Saint Urho’s Day

I'm back.

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It was just another day like no one other before it.. One of those days where, intentions not withstanding, the gods had me in their thoughts and planned a luau around the event.

I had a simple plan, really. Just meet up with a few riding buds and head for what is locally known as the "Lakes Area". It's sort of strange, I guess, for a "Land of Ten Thousand Lakes" to have a "Lakes Area". The lakes seem to be everywhere, so why note any particular portion of the state? But I digress.

Get used to it.

I suppose if I really liked to motor around the local lakes, I would have bought a big power boat years ago instead of a motorcycle. For a biker, though, it's not the lakes that are particularly interesting, but the fact that roads generally go around them and, as lakes have undulating shorelines, the adjacent roadways oftentimes have undulating geometrics. In the Midwest then, where you can sometimes see dead flat and unbroken fields of beets for miles on end, the state highway can extend for tens of miles with nary a hint of deflection. Lake areas (and swamp areas and river areas) give this biker the chance to turn, and turning is one of the primary pleasures of the sport.

The mission, then, was to find someplace to turn, turn, and turn some more. The mission was also to find some tasty local barbeque. The mission was also to witness the shrine of Saint Urho. The mission was to ride somewhere.

For those painfully unaware, Urho has long been the beloved patron of Finnish vineyard laborers (I'll let you know when I start making things up). In ancient Finland, workers would move cautiously through the fields of wild grapes, ever watchful for the giant bears which (here's where the story gets sketchy) would steal their pic-a-nic baskets. Bears weren't the real problem. No. It was grasshoppers. Monstrous, saber toothed grasshoppers and, to believe the scale of the big fiberglass Urho, they were two feet long and as big as your thigh.

Only three words can describe these incredibly large insects – big freaking bugs. And there was only one saint with the Finnish language skills to rid them from the countryside. So, says the legend, pre-sainted Urho stood between the vineyards and the grasshoppers and exclaimed, "Grasshopper, grasshopper, go away". Miraculously (since that's how you get to become a saint), the grasshoppers went away,... and there was much rejoicing.

And that's about it for Menagha, Minnesota.

And for this, we rode hundreds of miles one way? Yes, absolutely. We met at the Sinclaire in Maple Grove, juiced up and headed northwest into 45 degrees and a steady rain up I-94 and past Saint Cloud to drier roads near Sauk Center, where we turned north on US 71. Made a brief stop to make a few gear adjustments and wound our way through one picturesque little community after another. Gassed up again in Menagha post-Urho and started our eastern leg onto county highways.

Up to Menagha, the roads had been mostly straight, but much of the next hundred or so miles was routed on curvy roads situated between scores of lakes. With temperatures now in the 70's and sunny skies, this would be the highlight of the trip and would take us through to lunch.

But then things got interesting. As instructed by my GPS, I dutifully made a left turn and found myself leading our group onto a gravel road. "Odd", I thought, as I specifically told the device to keep me on the pavement. You see, the Yamaha FJR 1300, while a most capable street bike, tends to underperform when the pavement ends. Craig, Todd, and Ric, however, were all riding GS1200's, BMW's adventure tourer.

Despite not wanting to ride the rocks, I've done my share, so I kept moving forward, confident that the three GS's would be happy to spend a little time less civilized.

A half mile later, I checked my mirrors to see all three trailing bikes fully stopped in the middle of the road and well behind. Assuming the worst, I turned around and rode back to join them, only to find they had taken the opportunity of this deserted country lane to water the flowers, so to speak. Haven't they ever heard of the Stadium Pal? With a sigh, I turned around again and continued.

At the two mile marker, the road was in good shape and I crossed Bunny Hill Road at close to 50 mph. Now, what was the deal with Bunny Hills, I pondered. It took me a second to remember that bunny hills were those mildly sloped portions of mountain resorts, where the uninitiated could try their hand at skiing prior getting creamed on the double diamonds.

And as I made this realization, I realized I was going sideways as the rock disappeared entirely and was replaced by soft and sinking sand. Well, maybe not entirely sideways, but to hear the others tell it, my rear tire was dancing three or four feet from side to side at it lost traction and the front wheel plowed into the earth.

In retrospect, I might have foreseen the changing conditions had I been thinking, but I never would have survived it upright had I been doing so. The key to staying on two wheels was not thinking at all, but staying loose and working with the bike (I'm sure it didn't want to go down, either). The sand was going to slow us down, regardless of our attitude, I just needed to stay vertical.

Again in retrospect, thinking hard prior to the change in "pavement" would have been futile, as two of the three following bikes were also caught off guard, despite seeing my wobbly ballet a couple of seconds earlier. Enjoying the countryside, enjoying the day - that lack of tension is what kept me on two wheels.

Fun! And now that the fun's over, we'll just move forward for a few hundred yards and the gravel will return like it always does,... almost always does. In this case, it was another three miles of soft, saturated, and rutted sand, then four miles of wet and inconsistent aggregate washboards before we found the tarmac again at MN 64. Later on, we found over an inch of sand stuck to the inside rim of one of the GS's rear wheel, testament to how deep we were sinking.

Now it was overcast, the temperature was down below 60, and we had wasted quite a bit of time off road. I was cold and hungry, and needed to boost my sprits just to keep my head in the game. In this regard, Crow Wing County highways fit the bill, winding around Ossawinnamakee, Hay, Whitefish, Pig, Cross, Pine, Greer, Adney and other lakes and down a narrow Mississippi River valley from just north of Jenkins to almost Crosby.

Now enter the Black Dog. Or rather, we entered the Black Dog (at the River and MN 6 at Wolford), which satisfied all barbeque requirements for road warriors - they had barbeque and they were open. It was good food (great ribs in a honeyed sauce with tater tots) and a great place to tell lies about how we almost didn't survive the sand below Bunny Hill Road. More than one had unsuccessfully adopted an Urho-based mantra, "sand, sand, go away".

Bellies full, we made a few gear adjustments and headed southeast towards Mille Lacs. There, we found a fog bank over the highway, caused by the warmer day and the remains of the ice along the western shore of the lake. A cool and special effect, which lowered the surrounding temperature to near 40 again. South of Milaca, US 169 turns to a divided four lane facility and runs dang straight back to the Cities. Sunny again, and almost 80 degrees as we got closer to home.

We bade our sayonaras at a petrol dump in Elk River, were we first heard, and then watched as a boat and trailer became disattached from their tow vehicle. At low speed and witnessed from a safe distance, this sort of thing can be really funny. Fortunately, this incident was at low speed and witnessed from a safe distance. Hence, really funny.

All told, a great day. Hot and cold. Wet and dry. Paved and not. Giant saint. No morons. No enforcement. Lots of horsepower. Freedom of the open road. And just the right amount of adventure for a suburbanite on a Saturday. It's the sort of day, the sort of ride, that sticks with you for a while. My thought is that it will tide me over until I get back from Baghdad.