Sur La Plaque!

Miles: 61
Total: 3,113

No sign of Byron this morning when I hit the road around 7 a.m. But there was a basket of bones as a consolation prize. I was up early in a partly-successful bid to beat the wind where I saw my first live snake along the shoulder, and a pair of antelope (unbelievably fleet).

My water stop was Sweetwater Station, on the Sweetwater River. So named for a mule whose unfortunate spill landed the wagon train’s sugar supply in the drink. The rest area is right across from the Mormon Handcart Center. Many paths westward intersect in this part of the country.

A five-mile, six-percent downhill welcomed me at the top of Beaver Basin. The sign said the Wind River Mountains were thrust up 60,000′ 65 million years ago. Hard to imagine a mountain almost 12 miles tall. Because of erosion, today the tallest peaks are 13,000′. Epic view. Hampered by wind, I managed to hit 37 m.p.h. on the downhill. Still, definitely a nice break. Most of today’s ride was downhill — ground I’ll have to retake tomorrow climbing out of town.

I’m in Lander tonight (pop. 7,500), set up in the city park which explicitly permits overnight camping! I grabbed a hot shower at the junior high right before it closed. There’s a wedding happening in the pavilion, and I’m afraid my tent’ll be in all of their photos. Lander sprays for mosquitos, which makes for a pleasant evening.

Today’s biggest treat was reuniting with Jamie, Greg and Petunia (the poodle) in Lander’s sumptuous library. They’re taking a rest day here. The last time I saw them was leaving Lookout, Kentucky, ten days in. They took a week off in Denver while I was in Boulder. We caught up and compared notes. Petunia’s as well behaved as ever, though today was bath night.

Perhaps from a previous cyclist?

I opted to pitch a tent, but you can also sleep in this funky trailer for free.

Only hit 37 m.p.h. because of the wind, but still.

On the road to Lander.

For a town of less than 1,000, it’s very outdoor friendly.

Camping permitted!

Miles: 110
Total: 3,052

The tables turned today, and I was packed up and headed out before the Swiss broke camp. It was a splendid morning, and the first 20 miles to Walcott went by in a flash. In Walcott, the TransAm takes you on I-80W for 14 miles to Sinclair because there aren’t any other options. I stopped at Shell for a last supper of chocolate milk, and the shopkeeper tells me he runs cyclists to Sinclair at $25 a head. Steep. The wind really picked up along the freeway (I’d be battling it for the last 90 miles of the day). Luckily, it pushed hard out of the south, and kept me out of traffic. The freeway was not fun. The wind made it difficult to stay on track, and with cars, semis and RVs whizzing past at 75-plus m.p.h., it was a white-knuckle ride. To everyone who moved into the passing lane as they went by: thank you from the bottom of my heart for making a stressful span a little less so.

I got off the I-80 at Sinclair, with only my nerves the worse for wear. Yep, that Sinclair — the petroleum company with a Bronto for a mascot. I rode past a large refinery and through town (which was purchased by the oil company during the Great Depression) and then out on a secondary road that paralleled I-80 into Rawlins (pop. 9,300). I stopped here for lunch and pulled out map 5, which will take me from Rawlins to West Yellowstone, Montana. There are limited services for 125 miles between Rawlins and Lander, and I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a couple days’ worth of food and filled all of my water bottles.

The ride out of Rawlins on 287 was pretty, and I crossed the Continental Divide twice more (my third and fourth crossings). I ran into two groups of Great Divide cyclists, for whom it was the twelfth and thirteenth crossing. They said it involved a lot of climbing. I bet. I also saw a couple of hikers working their way across the CDT, but didn’t stop to talk because traffic was heavy. The restaurant in Lamont (Grandma’s/Anna Lope’s) was definitely closed, which was too bad, but I ate a Pop-Tart in the shade. Judging from the accumulated trash in the bin, I’m not the first cyclist to stop here. The wind let up a little bit between Lamont and Muddy Gap Junction, though this section of road was in poor shape. I was too busy dodging rumble strips and 18-wheelers, but this photo from my friend Wouter’s blog gives you an idea. Muddy Gap’s home to a great convenience store where I stopped for a very refreshing grapefruit Squirt sold to me by a clerk in a button-down shirt! He said it would be fine for me to fill my bottles, and it was my last opportunity until Jeffrey City.

The last 22 miles to Jeffrey City were very slow going with the wind coming out of the west. The wind’s much stronger here than in Kansas, and while it generally comes out of the south or southwest in the sunflower state, here the vector changes through the day. Both good and bad. I had a treat about 15 miles from stopping when I passed Split Rock, a granite landmark that guided settlers west. Its gun-sight notch aims at the Great South Pass, 75 miles away.

Home tonight is Jeffrey City’s Monking Bird Pottery (an old service station), owned by Byron (definitely crazy in the best way) and one of really just two businesses in town (the other being Split Rock Bar and Cafe). Jeffrey City used to be known as Home on the Range, and the only stopping place between Rawlins and points west. After getting settled, Byron and I walked across the street to Bob Petersen’s house. He had a big bonfire going and lives in Washington state most of the year, but comes down every summer to work on his grandparents’ property (the original Home on the Range). It’s a ghost town today, but between the late ’50s and early ’80s, uranium mining was big business, with inhabitants peaking at 4,500. Chernobyl and Three-Mile island dampened demand for uranium, and more than 95 percent of its population’s left. It’s eerie.

A little interstate action.

Final TruMoo before I’m killed on I-80.

In Sinclair, Wyoming.

Crossing for the third time.

Definitely closed.

The notch helped westward travelers navigate.

Home tonight next to Monkingbird Pottery. It’s in an old gas station.

I finally got a change of scenery outside Lamont.

Miles: 74
Total: 2,942

This morning was chilly at 8,000′, but putting the tent up made a big difference. And the sprinklers didn’t soak us. Because I waited for the sun to get a little higher in the sky, the Swiss beat me to the trail, but I have a feeling I’ll see them again because of the distances between towns out west. There just aren’t too many options unless you want to push for boku miles or camp alongside the road. Right out of Walden I came across several ranches and lots of cattle. This area of Colorado’s known as North Park, and is a geologic basin on the western edge of the Front Range. There’s plenty of water from the Michigan, Illinois and Canadian Rivers (Hey, we are in Colorado, right?). In the past, Indians called the area Bull Pen for all the bison it contained.

I entered Wyoming, my seventh state, about 20 miles in, and the wind was working with me — or at least not actively against me — so I made good time. A few miles into Wyoming, I met Thomas C., an older gentleman who’s competing in the TransAm race. He enthusiastically told me he’s in last place and enjoying every minute of it. Unlike most of the adventure racers, he’s pulling a trailer and has rear panniers. He’s loaded. He gives me directions to a little-known hot spring near Lolo Pass. Just behind him is Nick, from Albuquerque, who’s fallen in with Thomas based on similar paces.

I stopped in Riverside for my first chocolate milk since Kremmling, then pushed to Saratoga. It’s 2 p.m. when I make town, and I thought about more miles, but it’s hot and the next place to stop would be Rawlins, about 40 miles away. The woman running the pool in Walden told me it’s a “prison town” and not the most pleasant place to be. And there are free hot springs in Saratoga, so I decide to stay here tonight. After spending some time cooling off in the library, I grab a shower at the free (and open 24/7) hot springs before soaking in one of the pools. There are two: one’s 118 degrees Fahrenheit, the other’s cut with cold water to 104 degrees Fahrenheit, which is more bearable. A local tells me the hotter pool’s perfect when it’s 40 below. The water’s not treated, so it smells a little like rotten eggs and there’s a healthy population of algae on the concrete, but man does it feel good on my legs.

Home tonight’s Lake Saratoga campground. When I pull in, the Swiss have already set up camp. There’s water, but the sign advises against drinking because of its high mineral content. It tastes OK and I hope one day’s consumption doesn’t do me in. It’s a very pretty place to spend the night. Light rain, high winds and hard ground for tent stakes make it an interesting evening.

North Park has a healthy ranching business.

A healthy smear of ZnO completes the look.

Just the facts.

A new flavor of sign.

Just stunning.

This is the 104-degree pool. The 118-degree pool was just too hot.

Camped here tonight.

Miles: 64
Total: 2,868

I imagine sleeping at elevation is pretty much like being on the moon. It’s bitter cold once the sun goes down, and as soon as it peeks its head above the horizon, the day starts in a hurry. I was cold last night on top of my foam-insulated picnic table, inside my sleeping bag with a wool shirt and jacket on. My alarm went off at 5:40 a.m., but I had to sleep in till 8 a.m. before it was a more manageable 50 degrees.

Once the sun came up, it turned into a lovely day. I put on my short-sleeve jersey and shorts and visited the Shell station for a box of off-brand cherry toaster pastries before heading down Highway 40. There’s no services between Hot Sulphur Springs and Walden, so I put water in all four of my bottles.

I turned north on 125 just past Windy Gap Nature Area and started climbing 20 miles and 2,000′ to Willow Creek Pass (9,683′) and my second continental divide crossing. I’m in the Atlantic watershed right now. The ascent was gradual and tree-lined, but the downhill on the north slope was treeless. And windy. I waited for a few minutes outside Rand for a pilot car (last time I had one was outside Ellington, Missouri) to take me through a repaving zone — the road badly needed the work. For some reason, just past the construction zone, a crew was restriping broken blacktop. Seems like a waste of paint and personnel to me. This segment of 125 took me through Arapaho National Wildlife Refuge, full of birds and open range.

Home tonight is Hanson Park in Walden (the moose-viewing capital of Colorado). I met a father-son duo from Switzerland riding surprisingly stylish recumbents in the park. They started in Miami at the beginning of May and rode through New Orleans before picking up the TransAm. Once they hit Astoria, the plan is to ride down the coast to San Francisco. With six-month visas and an average requirement of 50 miles/day, they’re taking their time. They told me this is a good place to vacation — the Swiss Franc goes pretty far.

I spent some time in Walden’s library, and even found fresh fruit at a small bodega on main street. The shower’s $6 at the local indoor pool, though you do get a towel, wash cloth and swim included in the rate. The water was way too warm for me, but the Swiss took the plunge. In 1990, the White House Christmas tree was felled just outside Walden. How about that?

I put my tent up near the ballfields tonight, because the groundskeeper told me they’ve got sprinklers scheduled to come on between 9:30 p.m. and 5 a.m. He said that’s the place to stay dry. I hope the double-wall tent keeps me a little warmer than a picnic table.

It was a stone-cold bitch to haul the bike up the embankment. Maybe trickier than climbing the pass.

For a few days, anyway.

Moose count: 0.

I’m sure the elevation’s still right, but according to my maps, the town’s shrunk by a couple hundred people since this was installed.

Hoping to stay warm and dry.

Miles: 77
Total: 2,804

I’d been waiting all week for this. Not getting back on the road (OK, maybe a little), but an excuse to visit Denny’s and take up the all-you-can-eat pancake challenge, part of its $2, $4, $6, $8 everyday value menu.

After gorging on quick breads and fake syrup (my partners in crime made more sensible selections), we loaded up the Matrix and headed back to Breckenridge. I said goodbye to Megan and Sara and, unwittingly, my helmet, which didn’t make the trip. So back to the shop where we rented mountain bikes for a replacement, then down the path.

There’s tons of bike path around, so much so in fact that I ended up in Dillon by accident and had to backtrack a couple of miles to Highway 9 (signage, please!). Riding along the reservoir was beautiful with plenty of sailboats out. About this time I made my first TransAm Taco Bell stop for a couple of loaded potato burritos. I also ran into a recreational threesome who rented bikes, including one with an alarmingly loose NDS crank arm. I don’t have the right tools to fix cranks, so they had to hoof it back to Frisco.

Just outside Silverthorn I spotted a putative swift fox scramble over a berm, look at me, and then turn around. Not sure what he was waiting for, but a nice change from all the prairie dogs and rabbits. I ditched Highway 9 for a bit near Green Mountain Reservoir, and took the long, scenic way way around. Melody Cabins and General provided a Hansens Strawberry-Kiwi soda and Snickers, but no water. The cashier told me there’s nothing potable till you get to Kremmling. Silly and strange, considering it’s on monster reservoir.

In Kremmling I swapped Highway 9 for 40, the Blue River for the Colorado and also promoted a half gallon of chocolate milk from the Kum and Go. Chocolate milk is great, but a poor selection 16 miles from the end of the day. Better than 64 ounces of beer, maybe. Maybe.

Between Kremmling and Granby, the TransAm runs east. Counter productive, considering I’m looking to end up in the Pacific, but the ACA works in mysterious ways. I’m not complaining — with a 2 p.m. start and 78 miles to cover, it was nice to ride east in the evening with the sun behind me (and passing traffic). Lots of folks were out fly-fishing the Colorado. I had some of my prettiest scenery yet just outside of Hot Sulphur Springs, where the road runs next to the railway, and both paths are blasted out of solid rock.

I loaded up on supplies at Shell in town for tonight and tomorrow. This town of 600 doesn’t have an honest grocery, but its selection was decent, including limited fruit. Home tonight is the city park. I’m not sure I’m in the right place — I saw a public RV campground on my way into town — but I found a nice pavilion with a electricity and nearby bathroom, but no shower. I’m set up on a picnic table. There’s a nice community garden next to the horseshoe pits.

My fourth helmet since Pittsburgh.

Slammin trout, 24/7.

A beautiful road. Gorgeous rocks and road cuts along the road and railway.

And what a backdrop.

Hot Sulphur Springs park. Bathrooms, electricity and a nice pavilion, but sans shower. It was COLD.

Miles: 40
Total: 2,727

I spent a nice week off the TransAm in Boulder with my sister and Arthur (thanks for having us!) and Sara flew out from Pittsburgh to visit, too. It meant a lot to me — thanks. We rode bikes around town, and even a longer sortie to Longmont where we found Oskar Blues’ brewery and restaurant. I sent a few things back with Sara: all the maps and addenda east of Pueblo, my transistor radio, watch and a few pieces of clothing. I added a used GoLite jacket to my load in preparation for the cold nights. I also replaced my chain, which stretched beyond 0.75-percent, adjusted my brakes and front derailleur. But mostly we wandered around Boulder and ate and drank too much. Hedonism agrees with me.

Set phasers to awesome.

Megan wouldn’t buy me Star Trek Settlers.

Looking down at Boulder.

Flatiron rockslide.

Fresh, fresh tortillas.

There’s still work to be done.

Consider yourself summited, Flatiron I.

The trailhead starts in Chautauqua Park.

Spotted on a mountain bike/ski trail in Breckenridge.

And put all these candles on in. Let’s play a game: Wax or Ganache?

Megan made me a super-chocolate cake.

Foreground: RR’s Pliny the Elder.

Or end up in the pines.

Not native — spotted along Boulder Creek.

Miles: 69
Total: 2,662

Well, Bill was right. I didn’t make it to Guffey yesterday, and it turns out that was OK. I was off to a late start after excessive beer consumption at excessive altitude, coupled with the fact that I had two whole days to make Breckenridge, and don’t need to pound out the miles. It was all uphill to Guffey, but the views were spectacular. Toward the bottom of the climb I ran into James, who’s headed east from Washington to Tennessee and riding with a giant American flag on his rear rack. He says regardless of its reception (“America — yeah!” or “Flagwaver…”) it’s done its job because you noticed him. Traffic was pretty light, but when it did come through, it was in waves, because of the uphill, curvy, two-lane road. Usually with an RV towing an SUV towing a pair of ATVs at the head of the pack. Ten miles from Guffey, I ran into Janet and Stephen, working their way east, before heading back to Washington — they’re making it an honest door-to-door tour. They spent the night with Bill, and gave me restaurant recommendations. Apparently this town of 16 has several.

I had lunch at the Bull Moose at 8,600′, where the owner and I talked a little about what cyclists look for re: price and amenities in lodging. He’s thinking about adding a bunkhouse for tourists. After a quick stop at the liquor store for a pair of Snickers bars, back to the road, which flattened out for a bit before taking me up Currant Creek Pass (9,485′), a tough climb dividing water between the Arkansas and Platte rivers. There’s no sign at the top, but your reward is a sweet downhill all the way to Hartsel. I stopped for a Coke and some Dum-Dums at the general store and waited out the rain that’s coming through. It looks like it’s pushing to the east, but I got wet about five miles outside of Fairplay, and to make matters worse, there’s no sign of the Buffalo that James and the waitress in Guffey said I’d see coming into town. At least I haven’t seen a single ear of corn all day. I planned to stay at Fairplay Beach, but despite what the map says, there’s no camping. Luckily, just down the road’s Middlefork RV camping site, where I met Bob, a Carolinian who left Yorktown on May 3 after retiring at 62 on May 1. We talk to the Tommy and Janice, the camp operators, and they say we can split a site and put tents up for $10 each. Deal. It’s tough to find free lodgings in Colorado, and my dollar’s not going as far as it used to. This is high tourist season, and Tommy says a lot of these towns have to pull in 75 percent or more of their annual revenue during the summer months, especially if they’re not in ski country.

It starts to absolutely pour as we leave the office to set up camp, so we hide in the bathhouse/lounge trailer. The rain doesn’t quit and, all told, more than an inch falls. Bob and I decide to lay our sleeping bags out in the lounge for the night. Because I’m shorter, I get the couch. He trained as a chef at the CIA, before selling groceries for Sysco. A few years back, Bob spent a season overseeing a restaurant in Yellowstone, and tells me the best place to watch Old Faithful erupt, away from the crowd. I’m sleeping at 9,900′, probably my steepest slumber on the TransAm.

I spotted a few cabins in disrepair along today’s route.

Bob and I hid from the rain inside the park’s lounge.

Miles: 59
Total: 2,593

While I saw my first glimpse of the Rockies just outside Sugar City, this morning’s ride was flat all the way to Cañon City, which was just fine, because I was feeling a little sluggish after averaging more than 100 miles over the past four days. Outside Wetmore, I climbed a most un-Rockies-like half-mile, 10-percent grade, but my reward was an honest-to-goodness cowgirl, riding a horse down the road. She told me about Wetmore’s community center, where I filled up my water bottles and ran into two mountain bike tourists. Dan and Darren were working on a broken rack. Dan’d flipped a rear rack around, and using brackets and clamps, attached it to his front axle and brake bosses. Clever, especially considering the suspension fork. Unfortunately, the rack split, and not near a weld. Hauling 120 pounds makes him a strong rider, but it also shortens equipment lifespan.

It was all downhill to Florence, which is a great town of 3,800 and host of ADX Florence, a federal prison known as the Alcatraz of the Rockies. Notable residents include Richard Reid and Zacarias Moussaoui. Stupendous coffee at The Pour House and then some time at the public library killed most of my morning. I wanted to stay the night in Guffey — a shell of a mining town, home to 16 and Guffey Garage, where Bill Soux hosts cyclists in a $10 hostel. I gave Bill a ring to see about a bunk, and he wasn’t sure I’d make it all the way from Florence today, but to give him a call when I came off Highway 50 and headed north on Highway 9. He’s been under the weather, and told me to come right to the garage when I got in, and not to stop at any bars, because the locals wouldn’t let me leave. I hustled through Lincoln Park, Cañon City (home to another prison — Colorado has its share of reprobates, it seems) and uphill toward Royal Gorge Bridge, the tallest suspension bridge in the U.S., at 955′ over the Arkansas River. Sadly, the park burned badly in 2013 and only offers weekend tours.

No rain, but the skies were dark to the north, with thunder and lightening. I called Bill, and he told me in pretty certain terms to stay at the bottom (bottom being 6,300′), because it was coming down in Guffey and he didn’t want me to be struck by lightning during the slow 25-mile climb. It looked pretty good down here at the bottom, and I was bummed to be told to stay away, but started to call campgrounds around the Royal Gorge area. There are seven listed on the ACA map, all within a one-mile radius of Highways 50 and 9. With that many options, I was hoping for a good deal, but every campground wanted between $29 and $34 for an overnight at a primitive, no-hookups site. I settled on Prospectors RV Resort — at least they sell beer — and laid down the extortionate sum. The weather never came down the mountain, so I spent an afternoon catching up with friends and family on the phone and drinking in the view. On a long trip, you need to roll with the punches, and this was a good reminder for me to slow down slightly.

Not a bad place to be, but not worth $30.

Miles: 124
Total: 2,534

Last night, Josh’s weather app called for a 100-degree day, with winds out of the SSW at 10 mph to 20 mph. Luckily, the forecast was wrong, at least about the wind. I was up early with the so-called extra hour and it was a great morning to start the perfect day. The wind was quiet, and when it did blow, it came out of the east (!). I was in Haswell, 20 miles west, a little more than an hour later. Motoring, 18 mph. On an 85-pound bicycle. Magic, I tell you. Arlington, a certifiable one-horse town and host of an eastern Colorado comfort station (see photos) fell shortly after. The country was absolutely desolate and absolutely gorgeous. I cruised toward Sugar City, where I ran into Steffen, who left south Florida in January, went west to San Diego, north to San Francisco along the coast, and’s working his back across where he’ll deviate to NYC, and head home to Germany. Here I also got my first glimpse of the Rockies, veiled in the distance.

I had thought to call Ordway home for the night, about 65 miles west, but it was only 10:30 a.m., so I had a bean and cheese burrito, more ice water and continued toward Pueblo. I’m definitely in burrito-land, and it’s a great place to be.

Outside Ordway, I met Anthony who’s the only cyclist I met today coming across the TransAm. It seems the WE is more popular right now. He crossed paths with Trevor yesterday.

Near Boone, I ran into Steven, coming from S.F. and headed east toward Philadelphia. He was in Boone’s general store and asked about fresh fruit or veggies. The owner said he’s just got green bananas, but a lady getting gas said to hang on a second. She came back with a bag of Bing cherries, and handed them over. They’re Velcroed to his top tube. We shared a few and discussed what was coming up. The Western Express separates from the TransAm in Wetmore, just a few miles out of Pueblo, so mostly I filled him in on good places to stay in the east, and impressed on him the moral imperative of stopping by Cooky’s in Golden City.

You come into Pueblo on Highway 50, which has a wide shoulder, but lots of traffic and noise. Safe, but not very pleasant. On the upside, I saw my first prairie dogs of the trip. Great Divide bike shop recommended Coors Gray Tavern for lunch and a beer, and I tried the regional dish — something called a Slopper, which is a couple of open-faced burgers drowned in green chili and onions.

My fantasy of an ice-cold, skeevy motel and a six-pack of Colorado beer was dashed when I found that even the most wretched hotel wanted $40. So, down the road to Safeway (back in Safeway country, yeah!) for dinner supplies then through historic Pueblo (including a very nice city park — too bad no camping allowed) to Lake Pueblo Reservoir for the night. It’s gorgeous, and the off-peak rate of $17 is only mild extortion. Lots of RVs, and a coin-operated shower house. It’s dry here, so I’m camped on the picnic table. I somehow averaged 16 mph over 124 miles. Perfect storm.

Outside the service station in Haswell.

Do your part to keep the snakes out.

Which is most certainly a one-horse town. I saw him.

There are fewer wild flowers along the road now. I haven’t seen a tiger lily for a few hundred miles.

A nice backdrop for the night.

I slept under the overhang and kept the tent packed up. I don’t think the stakes would go into the gravel easily, at any rate.

Miles: 108
Total: 2,410

Your garden-variety 1991 Hummer H1 6.5L turbo diesel will trot to 60 mph in 15.1 seconds, right before it grazes the quarter mile 4.5 seconds later. In other words, it’s not fleet. Me, neither. I recorded my narrowest average-maximum speed delta of 7.5 mph today (12.4 mph, avg; 19.9 mph, max). Western Kansas and Eastern Colorado are, in a word, flat.

It was cool this morning in Scott City, but something about the air let you know it was going to be hotter than yesterday. Right out of the gate, I came across a half dozen feedlots. And with the wind out of the south, the smell carried quite a ways. The first modern windmills of the trip appeared around the same time, and they were twirling today. It’s interesting to see such an ecologically damaging businesses operating  close to renewable energy. Crossing the Greeley/Witchita county line puts me in Mountain Time. The extra hour’s welcome on a high-mile day like this. I stopped for lunch in Tribune at Karen’s Kitchen, the only game in town. She’s diversified, sporting a grill inside her antique shop. Tribune’s also the last substantial town for nearly 60 miles, so I  fill my bottles with ice water and ran into Foster, who’s working his way east. He’s never been to Kansas. Enjoy, buddy.

At the Colorado state line, I snapped a “Welcome to Kansas” photo that should have happened on day 26. Pretend with me. Just inside Colorado, Towner was home to a mile and a half of empty railcars parked on the tracks. In Sheridan Lake, I stopped for more water and an ice pop at the service station before pushing 25 desolate miles through Brandon, Chivington and the site of Sand Creek Massacre. Eads’ (pop. 600) rest stop proclaims I’ve reached the halfway point of the TransAm — some say it’s Pueblo’s city hall. Either way, I’m close. Outside the grocery store, I run into Josh and Elise. They’re engaged and  started in Newton, Kansas, about ten days ago, and are headed for San Francisco. Josh is replacing Elise’s rim strip — she’s been getting small pinhole flats and they think the tube’s rubbing the inside of the wheel. I picked up a 1/2 gallon of milk at the grocery, and just in time, as it closes in 30 minutes, at 5:30 p.m. The clerk tells me they have a pool, but it closes at 5 p.m., the library at 4 p.m. The kind ladies at the pool took mercy on me and let me have a quick, cold shower. Thank you, thank you. Back to the grocery, where Josh and Elise have abandoned their plans to head 20 miles down the road to Haswell as the wind’s picked up considerably. We head to the laundromat so they can start a load before going to dinner at K&M Ranch House. They had lunch there, so we know it’s a good (and our only) bet. In the laundromat, a local comes in and offers us a shower at his house for a $10 donation. We pass — creepy. Our second visitor, Andy from Amarillo, Texas, was a treat. He’s passing through town, saw our loaded bicycles and came in. He and his wife pedaled the TransAm in 2002, he gives us a few bucks for dinner and tells us tales from the trail. Said folks bought him a meal or two while he was on the road. Again, the generosity of strangers astounds.

We finish up dinner just in time to set up at the city park before the sun sets. Lots of wind and lightning in the distance promise a lively night. It’s basic — a couple of electric outlets and a spigot, but no bathrooms or showers — we use the rest area across the train tracks, about a 1/5 of a mile away, but’ll do just fine after a 100-mile day.

Never let it be said white men take the credit for everything.

Outside Selkirk.

Colorado!

At least 1.5 miles of them, parked.

You can see Josh and Elise’s tent in the distance.