I linger so long in Orange City that by the time I reach the next town, Alton, only crumbs are left at the pie table. This is a shocking development. Baking is practically a competitive sport in the land of the Iowa State Fair, and I assumed I'd find lots of fine pie. Clearly speed is called for. I zip out of Alton and pedal furiously alongside Team Donner Party, whose jerseys read, "We eat the slow ones." Then, from the top of the hill ahead comes a gravelly, sirenlike cry: "PoooOOORK CHAAAaawp!" I pull over. Next to a pink schoolbus painted with a pig's face sits a ruddy, smiling man wearing an apron printed with the words "Mr. Pork Chop". A former Iowa Pork Producers Association president, Paul Bernhard has been selling chops to RAGBRAI riders for 20 years, setting up along the route every day. His two grandsons grill the chops over pits filled with smoldering corn cobs, but—drat!—it looks like they're cleaning up. "You still got chops?" a plump, bearded biker asks Bernhard, fishing limp dollars out of his pocket. "Yep." "I love ya," says the biker. "I'll take two." But first, he points his camera at Bernhard, who obligingly tucks in his chin and blasts out the call. Suddenly some bikers in line bellow back. "PoooOOORK CHAAAaawp!" Bikers passing on the road let loose, too. It's like elephants trumpeting on the veld. "I got thousands of pictures of me with my mouth open," says Bernhard. "Luckily, I got a good-lookin' mouth." As I sink my teeth into my own crusty-edged, juicy chop, Bernhard waggles his eyebrows at me and adds, "I got a pig tattooed on my rear, too, but you ain't seeing it."