and fenders.
The scenery along the way ranges from the high-rises that line the Second
City?s lakefront trail to the posh North Shore suburbs, to the working-class
Wisconsin cities of Kenosha and Racine, to a wooded bike path on the south
side of Milwaukee from which we emerge to see the less-than-awe-inspiring
Cream City skyline. Along the way we often stop for a shot of antifreeze at
a friendly tavern like Cruiser?s in Beach Park, IL.
The last three Frozen Snot Centuries were a blast, but there?s a thin line
between a groove and a rut, so this year I decided to mix it up by adding a
Bratwurst Triangle option, connecting three sausage-loving cities. On
Friday, the day before a contingent rode north along the Third Coast for the
traditional ride, my girlfriend Elizabeth Winkowski and I would ride
northwest to Madison. Saturday we?d continue east to Milwaukee to meet up
with our homies and Schlabo?s crew. Sunday we?d all return south to the City
of the Big Shoulders. Although this was Winky?s first overnight bike trip
and we dealt with some truly nasty weather, we did manage to polished off
the polygon, albeit in a very multi-modal manner.
Friday morning we loaded our bikes on Metra, Chicagoland?s commuter rail
system, which recently changed its rules to allow bikes on board, a godsend
for regional road trips. Elizabeth brought her new Bianchi Volpe touring
bike along for its maiden voyage.
Michael Neuner, a former coworker of mine, showed up to ride with us to Mad
City, where he?d spend the weekend with his Badger sweetheart.
We got off at the end of the line in Harvard, IL, a few miles south of the
Cheddar Curtain.
As we mounted our steel ponies, conditions were nearly ideal: blue skies,
temperatures in the low thirties and a friendly wind out of the east which
gave us a boost as we pedaled 70 miles northwest to the capital of America?s
Dairyland. We arrived at sundown at a cozy brewpub where Bike Federation of
Wisconsin staffers greeted us and we purchased pitchers of porter.
But as I scarfed down a plate of the Bratwurst Triangle?s namesake encased
meats, I looked out the window to see a blizzard forming. After dinner,
instead of heading straight to our hostess Robbie Webber?s house, we
foolishly stopped for more road soda at the University of Wisconsin?s
student union. When we emerged, the streets were white with several inches
of powder and motorized traffic had slowed to a crawl.
We tried to ride the two miles to Robbie?s house in the whiteout but our
bikes shimmied scarily on the slippery surface. After a mile I heard the
distinct twang of a broken spoke on my rear wheel, and Winky pulled to the
side of the busy four-lane, too shell-shocked to ride further. We had
started to trudge through the storm, dragging our vehicles, when Robbie
called on my cell, offering to pick up Elizabeth and her bike in a
hatchback.
I had just loaded the Volpe into the Toyota when a police car pulled up
behind us with lights flashing. I thought we were going to be scolded for
blocking the road. But instead the officer, a mellow dude with a ?Fargo?
accent and beard (I didn?t even know cops were allowed to have beards)
offered to give my bike and me a ride home as well. That?s mellow Madison
for you.
Perhaps we shouldn?t have drunk those whiskies back at Robbie?s snug
bungalow, but we overslept the next morning. The roads had been cleared, but
I needed to get a new spoke and we faced the prospect of a strong headwind
for our 80-mile ride east to the City that Beer Built. And our hostess
begged us not to bicycle there because another snowstorm was predicted to
drop 25 more inches of the white stuff on the Upper Midwest that evening.
I called to check in with Paul Suda, one of my friends leading the Frozen
Snot contingent up from the City that Works. Perhaps people were burned out
from the sub-zero temperatures of the previous three weeks or scared off by
the dire weather forecast, but only five guys had the cajones to attempt the
journey this year. When Paul picked up, the crew was having their own
encounter with the police: they had been pulled over in a ritzy suburb
because one of the riders was enjoying a can of Old Style as he pedaled
along.
Paul had to put his cell phone down when the officer addressed the group and
I heard every word of the lecture. ?Now I know you fellas are out here to
have a good time,? said the man in blue, ?but you have to obey the rules of
the road just like everybody else. I don?t want to see your friend there get
splattered all over the road.?
After the cop sent the Snot riders on their way with a warning, Elizabeth
and I reasoned that discretion is the better part of valor and opted to hop
the Badger Bus to rendezvous with them. We sweet-talked the driver into
letting us throw our unboxed bikes into the cargo hold and boarded the last
bus of the afternoon ? the rest of the runs to Milwaukee had been cancelled
in anticipation of the coming blizzard.
Safely in Cream City when the flakes started falling again, Winky and I rode
a couple of miles to meet up with Schlabo and co. at a comfy Belgian-style
tavern for a few pints of What Made Milwaukee famous. When the Chicago
riders finally arrived they were completely fried. The hard crosswind had
made riding a chore and blown snowdrifts onto Route 32, forcing them to ride
in the middle of the road in front of impatient drivers. Most of them
decided to sleep in the next day and take Amtrak home. None of the
Cheeseheads opted to ride either ? even the Big Schlabowske couldn?t go
because he had an important trails meeting on Monday.
A few more inches fell that night, but the massive snowstorm never
materialized. The next morning there was an inch of slush on the streets and
freezing rain blew off of the lake, but Elizabeth decided she wanted to ride
60 miles south to Waukegan, IL, where we could catch Metra back to the
Hog-Butcher to the World. I was impressed that she was willing to take on
such crappy weather on her first big bike trip.
Swaddled in Gore-Tex, we started the slow slog southward, sliding somewhat
on the slippery slush. The roads cleared up as we left the city, but the
wicked sleet beat on us as we pedaled against the crosswind. Fortunately,
our layers kept us warm if not dry, since sweat soaked us from within our
waterproofing. The coastal bike route actually doesn?t offer many views of
Lake Michigan, but as we approached Kenosha we glimpsed battleship-gray
waves pounding against the frozen shore.
Soon after we crossed the Cheddar Curtain back into the Land of Lincoln, I
realized we were running out of time to catch the last Metra train back to
the Big Onion for the next two hours. We got down in our drops and sprinted
the last eight miles to the train, arriving at the station with a minute to
spare.
After I?d lashed our bikes to the inside wall of the train, Winky said,
?Wow, that?s the fastest I?ve ever ridden in my life.? We walked to the next
car to find Paul and another Snot rider named Rubani Shaw. They had slept in
and departed by bike from Cream City at a brisk pace an hour or so after us,
beating us to the station by a few minutes. Winky and I sat down next to
them and I passed around a pint of Jim Beam. Cozy in our liquid blanket of
booze, we watched the scenery roll past as the train carried us back to
Sweet Home Chicago.
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