Death's Door and Back

 Look back and see all the places you should have failed, should have fallen, should have collapsed, should have let yourself quit, then realize, you're looking back. Looking back from your goal, your arrival, your success, knowing on this journey, you had an adventure.

It was three years since our last trip. We had set this goal to ride around Lake Michigan bit by bit, year by year, but somehow three years got in the way. We’ve all turned, gasp, 40, and our lives seem to just pick up more and more complications. It took coordinating with our best supporters, wives, to clear the dates, to set ourselves back on the path to circumnavigate the lake. To return to where we last left off in Manitowoc then to Death’s Door and back to Green Bay. Making sure to Ride as much shore as you can, to follow the coast, enjoy the scenery and make some more adventure along the Great Lake.

With such a long delay and great riding ahead, you’d think we would be brimming with anticipation. That we’d be hyping each other up for a ride through one of Wisconsin’s best known vacation spots. A peninsula which, despite Hart’s running commentary, is renown for its cycling. Yet, as the date approached the preparation was more a situation of “oh shit” than “hell yeah”. The broad outlines of the trip had been set years ago, but the specifics were slapped together last minute. Suddenly 40 mile days turned to 60 and 100 mile days ballooned to 120. Looking at the map Jon became very concerned. Fortunately, he could count on Joe and Hart to not look at all. Hard to be daunted by a trip of unknown length and difficulty, and that’s before the weather and our own personal folly.

Hitting the road made it real, when we were all packed into the minivan, bikes, bags, and all, we started talking about the miles ahead. That we’d be putting down a PR day over a hundred for both Joe and Jon on day two, and after that we’d still have two sixty mile days ahead. Good thing we had such a restful day one of just fifty miles, whew. But here we were, finally together, three buddies from Milwaukee giving it a shot again. Refusing to give up on our slightly off kilter idea from 6 years ago to ride around the lake piece by piece. Now was the anticipation. Now was the hell yeah. We were doing it, for real.

Of course, it wasn’t a minute into unpacking the minivan that we realized we erred in coordinating packing the van, if not for a last grab of a bike pump at Hart’s we almost had to hit the road with no flat solution at all. Then Joe realized, again, just how little Jon planned on taking. The ensuing mild bickering was quickly interrupted by another park-and-ride patron explaining how we were not to worry about his soon to be smoking car. As we visualized leaving the lot with an ensuing explosion, we remembered why we love these trips, the characters you meet are priceless.

The streak continued at our first stop in Denmark, Wisconsin at Rookies Pub and Grill. As the trip planner Jon references his spreadsheets and trail distances as if serious consideration went into each stop, rather than the reality that it’s based on hours and proximity to the route, so it was we almost breezed by lunch. But we stopped, tossing our bikes in the lawn out front a little less stressed about theft in this sleepy town. Walking in we were invited to sit anywhere by the bartender, then shortly after invited to specifically sit next to the local crowd queuing up a game that involved dice and some unidentifiable green drink in the middle of a tower of booze. Oh, it’s on. And by that we mean we totally lost the game. But the crew spun tracks perfect for our trip while goading us into drinking way too much fifteen miles into a fifty-mile bike ride. Despite the great offer, we knew we had to hit the gravel and go.

The quiet tree tunnels are a great respite from the stress of roads, especially when adorable chirping baby raccoons come up to you. Avoiding petting the wild animals was nearly as great a challenge as grinding out freshly laid unpacked traffic bond. Yet we cranked on for Petskull Brewing in Manitowoc, the crew wasn’t going to go 20 miles without another beer. The rain had just started as we were pulling in, and we knew that we were no longer the three upstanding gentlemen from Milwaukee in Denmark, now we were the soggy bicyclist in the upscale brewery in Manitowoc.

No matter, a flight of beer for the team as we listened to a very long story about how a man earns his guitar from the World War II Grandfather. All to set up a top hit, Brett Farve. Yes, the lyrical story about an unknown football player who rose up from backwater Mississippi to lead his down to earth team to victory in the Super Bowl. We were inspired, no doubt.

There was still a small problem of getting a smaller bike pump. Hart had the idea we’d stash the full size pump and pick up a compact one on the ride through Manitowoc. Turns out no bike shops. Next up Two Rivers. The only shop that Google gave open hours for was Cleveland Cycleworks. Still close enough to drive to on our way back through, so we headed out of our up into town. Good news, there was a line up of bikes up front, success looked ensured. However, on closer inspection very few of those bikes looked rideable at all. Once we were in we realized this was no bike shop, it was an arcade. Oddly with a half pipe. Jon and Hart walked around endlessly, into back rooms, dead end hallways, and never saw an employee looking person. Success was not ensured. After giving up it then took a minute to find Joe, who himself had found a nice leather lazy boy to relax on. That’s quite a bike shop.

The routing, from Green Bay to Manitowoc then up to Gill’s Rock and back to Green Bay was part philosophical. That we bent enough taking one car, let alone taking two to shorten the cut off from Green Bay to the lake. And part was we wanted to camp as close to the lakeshore as possible. Along with going the proper keeping the lake to the right, meant the route’s first evening stop was just past Two Rivers in Point Beach State Park. So, we’d better stop at the closest, openest, spot for bar food before the park. Tippy’s it was. A literal green and gold Packer bar through and through we knew we landed in the right spot when the special was a bucket of smelt and the potatoes were being cut behind the bar for the fries. Now, the forty-minute wait was a bit much but when the home fries came to the table drenched in squirted butter and the surly waitress told us we aren’t getting any ketchup at the table, we knew we had the right spot.

Very full and two pitchers in, we knew it was just the time to strap wood to Joe’s bike and send him down a gravel road that deteriorated into dirt then mud on our way to a campsite that maybe Jon could find. Yet somehow, we pulled it off again. Finding a spot up in the dunes listening to waves roll in. We stayed up with the fire as the rain went from drizzle to drop. Making a day of it, living our dream ride, meeting the dream people. This was it man.

Day 1 Ride in pieces Here, Here, and Here

In the morning, it felt more like that was it. Overnight waves of rain pounded the tent settling finally settling into a solid rain. This was no drizzle no drip, this was a soaker. A plan was hatched to get up, break down, and hit the road with as little time unpacking in the rain as possible.

This was pointless. No matter, we hit the road at seven am, knowing we only had one-hundred twenty miles to go. Not five miles into it Jon realizes he’s lost one of his front break pads, and his strap his sleeping bag to front fork idea are completely failing and we had more stops than starts into our first scheduled break twenty miles up the road in Kewaunee.

The location Jon picked was Anchor’s Down. A family dinner/ greasy spoon on the main drag. We stopped at the corner of the main streets to decided when Joe and Hart audibled to Hippielicious, which for the record Google calls a clothing store, because they saw a hot coffee sign in the window. Debating the relative merits of the decision the owner peaked out and said the coffee is hot and come on in. Being that we were soaking messes, we weren’t going to turn down any hospitality. While ordering coffee the morning show walked in. Good old Mike had a thing or two to say about the morning news and current events in this our great nation. He was also wondering if we were part of a larger group as he had just saw a few bike-packers down the road. Nope we said, we were the same plain old three riders from Milwaukee just passing through. Cheryl, not her real name, regaled us with a great story about the last time she was in Milwaukee to see The Who. Of which Mike had never heard of, that weird Milwaukee stuff wasn’t his favorite. Now, the Guess Who, he had their record amongst his 1,500 strong collection. Not wanting to wear out our welcome we headed out, scones and rhubarb ‘cake’ in our bellies. Oh look, rain.

We hit Algoma in no time, probably because it was only twelve miles up the road. Just as we were pulling into town Joe had a flat. No problem, we’ll just turn the covered patio of a cafe into our own personal bike shop. We’re so sure the owner didn’t mind, nor did she seem to mind we were soaking wet when she handed Joe towels to sit on. But they had the goods at Café Tiazo, huge breakfast sandwiches and premium espresso. Hart was able to secure an additional tube, and iphone charger for Jon, from the Ace Hardware next door.

Yeah we were wet, yeah we had eighty miles to go, but things were looking up.

We still had some details to attend to. Jon’s front pad had fallen off, Joe had soaked through a clothing layer, and Hart needed a sleeping pad. Arriving in Sturgeon Bay there was little pomp, we needed to get it done. Jon headed up the very large hill leaving Hart and Joe at the camp store downtown. We were not impressing anyone with our lack of preparedness at this point. Better to get it done and hit the road. Realizing it was past 1 PM and we were barely halfway stress was starting to rise. Good thing there was riding to be done to clear the mind. Just get going and it will be better. Up until Jon’s pedal started coming out. A quick side of highway fix before we found our next stop, Hitching Post in Whitefish Bay. No, not the Whitefish Bay we all grew up in, this was Whitefish Bay, Door County. Jon set his bike down to inspect, realizing that he was down to about three threads on crank arm, and it was going to be hope and prayer to continue. We needed to clean out the grease and metal shavings, so Joe headed in to secure some water, napkins, and a beer. By sheer luck the thread made it in. Just a quick stop to take a picture under the WFB sign and we were off again. Perfectly apropos, stepping in dog shit while doing so.

It was a slog, it was wet, it was brutal, then the road gods gave us a gift. A long section of road, barely wider than a trail, along Lake Michigan for mile after mile. Tiny bungalow houses on our left, and waves hitting the beach on the right. Soon we noticed pelicans. Yes, pelicans along the lakeshore. We just had to stop. What luck.

Of course, Jon’s always eying up the next bakery and ice cream shop, but on a fifty degree rainy day it becomes a real question if that’s what should be done. That’s where Joe and Hart come in, they eyed up the Island Fever Rum Bar & Grill. Rummies for all! Who knew, painkillers on tap. Yet again, we couldn’t stay. On to the next stop as it was three pm, and we were still thirty or more miles out from our next camp site. As much as the angst was filling in Jon it wasn’t too far to stop again when the Door County Brewing Company is on the trail. And even though Hart was also getting nervous, Joe found a fire and a deck of cards for a round of Sheepshead. And in the middle of a wet nasty day, no where near our goal, with precious daylight fading, we relaxed. We enjoyed the moment. We talked trash about cards and settled into our beer. It was perfect.

There was one more stop before the park, mostly because it was getting late and Jon got the hours wrong on the planned last stop, and that was Rowley’s Pub. While Jon imagined this to be a bar with kitchen, it turned out to be a former gift shop shoved into the corner of a resort last updated in the mid-fifties. The only food on offer was pizza. The three gentlemen from Milwaukee settled in and accepted that it was going to be frozen pizza and terrible beer for dinner. Instead, it turns out the crust is made fresh each morning in the bakery next door, and these were hand tossed fresh from the oven pizzas topped to the brim and overflowing with flavor. And Rowdy Jr., (not his real name) turned out to be a great bartender. Interesting life story, ready with a drink, and even had a bottle of Island Orchard Cider on hand when we told him we were missing out on our next stop. Suddenly we were back in the groove, enjoying the people on the trail and feeling like we just got away with it. Especially because the pub shut its door right behind us, bar time 8:45pm.

We arrived at the park and Hart declared victoriously we had made it. Too bad Jon was in charge. It was still a few miles down a track unknown to the campsite. Once again we had laden Joe with enough wood for a bonfire before we left the road for a trail in complete darkness. Not twenty feet down the trail, guided by Joe’s front light because Jon’s was out of battery, did we hit enormous unbikeable rocks. No problem, just a little hike a bike. Then a little more. Then a tiny bit of biking. Then more hiking. More hiking. Then we reached a sign that seemed to be saying we were halfway back to where we started. Out came the GPS and sure as can be, we had just hiked in a circle. In the dark. At 930 PM. After riding 120 miles. Hart kept in it though, and we reset and moved on. To a completely unbikeable trail. For one and a half miles. To find the campsite to be too wet to have a fire and everyone exhausted. Just then, a break in the weather. The moon was out and we decided to take our bottle of cider wine to the rocks of the bay, tucking under some old growth cedar perched along a rock cliff above the water. And when we finished the bottle, Mazel Tov to sea glass, we f’n made it.

Day 2 rides; Here, and here

Day three was going to be easy. The forecast was good, the route was the shortest of the days, and we really had all the time you could need to arrive at the next site. It was decided, morning fire. Joe busted out the summer sausage and cheese, and Hobo-Hart tossed it on the grate for an eye opening flavor explosion. Except for a few slugs, this was the morning we were after. After jumping over another fallen tree we were on trail. Actual rideable trail. Old fire road lined with beautiful blooming purple flower.

With such a great day ahead, it wasn’t a half mile up the trail when Jon endo’d and smacked his head right into the dirt. More upsetting than the clear concussive force, saved by tightly strapped helmet, was this whacked the GPS compass out of true. The trail was clear, but the GPS had totally gone haywire. Mercifully we made it to some road, just for Joe’s tire to blow out climbing the first hill. Hey, good thing we brought the big pump. However, this was an auspicious start to the ‘easy day’, which didn’t ever get easier.

Yet, we were there. Porte’s Des Mortes, the Death’s Door. The top of land in Door County, where ships coming to Green Bay often met their doom. Those who weren’t ready for the storms, who weren’t steady through the rocks, the ones that didn’t make it gave the location its name. It’s almost to metaphorical to even call out the similarities.

In Gill’s Rock, the town right along Death’s Door, was Gill’s Rock Café, where Gill (not his name at all) made these three hearty friends from Milwaukee feel more welcome than anywhere else we had been. Warm coffee and good scones, that’s a way to settle into a day. After leaving Gill’s it was already late morning and we had made it a whole bunch of nowhere. But then the road provided, it was smooth rolling pavement. Not quite along the bay, but it just kept rolling out in front of us as the day warmed and the sun came out. The spirits were high and as we turned a corner (ha! Literally and metaphorically) we were at an ice cream store. This was our moment. After Joe explained to Jon how to order freshly made waffle cones, and then reexplained it to Hart we all ordered and sat in the sun drying out. Joe and Jon with the aforementioned waffle cones and Hart with his sugar cone (he didn’t listen).

We were golden, until Joe hopped on his bike and noticed another flat. No matter, into the shade and a quick change out and we were on the road again.

Jon purchased a new GPS for the trip, and in the reviews it gave some long explanation of “climbs” as a feature. According to this GPS unit there would be three of which on the route that day. But none previous to this day. So, it was of no surprise that shortly after leaving the coffee shop as the sun beat down on us we had to creep up an enormous hill alongside the highway. Exhausted, now sweating after just drying out, Jon noticed we were at the Peach Barn Farmhouse and Brewery. Originally not on the schedule since it doesn’t open until one pm and it was only twenty miles from our origin Jon figured we’d be by way too early. But now, seeing as we were making absolutely no progress, now was the time to relax and have a beer. And a game of bags. Perfect.

Rolling out, Joe’s emotional state was saved by not having another flat. This would not last. At the base of the next climb Joe endured another puncture. It was there in the hot sun along the highway we realized we were down to no more tubes and Joe’s tire was not looking great. Hatching a plan to limp along to the bike shop on the backside of Peninsula State Park we just tossed a tube in and hit it. For about a half mile. But we pumped it up again and hit it. For about a quarter mile. But we pumped it up and hit it, for about fifty yards. It was done. No more recourse. What was plan C? How were we going to scrape the pieces of this trip back together. We weren’t going to be defeated. Joe needed to ride. He needed to ride Peninsula State Park. It wasn’t an option. Jon hopped on his bike and headed to the next bike shop two towns over, really 10 ish miles, to buy a tire and tube. Up and down the hills, somehow they were open, somehow they had a tire, he hammered back. Joe and Hart prepped for the next stage with daily fresh made soup, coffee, and sandwiches. We got the new tube and tire on, a Pepsi down, and we knew, that was it. The rest was going to be cake.

Peninsula State Park did not disappoint. We hiked the tower at the top and reveled in the sunset trail along the Green Bay shoreline. We stocked up on a few more tubes at the shop. It was mid afternoon and we were really making progress, only more than half the ride to go before sundown. Oh snap, we need to stop at that brewery, hello One Barrel Brewing Company and a hearty game of Connect 4.

Finally we put down some miles. There is a stretch of road leaving Egg Harbor that is second to none in road condition. Winding, but not undulating, smooth pavement, but no cars, and it went as far as the eye could see. We crushed 20 miles like it was nothing, warm breeze at our backs all the way into Sturgeon Bay. Yeah, it was at fifteen miles an hour, but that was ripping for this trip.

As with many of Jon’s ideas, the first brewery was actually closed on a Monday evening. Go figure, so we were left with the basement tasting room under the Italian restaurant. Apparently we were the second set of bike-packers in that day. And the Bartender was an expert on the topic, a teacher and summer sailor who had spent her honeymoon taking a trip from Mackinac to Chicago by bicycle. We could regal each other with stories of our own similar trip while enjoying some fabulous beer, oh and hot tip, call ahead to the next stop. They pour drinks all night, but don’t always have food.

Waterfront Mary’s was near the dead end of a long bay side road. It had the trappings of a surf hut and the clientele of a roadhouse with a side of fisherman. Each of which coming to our side of the place to tell their fish stories on the phone where it was quieter. It was getting dark, but Joe would pay it no mind, he ordered up a second round for himself and a deck of cards. And what waitress would say no to these three happy fellows from Milwaukee? And so it was, Hart and Jon worked through their one round, of very boozy and very tall, rummies while Joe set up the deck. Just as the second deal round of Sheepshead started so did the band, because live music on a Monday at Nine PM, why not?

Boozed up and exhausted was the perfect time to test whether or not this was really a dead-end street. Surprisingly, it wasn’t. We jetted right into the park, and even though this was the ‘regular’ campground it was just about abandoned. With Joe’s strong foraging Hart was able to keep the Moss tradition alive, and we managed our third fire at our third campsite polishing off the fireball late into the night.

Day 3 rides; Here, here, here, and here

To know that the plan said forty miles on the last day, but the actual route was sixty was crushing. To then realize we needed to make some progress home to real life was tiring. To have that day start with a 15 mile an hour headwind and forecast for rain was exhausting. To realize that the hours on the bar & bistro were for the resort front desk and not for the food was crushing. But, to jump in the bay at the end of a sandy boat launch was exhilarating. It was the last day, and we jumped in. Head under water. Just three joyous friends from Milwaukee enjoying the bay. We dried off in the sun and found the Citgo, amazingly somehow on the route, for some fine gas station coffee and a morning breakfast of Hostess and Reese’s. King rat would have it no other way.

Then reality. Rain. Rain. And more rain. And the route had changed from quiet roads to frontage road along the four-lane highway 57. It was time to grind. HTFU, hit the paceline and go. No talking, only miles. And miles, and miles. The local Frosty-Tip was closed, so back to the 7-11 for pocket burger and to discuss the plan. The next road was either going to be dead end, a 10 mile detour around the highway, or by some miracle a bike path through the park. And just when we were the lowest, it was the best. The bike path brought us to a park where we had lunch in the shelter of a children’s playset in the shape of a pirate ship. Y’argh, just three maties from Milwaukee enjoying lunch in the park. There was something uplifting about the dry smell of cedar chips on such a miserable day. Good thing we only had 25 more miles to grind out in the rain.

Despite the forecast, the rain started to ebb. The road flattened out and before we even realized it, we were in Green Bay. Joe had a few things to say to some of the Packers, who we assume live along the Bay, otherwise we kept overcoming the headwind and Joe’s possibly broken hand to Bay Beach before turning south along the river. The industrial opened up to the downtown and the best Brussel sprouts any of us had had at Copper State Brewing. We were just 5 miles from the car. Warm. Filled with coffee (jon), beer (Hart and Joe), staggeringly good food and one giant pretzel. Hit it. We made one last detour to the winding river trail over the straight shot along a highway. Spirits were lifted, that sense of survival and relief was kicking in. When we rolled up to the car, Hart took the sprint. We shed our mess of wet, tossed our bikes on the car, cranked the heat and the music and hit the road just beating the rain. Victory.

Day 4 ride, Here

No one is going to sit here and say our challenges were extraordinary. Nor was the route some example of stressing the body to human limits. Yet, it is hard. Hard to keep going when it is beyond miserable. When the bikes are literally falling apart. When you can’t feel your hands or your bottom. When you get up after you fall, (ha, metaphor and literal again) to just keep moving forward. But that’s what the whole idea is, let alone this one trip. There’s no reason why the three former wrestlers from Milwaukee should still be getting together over twenty years from their supposed glory days to go punish their bodies for what isn’t even a wooden nickel. It’s the meaninglessness of it that brings it meaning. To chose to have some monk-like suffering in your life so when those brief moments come, the ice cream in the sun, the fresh made soup while sitting on your ass, the best brussels ever at a pub, moonlit drinks and remote campfires that you can truly relish the moment. One supposes, it’s akin to how from great adversity comes great men, must be that from great stupidity comes great joy.