My Word's Worth: a weekly column by Marylaine Block

vol. 2, #5, July, 1996

FOLKWAYS OF THE IOWANS

It is the end of July, and it is hot in Iowa. When we in Iowa say "hot," we mean hot in a way that you in Britain may not understand. We mean hot as in "hot for corn country," where summer temperatures in the 85-93 degree range (Fahrenheit) with 90% humidity are unremarkable and normal; when we actually complain, we are speaking about 95 degrees and upward.

And how do we celebrate these utterly predictable, ungodly late July temperatures?

We have RAGBRAI, the RegisterAnnual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa. That's right. What could be better on a muggy hot Iowa day than biking 60 miles up and down hills, unless it's doing it again the next day, and the next, and the next until you have crossed 300 miles of Iowa and ceremonially dipped your wheels in the Mississippi River? Ah, the camaraderie! The scenery! (Cows, pigs, and corn.) The sense of accomplishment! The sweat!

And we have the Bix. You see, the jazz immortal, Bix Beiderbecke, was born in Davenport, Iowa (home to this humble correspondent). Every year at the end of July, we celebrate his birth with a jazz festival on the banks of the Mississippi River. For reasons that are less clear, this is accompanied by a challenging seven mile run.

Geographical note: To appreciate this, you need to understand the way Davenport is constructed. The downtown is on the flood plain of the river; the rest of the town goes steadily uphill at a 45 degree angle. The runners trot up this hill, around, and back down, if they're lucky--one false step on the way down and they will roll downhill into the Mississippi.

This run attracts thousands of runners from all over the country, who want nothing more than to labor uphill and down at 8 a.m. in sweltering heat and humidity, all for a modest prize and equally modest reknown.

I find this hard enough to explain, as I am not one who has ever been into recreational sweating. But even harder to understand, for me, is the "Bix Sit." Yes, thousands of people line the route, sitting comfortably on lounge chairs, drinking long cool drinks, watching people struggle through the tortuous climb. Even less than I understand the mentality of runners do I understand the notion of sadomasochism as a spectator sport.

I can only attribute their stalwartness in the face of this staggering, sweltering heat to Iowans' genetic inheritance from their pioneer forebears, who came, who saw, who planted corn, without benefit of John Deere air-conditioned tractors with stereo tape decks. It is no wonder that traditional Iowa farmhouses have high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and wrap-around porches. Cold, after all, could be dealt with by fireplaces and furnaces. But air-conditioning hadn't been invented yet, and the only way to deal with the mind-numbing heat was to let it rise, the higher the better.

Ray Bradbury argued that 92 degrees was the ideal temperature for murder--because below that temperature, people were uncomfortable but not pathologically irritable; above that temperature, people were too logy to move.

But for Iowans, 92 degrees is occasion to get out there and bike and run and go to arts festivals and listen to hot jazz.

I love Iowans. They're people who have retained their 19th century values, people who spend money cheerfully to educate their kids, people who smile at strangers, work hard, worship regularly, contribute time and money to charity, and can't even have fun without a Protestant work ethic.

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