Ernie Thursby was my coach when I ran for Ayr Seaforth Harriers as a kid. He was already in his seventies back then, and rumor had it he’d forgotten more about the sport than most people would ever know. In my memory, he’s a dead ringer for Sam Mussabini—Harold Abrahams’ coach in Chariots of Fire—an old fox who learned his trade in the years between the wars.

But Ernie was a sadist.

His idea of a good time? Three sets of ten 200-meter sprints at 80% effort. Jog back to recover. Five minutes between sets. At the end, I’d be vomit.

He’s long gone now, but I’ve thought about him a lot over the past two days as we fought a 20-mile-per-hour headwind, 90+ degree heat, and Iowa’s seemingly endless rolling hills. The session? Ten hill climbs at 80% effort—coast down to recover, then repeat until you hit a town to take a short break before repeating it all over again. 

At least I didn’t throw up this time.

But the whole way, I could hear Ernie’s voice in my ear: “You always finish the session.”

From the moment the RAGBRAI route was released in April, we knew that Days 3 and 4 would be the most difficult. Even then, we thought the route was exceptionally well planned: a tough opening day, a lighter second day with a mix of riding and partying to recover, Days 3 and 4 designed to truly test our fitness, Days 5 and 6 as unapologetic party days, and a final challenging push on Day 7 to finish. This is the 52nd RAGBRAI, after all—and clearly, they know how to plan a course!

Still, the 155 miles from Estherville to Iowa Falls, via Forest City on Tuesday and Wednesday—Days 3 and 4—had been in our sights from the start. We knew the real test would be the weather, with Iowa’s infamous summer heat and headwinds always looming.

By Tuesday morning, our routine was finally starting to fall into place.

But wait—I haven’t even mentioned our domestic arrangements yet. Many riders—especially the younger ones—take on RAGBRAI under their own steam, some even carrying their camping gear with them. Most, however, pay a small fee to have their bags transported from town to town by truck. Still, the thought of setting up our own tent after a long, hot day of riding—and walking what felt like miles to find a shower—did not appeal to us.

So we chose to invest in a “charter company”: The Pedaling Pandas. Other charters catered to crowds of up to a thousand cyclists, offering free beer and nightly entertainment from live bands. Tempting, yes—but we knew our limits. The Pandas catered to a smaller group of just 60, which suited us perfectly. In addition to a calmer atmosphere, they transported and set up our tents each day, provided private showers and porta-potties, ran a laundry service mid-week, and served dinner on four nights. It wasn’t five-star luxury—but someone was taking care of us, and that was more than enough.

(Shamefully, among all the photos I took of the wonderful people we met, I completely forgot to get one with Desiree and Johnny—the sisters who ran the Pandas.)

But back to Tuesday morning. It had been over 40 years since I last slept in a tent, so it took a couple of days to get into a groove. But by now, I knew what needed to be packed where, what had to go with me on the bike, and how to navigate my morning ablutions (albeit limited by the facilities) . My bags were ready and waiting to be loaded onto the Panda truck by 6:30 a.m.

Yes—6:30 a.m.

The Pandas insisted on an early start so they could break camp and get everything moved in time to meet us in the next town. And while I grumbled at the 5:30 alarm, deep down I knew it was the smart play. The earlier we got on the road, the farther we could ride before the brutal heat and wind set in.

That was especially important today. We were apprehensive about the route, and with good reason. So, shortly after 6:30, just as the sun rose above the cornfields, we joined the river of riders flowing out of Estherville. There was no need for a map—the route was obvious, marked by the continuous stream of cyclists stretching as far as the eye could see. It reminded me of the sea turtle migration in Finding Nemo—bikes ahead of us, behind us, beside us. All you could do was dive in. Radical, dude!

We were heading due east, straight into the face of that spiteful, unseasonal easterly wind. Thankfully, at that hour, it was still moderate—refreshing, even pleasant.

The early miles were peaceful and serene, but we knew what lay ahead. Our game plan was simple: ride as far as we could, as fast as we could, to give ourselves a buffer for the tougher afternoon miles. Each town along the route had a designated closing time, and riders had to reach the finish by 6:00 p.m.If not, the dreaded SAG wagon (Support and Gear) would sweep you off the course. For us, that would have been a humiliation—though some of our fellow Pandas seemed to treat it as Plan A!

It was during the early morning stretch that I experienced my first real peloton.

With 20,000 riders on the road, there’s a well-established etiquette: slowpokes keep to the right, well-meaning amateurs like me ride in the middle, and the experienced speedsters take the left lane. For the first couple of days, I found my comfort zone just to the left of the yellow center line. But I was increasingly tempted to drift further left—partly to avoid the constant and mildly irritating chorus of “On your left!” as faster riders blew past.

It was just before reaching the small town of Armstrong that an opportunity finally presented itself. A gap opened behind a team of four fast riders in the middle of a growing peloton that had been forced to slow down by traffic ahead. I seized the moment and slipped into the space. As the group picked up speed again, I suddenly found myself tucked into the center of about 30 riders, shielded from the wind and effortlessly keeping pace with the lead team.

On a good day, my solo pace is about 14 to 15 miles per hour. With this group, I was touching 20—and it felt exhilarating. Truly one of the most thrilling experiences I’ve ever had. But it demanded absolute focus. One wrong move in a group that tight could be disastrous. While you’re in the slipstream, it’s almost effortless. But lose even a few feet from the rider ahead, and it takes everything you’ve got to claw your way back.

I managed to hold on for four or five miles before finally dropping off the back. Exhausted, but grateful for the ride—and already looking forward to the next “train” that would surely come along soon.

By 11:30, the heat and wind were rising fast. We’d passed through Armstrong and Swea City, and the meeting town of Bancroft. Our only real stop was in Armstrong for breakfast: a bowl of steak and eggs and a cup of coffee at our favorite food truck, Coffee and Nosh. At the other towns, it was quick water and butt breaks before pressing on.

We rolled into Titonka—51 miles into the planned 74 for the day. Titonka, I recently learned from Dances With Wolves, is the Sioux word for buffalo. One of the locals told me the town got its name from being the last place in the Midwest where buffalo were seen back in the 1890s. Ironically, there was hardly any buffalo memorabilia in town—perhaps because Titonka normally sees only a fraction of the tourists that flooded it today.

What it did have was The Wicked Good Bar and Grill—which we discovered tucked behind a beer tent set up on the main street. A small sign hinted at a full bar inside. We followed it—and stepped into air-conditioned heaven. It was the first real escape from the heat in four days, and we probably stayed longer than we should have, savoring what was arguably the coldest, most satisfying beer I’ve ever had and chatting with the friendly staff.

I commented on how quiet the bar was, considering RAGBRAI was in town. The bartender recalled the last time the event came through—11 years ago—and assured us the chaos would arrive soon. According to him, we were the “advance guard” of the drinking riders.

Eventually, we had to tear ourselves away from the cool comfort and step back into the heat. My only complaint? The bar had closed its indoor toilets—so my dreams of a flushing toilet remained unrealized.

The last 23 miles gave us a preview of what was to come on Wednesday. By early afternoon, the heat index was in the upper 90s, and the wind—now thankfully shifting from the east to the south as a side wind—was gusting up to 20 mph. The rolling hills rolled higher as we made our way through Woden and into Crystal Lake, a pretty little town that lived up to its name.

As we pulled in and stopped for water, I noticed a sign for Dora’s Tacos. My mum’s name—recently given to my new granddaughter, Aurora Dora. Of course I had to investigate. The tacos were a far cry from the kind of food my mum made, but something told me the Dora of Crystal Lake was just as lovely as the Dora of Ayr, Scotland. (I had hoped to chat with her, but demand for tacos that day far exceeded the norm.)

For a brief moment, I considered joining the many riders who’d jumped into Crystal Lake to cool off. But—at the risk of sharing too much—I hadn’t suffered any chafing yet and didn’t want to tempt fate by riding on in wet shorts.

At first, I thought it was just an enterprising farmer setting up a beer garden—always a few miles before the halfway point or finish town—to tempt tired, overheated riders with a cool, refreshing drink. But I soon realized it wasn’t just coincidence; the beer garden was part of the RAGBRAI circus, rolling from town to town like the rest of us.

Today was the first time I really noticed it—strategically placed just four miles from the finish. It was 3 p.m., and confident we could cover that short distance in the remaining three hours, we stopped for a quick one.

Finally,, we rolled into Panda Camp, which looked exactly as it had that morning in Estherville – just magically relocated to a new town, Forest City, the mid point on the hardest two days of the trip.

There was no doubt—Tuesday had been a tough one. But our strategy to ride hard early had paid off, and we ended the day deeply satisfied with our performance on one of the most demanding legs of the ride. With another early start scheduled for 5 a.m. to beat the forecasted heat and wind, we ate dinner early and were in bed by 9.

As if foreshadowing what Wednesday would bring, storm clouds loomed in the eastern sky just as we zipped the tent shut.