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August 25, 2004 |
A gentle ride high in the sky
Eric
Frydenlund and other passengers switched from riding in the chaser
vehicles and the balloon basket in the ditch along Highway 76 in
Allamakee County
Driving into the launch site for Driftaway Tours in Waukon, Iowa, it looked as if we had arrived for a family reunion. People were standing about in clusters, speaking in expectant tones, their attention upon something lying in the back yard. The object of their curiosity, the only thing that gave away the occasion, was the brightly colored, but shapeless balloon fabric splayed out on the ground. It was soon learned that ballooning requires a support crew the size of an Italian wedding, and the "family" in this case turned out to be eager passengers, balloon riggers, balloon repairmen, chase team members, the merely curious; and anyone with enough weight to help hold the balloon down and enough savvy to know when to let go. The assembled entourage was under the supervision of Al Hanson, pilot by evening and funeral director by day, a title he kindly refrained from divulging until after our flight. Al was the commander and chief, an expert multitasker, simultaneously directing the repair of a balloon heat sensor, entertaining his seven-year-old helper Zach, listening to a fish tale from longtime friend Jerry, and greeting passengers upon their arrival. He handled all of this with the grace and assurance of an airline pilot standing at the cockpit door. Even with this mass of humanity working toward common purpose, it was still hard to imagine this lifeless hulk lying on the ground taking flight. Imagination soon came to life, however, when Al fired up the gasoline powered fans, and the balloon began inhaling the life-giving air. First in small ripples, then in large waves, the balloon began billowing like a Macy's Day Parade dragon, until Al, using his twin 12 million BTU burners, breathed fire into its mouth. Upward the balloon rose, tipping the still prone wicker basket into an upright position. A few more blasts from the burner, and Al shouted "passengers in!" And in we tumbled. Without much time to think about the journey at hand, having been absorbed by the quick procession of events in preparation for launch, the four of us were somewhat startled when Al announced, "let go, ropes clear!" It was then, watching the ground crew drop away as if on an express elevator, accompanied by nervous laughter from within, that we had time to comprehend what was happening. Many have seen balloon launches, but never before been launched. Most have likewise seen rocket launches on television, but never before been rocketed. The sensation of rising vertically on a plume of fire in this case pointed up rather than down must, it seems, share some common language with the rocket riders. The earth quickly became a miniature representation of itself, with roads, cornfields, buildings, and anything manmade diminished to a point of inconsequence, as the surrounding landscape swallowed them whole in a sea of field-corn green. Yet beyond the fleeting attachments to things terrestrial, to things that only a few minutes ago were as large as houses, that were houses, there was an overwhelming feeling of detachment, of being part of something with no earthly anchor. We are usually good at keeping time in our heads, but without any sounds for reference a passing train or humming machinery there was no sense of time. There was only an earth-stopping calm, a silence, broken by the periodic burst from the burner or the occasional heartfelt "wow." The experience can be likened to sail boating or parasailing, where the wind, rather than licking at your face or whistling in your ear, seems to be quietly along for the ride. But even that fails to do justice to the serenity felt in that basket, suspended as we were from the sky like a full moon rising over the horizon. It must surely have appeared as a celestial object, for the shadow of our eclipse was visible passing over the landscape, inexplicably shaped like a large balloon, inching its way eastward. We descended briefly, scraping the treetops like some fairytale interlopers on magic wings, then rose again to 2000 feet. All the while, Al was checking on his passengers, checking on landmarks and instrumentation, checking on variables that only people who regularly float around in balloons can fathom. We let him work while the four of us enjoyed the scenery, but an often repeated, "It's a beautiful evening, isn't it," revealed Al's still genuine delight with his chosen avocation. After several earlier warnings about staying in the basket at touchdown, and a few elbow-in-the-ribs jokes from the ground crew about crash landings, the landing itself was a non-event, as soft as jumping into your bed, albeit from a height of 30 feet above your bedroom floor. We landed on the bank of highway 76, settling into the arms of our waiting chase team, much to the delight of startled passersby. A clamor of activity ensued, as the ground crew wrestled with the still buoyant balloon, and Al delivered instructions to the team and praise to the passengers, all in the same breath. After exchanging propane tanks and passengers, we watched the next flight launch into the cloudless sky; our feet planted firmly this time on Iowa soil. Later, after pursuing the balloon to the second landing site with the chase team, after helping deflate the balloon and loading it into its storage case like a sleeping snake into a bag; there was time to reflect back on our voyage. Hoisting our glasses in the traditional champagne celebration, we found kinship in this now larger family of balloonists, telling exaggerated stories of our launching and landing, while the Iowa sun, orange and inflated, landed on the western horizon.
August 23, 2004 |
| Lookin' for adventure, or
whatever comes their way Scooter pack roars through Prairie du Chien Rumbling down the road they come. One roaring engine after another, they are quite a sight to behold. While not exactly heavy metal thunder, these bad boys are still born to be mild. Although The Backroad Express Riders Club may not inspire wide-eyed awe, they do get their fair share of stares as they inspire a sense of freedom and fun while rolling along area country roads lookin' for adventure. In fact, seventeen members of the Richland Center based club wound their way to adventure in the Prairie du Chien area this past week. The leader of the pack, club president Norm Hilleshiem, said that the group visited various sites in the Waukon area on Tuesday before heading to Prairie du Chien Wednesday afternoon. While in Prairie, the group toured the Villa Louis and were seen by many zipping through the streets of the city, as well as in Marquette and McGregor. They stayed over night in Prairie before heading back to Richland Center on Saturday. Hilleshiem noted that The Backroad Express Riders have been "just having fun on mopeds" since the spring of 1997. While the club was formed in '97, its history goes back to 1982 and 1983 when Honda came out with the Urban Express motorcycle that would later be called a "moped." This moped came in two models: the NU 50 (kick-start) and the NU 50 M (electric start). The moped could also be purchased in five colors. A few men in Richland County began riding the Urban Express models on the county's back roads in small groups of three to six. By the spring of 1997, the group had grown to 11 and it was decided to form a club. The Backroad Express Riders have since expanded to 84 strong, with a president, vice president, treasurer, secretary and annual dues. Members have the club's name emblazoned on their hats, jackets, shirts and other apparel. The club has a summer picnic and a Christmas party each year. They organize group rides in the early spring and continue on into fall. The group rides every Tuesday morning. While on rides, the group breaks up into smaller groups so as not to tie up back roads for other motorists. The weekly rides average about 100 miles at speeds averaging 25-30 miles per hour. Members have logged more than 398,500 miles collectively since 1982. The club is a "vintage" club, riding all Honda Urban Express mopeds made in 1982 and 1983. Hilleshiem said that the mopeds' motors are only 50 cc's. With a top speed of 30 miles per hour, no motorcycle license is needed in Wisconsin, only a valid car driver's license. Along with being able to enjoy the countryside as they leisurely cruise by, members receive another important benefit from the machines in these times of escalating gas prices. The mopeds average 100 miles per gallon of gas, or about 1.5 cents per mile. They have endurance as well. Several of the clubs mopeds have more than 30,000 miles on them. O'Brien named 1st runner-up at Miss Teen of Wisconsin program |
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