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Show RIVER Considering what we attempted, we actually did pretty well. After the initial soreness wore off, we had a good time traversing Michigan and we saw some of the finer sights of rural Wisconsin. We spent a wonderful couple of days at a rock and roll band's farm at Wild Rose. With the help of a brakeman tending a caboose on the Wisconsin River, we caught a ride on a freight train down to the Mississippi and across the river into Minnesota. There we came onto the prairie and our endurance began to wear thin: we found ourselves peddling into a prevailing wind that made our bicycle excursion about as much fun as being a galley slave. We drove through endless August-high acres of corn till we were very tired. We took to hitchhiking, bicycles and all, and we met some strange characters, such as Elizabeth Seaton-Jones, the poetess. We were hitchhiking in the noonday sun near some godforsaken grain town in southwest Minnesota, trying to get to a railroad line, when a fish-finned Cadillac convertible pulled over. The young blonde gorilla who was driving got out and loaded our bikes into the trunk without a word, while the older woman in the front seat protested, "No, no! We can't possibly load all that in this car!" It was Miss Elizabeth Seaton-Jones, an older lady who spoke with an accent so English and so refined that it contrasted with the cornfield countryside the way a thoroughbred racehorse compares with a hog. The driver, a silent Vietnam veteran not much older than me, ignored her, and Rosie and I climbed into the Cadillac. Miss Seaton-Jones forgot her irritation once we were rolling again, and she gave us Scotch and ice to drink in large Brandy glasses. I welcomed the relief and tanked down. Miss Seaton-Jones was a bubbling conversationalist, especially when compared to her crewcut boyfriend, who did nothing but grunt, drink, and drive -114- |
