Ridin' the Rails

As my Trek 830, an adequate mountain bike for my needs, glided effortlessly over the first few miles of the trail, I eagerly awaited the hills, tunnels, and miles of excitement I knew lay ahead of me. The Sparta-Elroy Bike Trail is a 32-mile path winding through southwestern Wisconsin. It was converted from an abandoned railroad bed during the "Rails to Trails" project of the late '80's into this tourist-attracting outdoor haven. The magnificent scenery and exercise opportunity drew my boyfriend, Brent, and me to explore for the day.

We left the car in Elroy with the expectation of finding a ride back when we reached Sparta. The hills and valleys stretched on either side as we pushed our way forward. It was a typical Wisconsin summer day -- 300% humidity and not a cloud in the sky. There was, surprisingly, a mild breeze that tried to cool my already sweaty, angled back. After the first few miles, I felt a little tired, being the unseasoned biker that I am, but quite refreshed. The three per cent grade doesn't look or sound very steep, but I began to feel the strain on my legs. Wisconsin was glaciated and offered very few "real" hills, so I had not expected to feel a good workout. I started to remember some things I had to finish at home: a letter to an old friend, a final paper due for my Shakespeare class, the lawn to mow. These thoughts abruptly stopped when I caught sight of a little bridge. Despite my love of water, I fear bridges. Cautiously, I looked into the clear creek lined with wild flowers and tall grasses. We crossed the bridge and walked our bikes for a few minutes, following the course of the stream, drinking in the sight of its fresh beauty.

We approached Kendall, the first town we would ride through. There was an old railroad depot that had been converted into a museum containing railroad and bike memorabilia and souvenirs. We wandered through it, studying the pictures of the trail and the people who made it memorable. We noticed a picture of a man called Bikin' Boyd. He was famous for being in his eighties and still biking the trail monthly. I reflected on Boyd's tenacity as we filled our water bottles and continued on.

One very distinct characteristic of the Sparta-Elroy trail is the tunnels. Because the trail had been a railroad bed, the trains had to travel through the hills, and thus, so would the bikes. Upon reaching the first tunnel, I became a little leery about entering the blackness and surrounding myself with the icy air and eerie darkness. We stopped our bikes and guided them off the path. Brent had been putting up with my early complaints of "I'm tired," and "My legs are sore," and now urged me on.

"I don't know," I said. "It looks kind of eerie."

"Jen, I've been through the tunnel hundreds of times and I've only been attacked twice by bats, three times by wolves and seven times by snakes. So what's the problem?"

Realizing I was being mocked entirely too much, I began walking my bike, as required for safety, into the tunnel. Brent followed. Much to my amazement, there were no bats, nor was it the musty-smelling, claustrophobic dungeon I had expected. It was very large, obviously, because the trains passed through it, so there was plenty of light at the two openings. We took out our flashlights, so as to avoid other bikers, bumps, or rocks we might trip over. I examined the impressive stones and brick that were stained a midnight black from the train soot and felt the cool air relax my tired body. This first tunnel was short, less than a quarter mile, but we took our time investigating every little structure and alcove in the walls. I found a rock that was so intriguing with its smooth, black exterior that I knew immediately that this represented the tunnel: dark and hard, yet beautiful and alluring. Back outside, I felt the light intruding on the peace I felt inside the tunnel. Hesitatingly momentarily, I glanced back at the beckoning tunnel and then continued down the trail.

The woods seemed to take on a new calm, despite the mild breeze still blowing through the dense tree tops. We reached the next town, Wilton, and stopped to enjoy a cold Coke and a light lunch. The restaurant stood just off the trail with a walk-up window specifically for trail-goers. I was beginning to feel that I was part of something special only people exploring the bike trail could experience: the tunnels, the small, friendly towns, and now, this restaurant. As we sat and ate our sandwiches, an old, rusty-blue station wagon pulled up to the restaurant. The license plate read "BKN BYD." I knew this was Bikin' Boyd. A frail-looking man of about eighty cautiously stepped out of the car, wearing a navy suit jacket, plaid pants, and a New York Yankees baseball cap. I thought to myself that if this man could still ride the trail, I surely could. I thought about the long history of the trail as Boyd told Brent and me about how things "used to be" in the "good ol' days." He inspired me with his determination and strength, and urged us to never quit riding the trail. With our promise to return, he shouted, "Keep bikin'," and we rode away.

The bicycle traffic got heavier at this point, because many people only choose to ride about half the trail, and this is a convenient place to pick it up. The beautiful scenery remained constant, though, as we rode past Holstein-lined dairy farms with their red barns and white fences. The second tunnel was similar in both length and content, but this time it welcomed me instead of frightening me.

The third tunnel, located near the end of the trail, was about 3/4 of a mile long and dark the whole way through. I peered in, feeling the fatigue of the long ride in my tired body, and looked questioningly at Brent. He reassured me that once again, I would love it. The inside of this tunnel was different. It was much longer, which caused the condensation on the walls and ceiling to become so thick that it rained inside the tunnel. It was refreshing to feel the cold water dripping onto my steaming , tired body, bringing me new life. This flowing water produced streams that ran on either side of the tunnel. Much to my surprise there was a small trout in one of the streams. Brent pointed it out with his flashlight and we watched it for several minutes. It was amazing. I was so impressed with the absolute beauty of darkness and calm inside the tunnel that I didn't want to leave. We spent a half hour sauntering through, then continued on.

We bought sodas at the general store in the final town, Norwalk. We sat outside on a well-used picnic table shaded by a giant oak tree and drank the reviving liquid. I recalled the day's events. The tunnels, the rivers -- all of this remained vividly in my memory as we left town and pedaled home.

At the end of the trail, I was completely exhausted and ready for a hot bath. I left the trail, however, with a deep regard for the beauty and excitement that it brought to me and the thousands of people who have traveled its many miles. I plan to return to the trail, (remember, I had promised Boyd!) to again feel the welcome of the small towns, the peaceful release in the tunnels, and the accomplishment of completing the entire thirty-two miles. Who knows, I may even become a regular, like Boyd.

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