BBG, Part Six: North to Fargo

Part Six:  North to Fargo

Kansas City to Fargo is a bit over 600 miles.  Heading north, the sun shining, the weather was cooperating beautifully with temperatures in the low 70s.  As the second trip meter flipped to 750, I let out a little whoop of joy – halfway to 1500!  A quick pit for gas near Saint Joseph saw me eat some jerky to break the Builder Bar monotony, as well as a bit of trail mix.

Onward.

As I approached the Council Bluffs/Omaha metro area, I once again gave thought to crossing the Missouri River to put wheels into Nebraska.  The GPS was giving me an arrival time in Fargo just after 16:00 CST, maintaining a cushion of two hours for my arrival in Eagan.  Even though it was a Friday and people typically escape the Twin Cities on the weekend to head for lake country, I didn’t want to risk it and decided to keep rolling north.

The road led me on, and the miles evaporated as I was in the zone:

Dust would blow across the road in Iowa.  Ah yes, I had forgotten how many of the county and frontage roads are gravel.  I got into the habit of flipping my chin vent closed to limit the amount that would get into my helmet.

On this stretch, my thoughts wandered to the smells of the trip.  My travels through Indiana smelled of horse, followed by cow in Illinois, with overtones of corn in Iowa.  It brought back memories of detasseling corn as a teenager.  Now that is some good, hard work.

I rolled past Sioux Falls, determined not to pit for gas until I had rolled through passed 1,000 miles.  Fuel light flashing, I fueled up just outside Vermillion.  The wind was wicked fierce, to the point I thought about not leaving my helmet on the saddle so it wouldn't blow off.  It didn't occur to me that this was a sign of things to come.  I was simply feeling good, with an SS1K in the bag:

But my goal wasn't an SS1K, it was a BBG, so back to work, heading north, as the view of the world around expanded to the horizon.  The land became taut, like a freshly made bed.  Fields stretching on forever in all directions.  I looked off to the east, and saw a guy riding an ATV across a field.  No buildings in sight - where did he come from?  Where was he going?  No idea.

Time and space took on different dimensions.  The air temperature rose into the 80s, and the wind made beautiful, swirling patterns in the tall grasses.  It must have been an incredible sight when it was all unsettled, grasses over 6 feet tall, as far as the eye can see.  I could only imagine what it’s like to see a storm come rolling across the prairie, or even more terrifying - a fire.

Seemingly infinite sight lines combined with the knowledge I would have to stop and document the turn at Fargo, so I put the FJR into supercruise without worrying about the commensurate impact on fuel economy, settled in, and headed for Fargo.

Mentally, this was the most difficult part of the trip thus far.  Progress seemed slow due to the expansive sightlines, despite a good pace.  I was getting to the point of “ready to be done.”

After an uneventful run, I pitted for gas to document the turn.  240 miles to the barn - an easy tank of gas.  Or so I thought - I had no idea that I was entering the most difficult, demanding portion of the ride.