Remembering RAGBRAI’s rhythm
Morning rises over the main campground like a hymn whispered through canvas and corn. Tents glow in the dark, wheels murmur awake, and somewhere — always somewhere — a rider is already eating pie for breakfast. Because on RAGBRAI, fruit is not dessert unless it's tucked into a crust and handed to you by someone's grandma who calls you "hon." The road opens at six, and you drift toward the Breakfast Town where pancakes steam, bacon snaps, and the pie table is already thinning — a quiet truth of the ride: joy comes early and often. Pass-thru towns appear like small blessings, ...