By Taylor Truttman My decision to bike the Badger State Trail was more or less impulsive. I was in a phase of my life where I had to prove to myself that I could accomplish certain things—one of them being solo-biking 120 miles in two days. I had gone on a multi-day bike trip before, but the mileage on that trip was slightly less, and I had dragged a friend along with me too. Now, I (and my poor, poor ’95 road bike) were ready to level up. Or so I thought. So far, the ride hadn’t been very enjoyable. The view hadn’t changed at all. I passed miles of the same rolling, agricultural hills, the same sun beating down on me and the same birds in my ears. The only break in scenery had been the town I was currently in, where I briefly stopped at a gas station for a bathroom break and a Little Debbie fruit pie. I used this to supplement my snack of Lembas bread: a blend of peanut butter, honey, powdered milk, pretzels and shredded coconut. Unfortunately, unlike the “real” Lembas bread from “The Lord of the Rings,” it didn’t satisfy my hunger in one bite. Hence, the fruit pie. It was time to get back on the road. I stashed my Lembas bread, strapped on my biking gloves and blew a kiss to Belleville as I pedaled away. From looking at Google Maps beforehand, I knew this next stretch was going to be a gradual uphill. However, I felt as if I were biking on a pretty flat surface . . . downhill if anything. Maybe it was because the gravel was so pressed down that it was practically dirt. But as I crossed Tunnel Road, my suspicions began to rise. The sides of the trail rose up around me, and I was soon biking between two moss-covered rock walls. There was a cool breeze, replacing the insufferable humidity. Finally, I thought, a new view and shade to go with it. I was energized by the change and sped around a curve. On the other side, I saw it: massive blackness where the trail ought to be. My way forward was blocked by a sheer wall of brick, interrupted in the center by the passage to the Mines of Moria. I got off my bike. Slowly, I walked to the entrance. God, that’s big enough for a train to pass . . . of course. The Badger State Trail
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was made from an abandoned train track. I searched through the blackness, squinting for some light, but the tunnel’s only response was a breeze that gave me goosebumps. I could either go back and find some way over the tunnel (most likely involving a brutal struggle through some dense cornfield) or go through it. I had no idea how long it was. I hadn’t seen any other bikers on the trail, so it was illogical to wait for someone to go with me, and I only had a small bike light that was bound to get absorbed in the pure blackness of the tunnel. I made a deal with myself. The sun reached into the tunnel for about 10 yards. I was going to walk in as far as I dared, and if I couldn’t see any light from the other side at that point, I was going to turn around. I unclipped the light from my handlebars and crept into the abyss. I heard each drop of water, each tentative crunch of my Nike shoes on the packed gravel, each scuttle of hidden birds or bats or God knew what. My decision line was within a few steps. I didn’t know what I wanted more—to see light or not to see it. Just as I was about to step past the last bit of sun, there it was: a pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel. I could do this. I had an endpoint. I ran back. With my bike in one hand and light in the other, I began my real journey. I had been right—the black of the tunnel reduced my bike light to a flickering flame. It darted from side to side, making sure I didn’t run into any surprises. There were tons of graffiti marks throughout, but I had zero patience to stop and admire them. This is when my gender became prevelent to me. I was a young woman, alone and without any weapons. If there was someone in the dark with ill intent, my odds would not be good. But just as my fear increased, so did the light at the end of the tunnel. I was able to make out the tunnel outline and eventually see the greenery on the other side. As soon as I emerged, I let out a whoop and looked behind me. I made it. Now, I had more biking to do.