Things tend to happen on a regular basis here in Iowa: sweet corn ripening in July, the State Fair in August, the Hawkeyes losing in September.

But all those things happen elsewhere, too: Missouri has sweet corn, Texas has a state fair and lots of other states’ universities beat the Hawkeyes regularly. There is one institution, however, that is peculiarly Iowan.

Ragbrai.

Now, what makes Ragbrai unique isn’t so much the concept – biking across a state isn’t exactly a new idea – but rather the context. This is Iowa.

It’s the corn: acre after acre of it on both sides of a narrow strip of asphalt, reaching out to the horizon. The cattle, lazily grazing, looking up perplexedly as hundreds of bicycles roll by. The silos passing by each cyclist, growing on the horizon as the bicyclists near, then receding into the sunset behind. For six days Iowans – and the world – behold the real Iowa: the agrarian basis for our existence and the reason why many of our forefathers came here in the last century and a half. This is Iowa.

It’s also the people. Iowa is a people place, dating back to the first scattered farmsteads out on the edge of the prairie and the small towns that grew up all across the state. Where Iowans gather en masse, one can generally be guaranteed a few things: food in abundance, conversation, coffee and community. That community is one of the defining features of what goes on here. We are the masters of community: community meals, community schools and, well, community bike rides. Ragbrai is, at its essence, a community-building exercise – not unlike a small-town Easter-egg hunt or community luncheon – scaled up to the entire state. This is Iowa.

One of the traits that exemplifies this community is our ability and willingness to reach out and genuinely care for and assist our neighbors. We all saw that in motion several weeks ago as the temporary levies of sandbags and earth went up in locales as divergent as Cedar Falls, Iowa City and Columbus Junction. We saw it again as the rains came down and the rivers rose in Cedar Rapids, Palo and Mason City. We saw it yet again as the National Guard – our neighbors, friends and colleagues – sought desperately to fight the waters of the Des Moines, Cedar, Iowa and other rivers in Des Moines, Decorah and Oakville. We thank you. There it was again, as the water overtook the levies, destroying homes, lives, memories and cities. The communities, however, cannot be drowned. One of the unspoken legacies of this Ragbrai must be that, though down, we Iowans as a community are not and never will be out. This is Iowa.

A very Iowan characteristic that no doubt will assist in the forthcoming resurrection is ingenuity. If there was ever a showcase of ingenuity, Ragbrai is it: from all manner of bicycle improvements, to huge pork chop cookers, to extensive mobile showering facilities. There’s an engineering bug that just gets to some, and the various trinkets, gadgets, and conveniences that can be seen when Ragbrai comes to town are exceptional. Perhaps it’s a function of dealing with what you’ve got at hand – who knows. This is Iowa.

It’s the food. We grow it and we eat it. In abundance. From the vendor behind his grill screaming “Pork chop!” at the top of his voice to the pickups full of sweet corn to the local church ladies’ spaghetti dinner, Ragbrai must be second only to the State Fair in culinary excess. To think of Iowa is to think of its food: the sweet corn, the pork chop, the turkey leg the size of a human head – all part and parcel of belonging here. Our appetites are, perhaps, again an extension of our past and current rural agrarian life. I challenge a single statistician who has ridden a Ragbrai, eaten the food and experienced the people to claim that he or she honestly believes that rural America is dying, whatever the numbers may say. This is Iowa.

To the casual out-of-stater, it may just look like a bunch of silos, barns and corn acres. Indeed, Iowa has never truly been a destination. Marquette and Jolliet were headed elsewhere, Lewis and Clark had bigger things to explore farther up the Missouri, the Mormons barely stopped on their way to Utah and Ronald Reagan would leave WHO Radio for – of all places – California. The closest many Americans get to actually experiencing this place is from onboard a passing jetliner. There’s no more opposite experience of that than riding on a bicycle, and perhaps many will come to know this place in a more intimate way through Ragbrai. This is Iowa.

But that doesn’t just go for the out-of-staters either. Iowans have always had a lot to learn from each other, and that continues to be true today. In the epidemic of rural flight that grew out of the Farm Crisis 20 years ago, many Iowans ended up in the state’s cities. Vast populations of this state seem, at times, to have lost touch with much of what it means to be an Iowan. A debt of gratitude, therefore, is owed to John Karras and Donald Kaul. They have succeeded in more than just creating a bike ride. They’ve shown us Iowa again in all her glory. Thank you, gentlemen, for giving us back our state.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy.

This is Iowa.

– Ryan Frederick is a senior in management from Orient.