Good riding up here. Still going strong.
In this time, I rode through fields of field corn, sweet corn and sugar beets on an interminable, utterly flat series of country roads. The heat relented and the weather turned cool. A smooth dirt path deposited me in suburban Minneapolis and, giddy to be back in a big city, I pedaled like a madman Sunday afternoon to arrive with hours to spend at the Minneapolis Institute of Art.
I loved it there. It’s an imposing classical building of stone in the style of the Pantheon in Rome, and inside, marbled corridors bounded labyrinthian rooms of ancient Buddhist sculptures, modernist and impressionist visual art, street photography, angels of pure silver. It was too much art to see in one day and I left crestfallen that I couldn’t visit the next day, when the museum would be closed — despite my best efforts to sweet-talk my way in with the friendly staff.
In Minneapolis I struggled to find a host and, as the sun began to set, Wilbur rescued me. I stayed with him for two nights and three days on the south side, just down the road from a culinary district where we slurped down good pho with tripe and lots of basil. I rode his mountain bike through the hot, humid city and found my way to the top of a skyscraper, where I took in the view for an hour. On the second night we rode to a nearby lake and swam at dusk. Brian joined us — Wilbur’s friend. He must be in his 70s and he’s living on social security in a van. In the winter he lives in California. Far out in the desert. Last year, his van burst into flames and burned to the ground in the night.
Wilbur harvested his sweet chard, tomatoes and squash, despite the best efforts of the persistent drought. He fed me very well.
The bustle of the city, the diversity — it was hard to leave.
When I mustered the strength to leave town, I rode through George Floyd Square. It’s a homage to Floyd and victims of police violence where Chauvin killed Floyd that was, and may still be, an “autonomous zone” where activists permanently drove out the cops. The names of those killed by police stretch in red paint down the street for two blocks. Activists supposedly guard the area 24/7.
When I was there, hardly anyone was. Myself and three other white people wandered around, not speaking, with tears in our eyes. Everything was adorned in flowers, in signage, in affirmations of community and resistance, with unyielding calls for police reforms and economic development that are largely unrealized.
Down the block a few businesses are still open. The Cup Foods, where Floyd begged for his life before his murder. An arts nonprofit. A shabby-looking auto body shop where a trio of Black men sat behind a spray-painted, plywood wall. Another corner store. During the riots the activists took over a gas station across from Cup Foods. It was a Speedway. Now, it’s the “People’s Way,” as declared by graffito. A homeless woman shuffled down the block, pushing a small cart of belongings.
From this centre, the signs of devastation are visible more than a year after the riots. People burned a major post office to the ground that’s still there, in crumbling remnants, now covered in graffiti. It’s a hub for homeless people living in tents and vans. Someone since told me that rioters looted liquor stores, which left alcoholic homeless folks with no recourse to stave off withdrawals. They laid in the streets having seizures and social workers handed out bottles of vodka. I don’t know if that’s true. Wilbur told me the National Guard rolled down the streets in MRAPs.
I left the city feeling raw.
I’ll write more about this and the unfinished business of reforms here and in Aurora, CO where there are some important parallels. Notably, paramedics in both cities became notorious for subduing criminal suspects with ketamine. Both cities were rocked by huge demonstrations and political riots after the deaths of Black men at the behest of police. And reforms have largely gone unrealized.
From George Floyd Square I rode excellent bike trails out of Minneapolis. A cool, cloudy day followed a huge morning storm. In St. Paul, 1,000 activists gathered with Anishinaabe protest leaders in a demonstration against Enbridge’s Line 3 replacement project. I found out about this later.
From Enbridge’s website and the Duluth News Tribune, I gathered that project is the latest infrastructure update for the Canadian energy giant, which moves the most gas of any firm in North America. If completed, the new terminal would deliver more than 700,000 barrels of crude oil a day. Anishinaabe activists put out the call to oppose the project in the name of tribal sovereignty, water protection and climate protection. They’re attempting to make the issue as controversial as Keystone XL and Dakota Access before it. Those efforts eventually panned out. But so far, Enbridge has won several legal challenges — the latest of which, from the state Supreme Court, I’m told. It looks like the project will go ahead. Maybe Biden can do something about it. I’m not sure.
That night I entered a virtual jungle of deciduous foliage. It was 80 degrees and extremely humid on the glassy St. Croix River. I crossed into Wisconsin and rode through the woods in the dirt for about 60 miles on the Gandy Dancer Trail. From there I rode about another 60 on Highway 35, in thick firesmoke billowing from the Greenwood Fire, to the bleak industrial sprawl of Superior, WI and crossed the very tall and somewhat treacherous Bong Bridge over St. Louis Bay into Duluth, MN. In ecstasy, I watched the first of four days of rain begin to fall. The deluges have since totally flushed out the smoke. For the first time since North Cascades National Park, I am riding soaked and freezing, and I am loving it.
Reaching Lake Superior was another big moment for me. The lake frothed, black and menacing, at the light house in Duluth. Seagulls eyed the hamburger I scarfed down.
I can’t express how happy I am to be in cool weather. Duluth was dark, blustery and shaded beneath huge white pines. Lake Superior is utterly beautiful. Vast, powerful, ominous.
Leaving Duluth, I battled the storm of storms at a precipice on the Bong Bridge. It’s two miles long and 120 feet high. It was an absolute maelstrom up there. The rain pummeled me sideways, relentlessly blowing me toward the guardrail dividing me, and the narrow pedestrian path, from the churning, brown waters far below. By the time I made it over, I felt like I’d been punched in the face. Someone since told me that they don’t even like driving their car over that bridge.
I probably have a few more weeks of riding. I’m beginning to take my time and savor it.
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