The sound of miniature hooves clip-clopped atop our tents, rousing us like children on Christmas morn. Did our yuletide kahuna return bearing gifts of Lays potato leis and pineapple scented bike grease for our knitted stockings?? Or was our sense of urgency fueled by fears of drenched panniers?
T’was the latter.
The rain chimed the morning bell, and our stomachs stoked the coals, sending us down the street to pump the bellows with gas station fare. Nordic waffles and breakfast pizza burned slow like Centralia’s underground as we pushed off down Lake Wobegon Trail. Woes were minimal — our only complaint was the constant thudding of our frames over seams in the trail, jarring our bones every five yards.
But what are a biker’s bones if not to be rattled? So we rode on, passing through a youth triathlon and mini-music fest underneath a large Viking statue.
The chittering of chains and bike rack thunks mingled with birdsong as we cruised past opalescent waters and arboreal overhangs for many miles, until coming upon strangers holding a sign… Protesters? Nay, Emerson’s relatives! They quelled our appetitive rebellion with pizza and stamped out our thirst with Powerades and waters. We camped in a bustling park and chatted with locals on spirituality and the merits of treating the world as one’s house. Then we staked out our bedroom under ceiling beams of stars and a crescent shaped chandelier 
. Tomorrow our berth is the home of the Twins.