Pedaling beats polarization in a huge, cross-Iowa bike ride
Bob Molsberry was a college student when he first watched the recreational bike ride that organizers say is now the country's longest, largest and oldest. That was in 1973, and there were just a few hundred riders in RAGBRAI (the Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa).
The following year, he and his wife joined in, starting what has become a family tradition. This year, the ride celebrated its 50th anniversary in July, with anywhere from 30,000 to 60,000 riders taking part on any given day.
Molsberry, a retired United Church of Christ minister who was paralyzed when he was hit by a car while riding 26 years ago, loves meeting people from all walks of life on the annual trek across Iowa. The camaraderie built over seven days and 500 miles, often through painfully rolling hills and withering late-summer heat, feels irreplaceable.
He also likes that thousands of cyclists in a deeply divided nation can leave their attitudes, beliefs and pent-up angst at home, and prove that folks sharing a common interest like cycling can still get along.
"A few years ago, I was riding with the Adaptive Sports team and a couple of other guys in handcycles," he said. "We got to the last day and we were pulling into Burlington, and I dropped some kind of comment about President Trump, and it wasn't favorable. And this guy on his handcycle — I'd been riding with him all week — he turns and says, 'We've been riding all week and now you bring up politics?'
"When you're riding together," Molsberry said, "well, you put that stuff aside for a while. During the year, I still find it hard to understand, and I don't really feel comfortable associating with them, people that have such different understandings. But for one week in July, I'm still ready to throw my lot in with them."
The polarization that has racked America may be at its deepest in decades. And those divides are especially evident now in Iowa, where the first-in-the-nation caucuses will be held in just six months. Democrats and Republicans have traded the state's electoral votes over the years.
Except none of that was apparent on RAGBRAI, where discord seemed to disappear.
If a rider punctured a tire, someone would inevitably stop to help change it. If someone fell, total strangers would pause their ride to provide first aid or wait for an ambulance. As temperatures climbed, church groups and fire departments and even local political parties were there to hand out water.
There was one "Let's Go Brandon" sign spotted hanging from a group's tent at a campground in Sioux City, but most people walked by without giving it a second thought. Another group's bus carried a rainbow flag in support of the LGBTQ+ community, but it was so small that it was almost unnoticeable.
Chances are members of those two groups came together at some point during the ride, perhaps over a beer or turkey leg or an ear of Iowa sweetcorn.
"There's a lot of people here and not a single iota of divisiveness," said Kyle Campbell, a project manager for a biotech company, midway through the ride.
"There's an implicit agreement that everyone made a sacrifice to be here and everyone wants to have a good time," he said. "And instantly, there is something everyone has in common, which is bicycling, versus I'm a Hawkeyes fan or I'm a Cyclones fan, or a Republican or Democrat."
People would rather talk about the frameset on their bike or what seat is most comfortable for eight-hour days in the saddle.
"I think it's because we're all face-to-face, you know? The divisiveness comes from the fact that we're all in our houses, and on computers and social media, and we're not in person," said Beth M. Howard, an author and documentary filmmaker who was working on a film about Iowans' curious affinity for pie.
With so many riders passing through small towns, cell phone towers were often overwhelmed. It was not until riders reached larger towns that they could send messages or catch up on the news.
In the meantime, they were mostly forced to talk, and usually it was about the next craft beer tent, or the ice cream around the bend, or the spaghetti dinner that was awaiting them at a church or VFW or community center that evening.
"I feel a lot more negative when I'm working at home day after day," Howard said. "Then someone does a random act of kindness, you're like, 'Oh, the world is still a good place.'"