Well, I did my first DALMAC. Sort of.
30 years ago I wanted to ride the DALMAC also—but I was too late and too broke, so my brother and a friend and I—all age 16 or 17—simply did our own ride in the general vicinity—and kept on going for a month and a half, learning many wondrous new things along the way, all for $150 each (that we earned on our own, tarring driveways).
I took the same set of panniers and handlebar bag this time. It was the cheapy stuff back then, half the price of the good stuff. Yet it’s held up. (We use the rear bags every week for grocery errands.)
I rode my new/old red ’74 Paramount—which is also 30 years old. And I brought the same bike touring maps we used way back then, too. 30 years old.
Fun stuff.
The bike was great the whole ride. So was all my equipment. My shellacked-and-twined bars glowed lovely the whole time.
The weather was perfect.
I was going to ride 350 miles in 5 days from Lansing to the Mighty Mac bridge. I followed the famous DALMAC tour group route and visited with their riders all day long. DALMAC has 5 scenic routes going up the west side of the state, twining through each other in various distances. Several hundred riders tour each route—breakfast and dinner are provided and vans haul their luggage to each endpoint for the day. Registration opens for the tour in February and fills a couple weeks later. I missed the cut-off, as did anyone else who wasn’t an old hand. So I carried my own stuff, did my own food and had the freedom of deciding my own route along the way—and got a taste of DALMAC that way. DALMAC is run by TCBA volunteers; it’s a big local club that I’m a member of. The ride was started in the early ’70s by a congressman who rode from the capitol to the bridge one year and invited people to join him, hence its name: “The Dick Allen Lansing to Mackinaw Ride.”
The routes start in mid-Michigan farmland and head north. It was a wonderful thing to ride my own way into the glory of “up north” scenery. Each day the route becomes more beautiful, a very nice way to be riding, indeed.
I brought way too much stuff. I sent home 10 pounds after the first day. When I was done with the whole ride I rifled thru my gear and made another 10 pound bag that I didn’t need. So I started with a total 60-lb bike/load combo, which went down to 50 lbs but could’ve been 40. That is, 15 lbs on a 25-lb bike. Now, for riding at a toodling-pace and if I didn’t care how my rig looked, my first load was fine. But I prefer a better match, somehow. (My new 3-lb $25 Texport solo-tent worked great.)
I just prefer doing a ride with the right amount of stuff. After long, hard days of riding “want” loses its appeal. Need is all that counts. That’s what biking made me realize with the force of virtue. I felt like I’d sinned by bringing more than I needed. Of course, it’s funny because I still *want* to only bring what I need, so want is still in there. A bike can easily haul more than the minimum—when traveling at a slower pace. My knee agreed with the light-load concept—no, my knee wished I had gone slower. So it wasn’t my load’s fault, but still. Looks are also a quasi-virtue, too: my load didn’t look ideal. Too bulky. A virtuous load would have no bundles on top of the rear rack and wouldn’t bulge the packs out. It would look trim and would tempt those who saw it to think “Hey, I should try a loaded tour myself next time.” A proper load is a good ambassador.
Man, I had a bunch of interesting experiences and learned several lessons.
The first, as I said, was bring only what you need. Then, pack it stylishly.
The next big lesson is to ride moderately. I was feeling my oats. I hadn’t ridden with a full load in decades. I rode semi-mellow the first day and felt fine at the end. The next day I joined fast pacelines and strained twice for long periods to catch fast groups. Silly. That evening one knee was sore. I took it easy the 3rd day. The 4th day was longer, hillier. One of my slower friends stayed ahead of me. My knee hurt a lot. At the end of the day, it needed to be not riding. Thankfully, that’s when I bailed out and joined the family at a friend’s cottage. The knee is fine now. But the obvious lesson is to not overdo it. There’s no sense at all in trying to match every carbon-bike racer while fully loaded.
Another big tip for anyone trying a tour is to use extra shorts liners and/or slather your chamois with bag-balm. Comfort guaranteed! (Avoid vaseline for long tours—your cream needs to be waterbased, breathable.)
Not a lesson but more a note is that I wasn’t hungry or thirsty ever. Effort suppresses my appetite, I guess. But at least I wasn’t stupid there. I noticed my fuel-hydration levels and maintained them. But I wasn’t eager about them. However, I did feel like kicking back under a shade tree and smoking a pipe and having a beer to cut the sweat. I also noticed that when riding with others that I noticed the scenery less.
Martha asked as I was getting ready to roll out of the driveway if I was nervous. I said No, it’s what I do. And that proved true. I was totally happy and comfy the whole time spending the days on the bike and camping out and exploring unknown and semi-silly situations (like not knowing where to camp as it’s getting dark) and sleeping on rock-hard ground (the trick is to hollow out a hip-cavity: perfect!). If I had a laptop, cellphone and occasional Net-hookup I could live like that. I’d be happy to put the same load into a canoe, as well, and paddle away.
I fantasized about aerodynamic panniers quite a bit. (I’ve done some designing and testing of such items. Here’s a report: outyourbackdoor.com/OYB8/bikes/bikeaerobag.html.) A couple of the days were headwindy and hilly. People complained about it all. I thought it was all great and felt lucky to be outdoors. I also fantasized about bike-canoe rigs, wondering if there was a tour that such a set-up would be good for.
So here’s what happened…there are a few wacky twists in here!
I had a bit of a late start so I skipped riding to the official start in town and just cut directly over to where the route went north.
The first whole day was flat, windy farmland. I rode with various little groups from time to time but mostly on my own. I came up on a couple once and noticed the gal had a Quint Century mapbook in her pack. That was a different route than the one we were on. I said I was new to this game but I thought they might be lost. They were new, too. We figured out that they were indeed lost and with my extra maps we saw they hadn’t wasted miles but only needed to ride 13 miles west to hook up with their route again. They were relieved.
The day’s 84 miles went by dandy. It was neat taking in all the gradually accumulating impressions of what this tour is like. At the day’s-end camp-area on the CMU campus I was astonished by all the recumbent bikes, maybe 15% of all riders. There was a 10-acre lawn area half full of little tents when I got in. I was near the back of the pack. I also was very impressed by seeing that a good handful of kids and pre-teens made it.
The day’s riding dynamics seemed to be small groups, couples and families. Maybe half of the groups were open to having a solo rider ride with them awhile.
I saw no classic bikes while riding but the first bike I saw at the campground was a lovely Rivendell with upright bars. The guy and I talked awhile. He wore a jersey that said “Sponsored by no one.”
During the day people asked me how I was doing the ride and I’d say self-supported, find my own food, camp where there was room. People seemed friendly. They said that their Security Wristbands were only for the meals. They by and large thought there would be plenty of room at the camp area. And sure enough there was. I just found an empty place out of the way and set up my tiny tent. No problem. I cleaned up in the college lockerroom then hiked to the biz district and got a burger then went back. I saw one club guy who I ride with a lot. He’s a stickler for details, mentioning the laws about this’n’that often as we ride and he’d told me the club wasn’t fond of unpaid tour riders. He “greeted” me with a “So what are you doing on DALMAC property?” I said “Hanging out unless you call the cops.” Seems like it’s public property, to me. I’ve tented on campuses before on my bike travels. I hit the hay.
The next day I mailed home 10 pounds, ate a small breakfast and found the route north again. I joined in with some fast groups. And faster. I was going race-pace when we got to our lunch stop. Several high-end low-racer ‘bents were there on display at the lunchline, a couple with very fancy carbon partial rear fairings. Very slick and impressive for the ‘bent cause.
There I saw 2 other guys with full loads, but at least one of them was registered. They were part of an MSU group of physicist riders. They were the first welcoming types I’d run into and included other foreign faculty people. They also really liked the Paramount. I rode with them after lunch. Their group was going moderate when the sun came out and I stopped quickly to take off a layer. They were out of sight in a jiffy. I chased for a half hour. Bad timing on my part, I guess. When I caught them I blew on past. About then we came to the day’s famous Swimming Hole stop on the Muskegon River. I told them I was stopping. They motored on. Those 2 loaded guys were strong, but I think their steady group drafting set-up made it reasonable for them. The one guy is riding to Boston after DALMAC.
An hour after lunch we were in the birches, forests and rolling hills. No more farmland. We were finally up north.
I decided to take advantage of my freedom and to work my load in my favor and to leave at the 40-mile point of today’s 5-Day route group and camp in the woods nearby and do a little canoeing in a rental boat at the nearby livery then join up with the 4-Day riders tomorrow. I said Hi to the canoe guy and made plans for the next morning. He was quite pushy. Then I got some supplies and dinner at a local bar and got the lay of the land from the friendly locals then went off to camp by the river. They told me the canoe guy was a pain in the butt, thinking he owned everything (“Well, he pretty much does, Vern…”). They told me of a place where the locals camped.
I pushed back into the sandy two-tracks area and came upon people at a trailer by the river and backed up. Then I found another area with campers. I was in the sandy brush, it was getting dark and I hadn’t found a good place yet. I finally said Hi to these people and they said Oh, there were some good places further down, just cut thru their spot and I’ll find them. I found another family then a few empty places with elbow room and I finally settled in.
My knee started acting up. I swam and washed in the river and phoned home. Then I smoked a nice bowl of mellow tobakky in my corncob pipe, while leaning against a stump over the river and read a book til the sun went down and hit the hay. Then the locals started screaming. And driving loud dirtbikes in the dark. Then they built a bonfire down from me a ways. Then they started screaming from there. And their kinfolk screamed back at them from the other side of me. My eyes bugged out. I thought about just dragging my stuff way off into the brush to sleep, but I walked down and said Hi to the young guys at the fire. They were hard-to-stand drunk. But they said tonite would be mellow, tomorrow was the real partying. I said cool. They commenced screaming again. But sure enough an hour later it got quiet. They tooled by in their truck and hollerslurred “G’nite, buddy, see ya tomorrow!” Touching. Boy, I got lucky, though. Man, them Americans love their noise. And their booze-screaming. I hate it, but I guess I can accept the idea that living in the sticks with TV and bad jobs working with machinery making crappy stuff would provoke anyone to scream in the woods afterhours.
In the morning I made coffee with my new Coffee Can Twig Stove—it worked perfectly. I just crumpled a bit of 2” ball of newspaper and put a dozen 2” twigs on it and lit it and kept feeding in twigs for a couple minutes and presto, boiling water.
I went canoeing. The guy asked me where I’d camped. He had tried renting me a campsite earlier. He said, That’s my land above and below where you were. Then he took all my remaining $15 of cash for a deposit on the boat. I didn’t notice him taking a deposit from the other couple. So all during my lovely paddle outting I was revved up at the chance that this guy would rip me off with some excuse. He seemed like he’d have the local cops as pals. I had no receipt. What a fool! It was weird how it distracted me. In the end he gave me back my money without a fuss and was nice. I joined the 4-Day Riders.
These riders seemed more intense. They were doing more miles each day. I went by the founder of the DALMAC—Dick Allen himself, in his 60’s toodling along. He didn’t seem happy to see me riding on my own. Near the end of the day’s 40 remaining miles (from where I joined them) I rode past a gal who I recognized from Mackinaw Island years ago. Hey, I know you! We said Hi and chatted. I slowed right down. She was on her first DALMAC and riding with another gal she’d made friends with. The gal was bonking so we got her to eat and drink. She focused on our wheels and made a gradual recovery. I was greatly relieved as well—of finally finding some friendly people to ride with. I really had started to feel lonely in the crowd. My friend said “It’s nice to see someone else riding in regular clothes. What is it with those outfits? The groupitis is a little stuffy, too, eh?” It’s worth noting that just because you’re on the road with lots of people doesn’t mean they want to ride with you: they’re with their friends and family. Of course lots are happy to include new faces but if you sense they’d rather not, it’s best to respect that—they probably won’t outright say it.
I thought again that I’d camp with the group if there was room. If not, there was state land a few miles away. So we got in to the day’s highschool grounds and sure enough it was about half full so I picked a spot near the front by my new pals and set up then washed up and strolled around looking at bikes before hiking into town for dinner. There were just a couple ‘bents in this group. But I saw several more vintage-style classy rides. (One classic rider said he prefered plain jerseys—regular bikewear seeming next worse to him than NASCAR. Ouch!) I saw more club people who I knew and chatted with them. We talked about the bikes we’d been seeing. On my way to town I passed a lovely little red bike by a tent and said Hi to the wiry little owner guy. He surprised me by being very bristley. Weird, I thought, and went on. I got dinner, came back. I noticed the bristley guy again then an official scurried up to me and said “Do you have a wristband?” I had just bumped into one of the gals I’d been riding with. I said “No, I’m just riding along with the group and stayed here because there was room.” The gal said “He’s fine, we invited him, he saved me today out there.” The guy said “Well, I had a complaint. We can’t have people without wristbands here.” In the end, when he found out I was a club-member he let me stay. I apologized for the inconvenience and thanked my friend for saving my butt. Another friend said I should’ve played the “I’m the press” card, but I wanted to stay independent, like an stealth restaurant reviewer, and not wow them with my credentials.
DALMAC is a cherished family-group ride, a special reward for a summer of training. The paying riders—who are already apt to complain about wind and hills and who are highly organized types who knew in February what they were doing come Labor Day—hassle the volunteers about any unpaid riders they might spy—so even if there’s just one on the ride, like me, it can be a pain for the organizers. I should’ve found a woodsy site again or kept a lower profile. I got lulled into a false sense of security, as Alec Baldwin says in “Miami Blues.”
That night I dreamed that I had entered a big art contest that was displaying our work in a big stadium. Mine seemed like a winner. I was excited. Right before the big opening an official said I only had one of two entry forms filled out. But mine was stamped ‘approved’ I said! Yes, but I still needed the other form, sorry.
Then I had a doozy of a dream. I was in a meeting with President Bush (Jr) in a semi-casual setting with a few business-people. We were chatting about a big tax break for capital expenditures and Bush said something like “So you’ve gotta be able to throw some big spears around to gain from this” and chuckled. Then he started to say something else and I had a hasty “me-too” idea and said “Excuse me, Mr. President, but does that mean that even small business people should focus on major expenses right now?” I was kind of hyper and just repeated what he’d said. He walked around and said “Well, I’m not sure about that, but I’ve been in politics most of my life,” then he turned to me and grabbed me by the chin and looked away from me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and said “and that’s not the way we do things.” I pulled away from him and he grabbed me by the chin again, kind of sweaty and very dark—he hadn’t shaved in a few hours—and said “Hmmm? Hmmm?” then he turned away, blinking and darting his eyes. I was mortified. I was probably the first citizen ever roughed-up by a president. He gave me the full mafia-don treatment. How crazy to interrupt the President! It was oblivious. —And that’s how I was feeling about my tenting with the official riders. I should’ve kept a lower profile. Artist-types are independent, but we’re still sensitive, eh?
I got riding again early in the morning, no chitchatting, wearing my finest official club member outfit. My knee was hurting now, thanks to my moronic hard riding. Fast riding was over. My family was 80 miles away at a cottage. The tour had two near-100-mile days to go, but I could maybe make it 90 miles to the cottage and bail out today.
As we were riding I got a whiff of alewives and the freshwater beach. Ah, we were nearing the Big Lake! Then we were into orchard country. I stopped and bought some peaches from an old guy at his centennial farm. I saw my gal friends a few times as they whizzed by me and I’d catch up again at a rest-stop. About once an hour I had a nice chat with someone who got a kick out of my bike or luggage.
The club officials didn’t like me out there, though. What about some other friendly solo loaded rider who finds the DALMAC route and says, “Hey, can I ride along?” She’ll need to be more than friendly: she’ll need to keep her head up and be on her toes for the group dynamics.
We arrived in Elk Rapids. What lovely crystal blue water in that town, harbor and river. Several group routes merged at this point. My knee said that I wasn’t going to make it all the way to the cottage, though. So I phoned and told Martha to pick me up at dinnertime in 3 hours at the end of the really long Torch Lake we were starting to ride up.
I made my way up the lake. Near the end I passed a Rivendell rider and said Ahoy and he waved but was stopped with a friend who was having trouble. Then a big tall guy on a Romic caught up to me, wobbling. He said my bike was made by the guy who started Paramount. That was cool. He liked my bar shellac and twine. He had a southern accent and was from Tennessee. We chatted and rode. He was going real slow and said he had a bad saddle sore. Turns out he did Paris Brest Paris in 1991—750 miles nonstop with 4500 of his best pals. I was happy to ride slow with someone who’d done PBP. He said he met several pals from around the country every year for his ride and that he always picked a harder route than he intended due to the deceptions of email bravado. We found a cohort of his waiting for us along the road. We 3 rode for awhile in bleeriness, with the big guy wobbling off to the side of my back wheel like a crippled duck. Their stop was near the end of the lake. He was on a Waterford. Hey, two Waterfords! I said. –Because the old Paramounts were built in the same town of Waterford. It was neat to encounter 3 other friendly riders of classy bikes right then. We finally made it to their destination. I had another few miles to go. I said Thanks for helping me this last part—I had occasionally been saying “Ow” out loud due to my knee giving out or binding. Those two had been grimacing, too. The tall guy then said a nice thing: “Those who suffer together are brothers,” which meant a lot to me after that long day. We shook hands and departed.
A few miles later I got to the end of the lake and Martha had just pulled into the parking lot. My knee was relieved.
I think that next time I’ll sign up officially. I’ll also try to set up a group to go with. A vintage or retro bunch would be fun. We need to represent classy bikes better. I also noticed only 2 riders on their own and in their twenties on the tour. Very few young riders attend our local club rides. Broadening things would be good.
There were also questions of money to consider on this ride, and not just among riders. I saw a lot of what money buys—mansion cottages, big boats—but much less class or real value. The occasional classic cottages were lovely to see. But most fancy construction is simply larger versions of mobile homes and most vehicles just bigger versions of yahoo-mobiles. Getting rid of what I didn’t need while riding my bike gave me a good lesson in “less is more.” I paddled a canoe in the evening at the cottage we stayed at. It seemed to me that I should’ve seen more wood canoes and classy little sailboats and rowboats at the fancy cottages along the shore. I mean, if you had money, what would you do, buy crap? Make NOISE? “Give back more than you take”—kept coming at me as a good idea. There are many ways to make that work but building and buying crap aren’t two of them.
The next day we walked across the Bridge and just as we reached the peak of the arch a huge freighter passed exactly underneath us. Perfect timing.
We’re home now. I’m going to take Lucy over to the church parking lot to ride her bike on the quiet, empty pavement. Two crabby guys share the parsonage that’s situated on one side of the parking lot. (They have a yap-dog that barks on randomly startling mornings at 6 a.m. I mentioned to one of them cheerfully once that we sleep with our windows open and the bark wakes us up with a jump and the guy just stared. Our other neighbor has a yap-dog that barks at us whenever we are in our own yard. It makes my eyes bulge out. But none of them have kids, so maybe it’s all payback for the noise in our yard: still…still…we don’t wake them up and we don’t hassle them for walking out their own door.) Anyway, the minister is a crabby feminist lady. Their bishop gave them a mandate to open their lovely grounds to the community. But we’re about the only locals who use the land. Still, they can’t play the “liability” card that they’re just itching to play. They just snub us instead. It hurts when your immediate neighbors are hostile, but I pry at least a nod from them every time we’re over there. I bet they can’t imagine that mental-abuse hate-crime works both ways.
Hell is other people—at least their dogs, noise, dirt-bikes, jetskis, raging drunks, SUVs, and bureaucracy. Oh well, since I stick my neck out, I’m used to dealing with the wacky extremes I put myself in the way of. I also have more better times, too. All in a day’s work on the cutting edge of the media.
