Sur La Plaque!

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.

Miles: 96
Total: 2,302

I’ll be honest, I flirted with SR 96 before. Nothing too heavy, just a few miles here, a few miles there. There were plenty of other highways, byways and county roads involved. We kept it light. No one got hurt. That ended today, and I’m on a short leash. Outside of La Crosse, I hooked a right on SR 96 W and will be on that road for more than 300 miles, across two states and time zones, all the way to Wetmore, Colorado. It makes navigation easy.

I was off to a late start this morning. The weather continued through the night, and the pavilion’s lights were hardwired on, so I settled down just as my alarm went off. I lazed around another hour or so, enjoying the cool before finally turning the cranks at 8 a.m.

The storm put a damper on the heat and wind — extremely pleasant riding in the mid-60s and with a whisper of wind from the north for the first few hours of the day. It sprinkled a little outside of Alexander, where I changed maps to section 7, with instructions to Pueblo (spoiler: west on SR 96 — if you’re looking to save weight, leave map 7 at home and write those four quasi-words on the back of your hand).

I hit Ness City for lunch at Pizza Plus, and walked up to an 1890 bank building, known as the “Skyscraper of the Plains,” architecturally interesting, though it’s dwarfed by every grain elevator across the great state of Kansas.

I planned to call Dighton home for the night, but it was only 85 degrees when I stopped for ice water and banana Laffy Taffy 70 miles in. Two older ladies at the convenience store told me I’d like Scott City — it has more going on, including an alleged dollar store. They asked where home was, and said they’d been to Pittsburgh. Said they enjoyed their visit. I told them to come back sometime.

I’m sprawled out in Scott City’s park on 12th and Main tonight. The pavilion’s got a nice roof, so I didn’t bother with the tent. It’s also got ground-level outlets and a deposit on the concrete that’s either vomit or ice cream with what looks like cookie topping. I’m giving it a wide berth. No shower in the park, but the kind folks at the nearby pool invited me in.

Elaine’ll treat you right. I didn’t stay, but folks say it’s a nice B&B.

Dighton’s 1890 bank building is stunning, but dwarfed by grain elevators.

There are lots of these around, but this was close enough to the road for a decent photo.

Great place to sleep.

Miles: 93
Total: 2,206

On a clear day in Kansas you can easily see ten miles. This reality is driven home every time you spot a grain elevator, look at the map for the next town and think, “Wow, I’m getting close.” Ten miles. Every time. It’ll slowly creep closer, from a prick on the horizon, to a 130′ tall, reinforced concrete complex.

I got an early start and managed to dodge the sprinkler system at Sterling Lake. It was cool and pleasant, but a note on the maps about no services for 58 miles had me pack a little extra water. I thought I was finished with dogs, but two gave chase. The first, a golden retriever modeling a menacing bandana, the second a good-sized Rottweiler who squeezed under the fence (!). Luckily, neither had the tenacity of an eastern-KY hound and I escaped intact.

Fifteen miles into the day I entered Quivira National Refuge, an area established in 1955 to protect migratory birds. It’s a mix of prairie and marshland, and is gorgeous. Spaniard Francisco Vásquez de Coronado visited the area in 1541, hunting for gold. He came up empty. While reading a sign about various waterfowl, Robin and Brian from Newton caught up. They stayed in Nickerson last night. We rode together for a few miles, but I kept stopping to look around and take photos, so they got ahead of me.

I had thought of quitting in Larned (where I saw, and smelled, my first CAFO), especially as it was over 100 degrees by lunch, but it was early, and I wanted more miles. Rehydrated by a giant Sonic slush, I got back on the road long enough to make Fort Larned, an 1860 installation designed to protect the Santa Fe Trail (which ran from Independence, Missouri, to, you guessed it, Santa Fe, New Mexico), and its commercial traffic, from Indian attack. In 1868, local stone and Michigan timber (no trees in central Kansas) buildings replaced the original adobe.

By now it was an indicated 102 degrees. Five miles past Fort Larned, I turned right onto highway 183. This is one of two extended northern vectors in Kansas, and the wind was at my back. I cruised 20 miles into Rush Center in an hour-ten. There’s nothing in Rush Center, so I filled my water bottles at an auto shop and talked to the receptionist. She gave me the scoop on La Crosse and told me to check out the Dew Drop Lounge in Pueblo, if it — and the bus station it calls home — are still open.

I made quick work of the four miles to La Crosse, where I had time to visit the Kansas Barb Wire Museum. It’s home to more than 2,400 barb wire samples, antique tools, and other errata, including a 72-pound barb wire crow’s nest, recovered from a utility pole in Greeley County.

Camp tonight is the city park adjacent to the museum. There’s a pavilion, electricity and bathrooms, but no shower, and the pool’s closed Mondays. I called the police as requested on the map to note arrival, but never got more than a busy signal.

I had dinner and birthday beer (a New Belgium 1554, promising, but nine months out of date, and a perfectly fresh and predictable Budweiser) at Cozy’s Bar and Grill, and went next door for groceries, including dessert/birthday cake/breakfast cinnamon rolls. My evening was immeasurably brightened by a pair of singing phone calls, one from my parents, aunt and uncle who are on vacation together, the second from Sara and my roommates in Pittsburgh. Thanks for thinking of me.

Interesting to see old, abandoned buildings along the route.

There’s a salt marsh in the back right of the photo.

Radium? Damn near killed ‘um.

Because there are few trees in central and west Kansas, Settlers quarried posts out of the rock just a few feet below the surface for fenceposts. Each post weighed between 350 pounds and 450 pounds. La Crosse also has a Post Rock Museum. I didn’t visit.

The museum has more than 2,400 types of barb wire, many rare and valuable.

This nest’s made of barbed wire and weighed 72 pounds when it was pulled off a utility pole in Greeley County.

Shared my picnic table with this guy.

For my Dad.

The lights are hardwired on, but otherwise a pleasant enough place.

Miles: 68
Total: 2,113

Brian and Robin said the Breadbasket, across the street from the fire hall, serves a breakfast buffet, starting at 6:30 a.m. Tempting, but I’ve learned buffets are best left to the end of the day. I had a bagel with peanut butter and was rolling by 6:45 a.m.

The morning was cool, with a slight crosswind out of the south, which turned to my favor as I headed north through Hesston. I stopped at Casey’s for chocolate milk, and had my eye on the day-old doughnuts, but the manager wouldn’t sell them piecemeal, just by the dozen, which is probably for the best.

I ran into a threesome about 10 miles out of town. They stayed over in Nickerson, and recommended I stop at the exotic-animal-farm-cum-B&B, especially if I hadn’t seen a zebra or giraffe before. Never in Kansas, I said.

By this point I was hungry, with an eye on pancakes, and stopped in Buhler (Bueller, Bueller?), but everything was closed this early on Sunday, so I polished off an apple and bag of Cheetos in the park. Outside Buhler, I ran into a cyclist. He’s riding with his brother and father, SAG supported by his mom. They’re relaying through Kansas, each taking 30-mile stretches to “get through it.” To each, his own.

We rode together for a few miles, till I detoured off route to Hutchinson, a fair-sized city of 50,000, home of the Kansas State Fair, and my motivation, the Cosmosphere. The museum’s Smithsonian affiliated, and contains the largest collection of space artifacts (including German and Soviet examples) outside of the Air and Space Museum in D.C. It opens at noon on Sunday, so I had time for a couple of burgers at Bogey’s, a shake-and-burger joint reminiscent of In-and-Out.

The Cosmosphere’s special in that it takes you from the dawn of the space age, when the Germans put together the V-1 and V-2 rockets (at more than double the cost of America’s Manhattan Project!), through the post-war years, into the Cold War, and beyond. The exhibits are set up and explained by great narratives from both sides, explaining the Soviet and American approaches and motivations.

I finished up around 4 p.m., and hoped to escape the heat of the day nerding out, but it was still 95 degrees. Bottles stuffed with ice water, I got back on route and made for Sterling. I rode past the back of the exotic animal farm, spotting zebras, camels, giraffes and emus. None posed for photos, but this blog being on the internet, I’m sure you can make do.

The wind ran with me the last stretch into Lake Sterling, home for the night. I pulled up to the pool and parked next to a Pinarello Dogma. Fancy. Travis, the pool manager, told me it’s a knockoff, complete with an English-threaded BB shell. He rides with a guy who has two legit Pinarellos (good problem to have) and he says it’s pretty close. In fact, he has one as a rain bike.

We kept talking, and then mentions the grocery store closes at 6 p.m., which is in seven minutes. I blast out of there, moving way faster than I had all day. Luckily, it’s a small town and I make the mini-Dillons with a few minutes to spare.

I’m set up in the park’s pavilion. The pool closed with the grocery store (and you can’t buy beer on Sunday in Rice County), but the bathrooms are open all night, so I grab a warm shower later in the evening and wait for the heat to die down. There’s a grain elevator here, complete with rail line, but it’s quiet all evening. No need for ear plugs.

It’s the law. Great to see these signs in the middle of nowhere (outside Hesston).

Midwestern humor. Kansans are a wry people.

I’m sure this works as a great billboard for the museum.

Home’s Sterling Lake Park. Electricity, bathrooms and a hot shower. Heaven. I rolled the dice and slept under the stars.

Miles: 75
Total: 2,045

Back to tarmac.

Kelly ran me the 40 miles to Council Grove’s Sonic parking lot, where I loaded up and headed out. I’m really pleased things worked out that I could visit him and Dawn over the Fourth. We couldn’t have planned it better.

I’m glad Google’s gravel directions got me to Council Grove, but I’m taking oil road to Newton. Enough playing with cattle. I ran Kansas 177 about 20 miles south to Highway 50 west. Riding along 177 was great — in the heart of the Flint Hills, and I passed through the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve. This land is set aside for research, recreation and conservation. The visitor center also has an ice-cold water fountain. Prairie once accounted for 200 million acres in Kansas, but farming and ranching have reduced that number by 95 percent.

I spent about 50 miles on 50W, and saw a handful of three-person teams racing east, supported by multiple branded vans. We exchanged waves, but I never figured out what the event was.

I stopped for a break in Florence, which was a very cool, very closed town. I was hoping for chocolate milk, but settled for water from a spigot in the town park. A great pavilion, FYI, and I’ve developed quite a discriminating pavilion palate over the past month. It’s a shame nothing was open, but the town has some great architecture, including an opera house.

The wind was unrelenting out of the southwest all day long, and of course I was headed southwest, all day long. Nobody likes a whiner, but this was my hardest day on the bike so far. I averaged 9.8 mph over a flat 75 miles — after a full day of rest — and only due to the grace of the half gallon of Gatorade I drank in Walton. For perspective, today was just under 30 percent slower than I’ve been averaging, trip-wide. Complaint over. Wind is a different challenge than climbing. With hills, you can see why you’re moving slowly, you eventually get to the top, and then you usually get a nice downhill reward. At least wind keeps you cool.

I was thrilled to arrive in Newton, a great town of just under 20,000 people. Historic downtown, crisscrossed by rail (and an Amtrak station!), with an enormous grocery store –I’m in Dillons country now. I’d planned to stay at the Newton Bike Shop, but the owners are out on holiday, so I’m bunked at the fire hall, sleeping in air-conditioned comfort, with a hot shower, full kitchen and great company in Brian and Robin.

They just graduated from Shippensburg University, working their way to Oregon, and then Washington, where they hope to find work. They left Yorktown about 10 days before me, and are taking time to see the country. Robin’s riding a vintage Univega, while Brian’s on your more standard Trek 520. They spent the Fourth in Eureka, and said it was spectacular. The whole town came out.

Nice visitor center, including ice-cold water fountain.

Mural in the city park. I stopped here for a snack, but the whole town was closed.

This is probably the most idiotic idea KSDOT’s ever had. Rumble strips are already a terrible idea; this takes the cake.

A bright spot in the wind along highway 50.

Home tonight. Sleeping inside in air-conditioned luxury. Met Brian and Robin here, too.

Miles: 0

Total: 1,970

The only time I did so much as look at my bike was getting in or out of Kelly’s Xterra. Otherwise, it slumbered in his garage.

We whiled away the day eating, wandering around a mostly closed Aggieville, committing alien genocide/playing Halo and generally being deadbeats. It was perfect. We also watched 12 Years a Slave, a powerful movie, and awfully appropriate considering the holiday.

No Manhattan business stepped up to sponsor a fireworks display, so we posted up on the porch to watch nearby Wamego’s offering. Unfortunately, the trees separating the towns have grown up, and we couldn’t see much. We settled for the neighbors setting off fireworks in terrifying fashion, including an errant fountain that put an adjacent fence aflame. You can really get professional-grade pyrotechnics in Kansas — even the local fire department is selling as a (two-pronged?) fundraiser.

I’ll be back on the road tomorrow, but am deeply enjoying my visit, and A-OK forgetting about the bike for 24 hours.

Miles: 73

Total: 1,970

I went off the reservation today, and didn’t see a stitch of asphalt for more than 60 miles between Eureka and Council Grove. It dewed heavy overnight, and was a chilly 48 degrees leaving Eureka. I’m deviating from the TransAm, heading north about 70 miles to Council Grove to meet friends who live in Manhattan. The ACA maps are great — they indicate road type, where you’ll find gas stations, restaurants and give generally good directions. I’m armed today with Google Maps bicycle directions and a Kansas State highway map, picked up in Chanute’s tourism office. Usually I travel with two large Camelback Podium insulated water bottles, giving me a volume of 50 oz. Today, I filled up two spare 20-oz. bottles. These usually sit empty, since water’s heavy and I rarely worry about running out. The ACA maps are a comfort blanket, and I’m anxious in their absence. I have no idea what, if any, services will be available. This turned out to be a good idea, because homes are few and far between out here, and I didn’t have a chance for resupply until arriving in Council Grove.

The first 60 miles today were all on gravel farm roads. Pleasantly devoid of traffic, I can count on one hand the number of cars and trucks I saw. Being out in the wilderness has its perks, but on some of the loose-gravel downhills, I couldn’t help but think about how long it’ll take someone to find me quivering in a pool of my own blood and urine at the bottom if I wipe out. This tends to temper speed on descents.

Lots of locusts — they’re everywhere: on the road, in the grass, on me (and a grasshopper has enough weight that you take notice when it lands on you). Grasshoppers and cows, your two major Flint-Hills food groups. I saw a huge number of cattle today, and for a time rode over a few cattle guards and into the arena with the herd — no barbed wire separating us. Big creatures, and a some posted up right in the middle of the gravel, and off to the sides. I figured we’re at an impasse, but they tottered out of the way. For being so big, they’re not especially brave, and for that I’m thankful.

Eventually I turned off Road A, on to CC Avenue. Avenues should be paved. This is fact. Avenue CC is gravel. This was a downer. Luckily, a mile down the line I turned right on Dunlop Road, and that was blessedly paved. The last 10 miles into Council Grove flew by as I pedaled through the floodplain. Kelly met me in Council Grove (he served as the college media editorial adviser when I was in Blacksburg, and moved to Manhattan for work a few years ago). We loaded up and hydrated with Sonic Limeades during the 40 mile drive north. Moving at 65 mph is a rare treat.

Home tonight and tomorrow is Kelly and Dawn’s very nice home in Manhattan. I’m looking forward to catching up, taking a day off the bicycle and spending time in a soft bed.

It’s hard to capture the Flint Hill aesthetic. But it’s gorgeous.

I didn’t bag a “Welcome to Kansas” sign, but I did find the state flower.

He didn’t want to come out and play.

One of the most exciting parts of my day: choosing between gravel or gravel.

Miles: 65

Total: 1,897

Spotting a cyclist on tour is a curious thing. In Eastern Kansas, where slight hills and straight roads make for long sight lines, you first see a speck off in the distance. It could be a a signpost, a piece of oil-well plumbing, rogue bovine or maybe, just maybe, a person. I don’t have the greatest eyes, and it takes a little while, but perhaps an oncoming car or truck pulls into the opposite lane and passes said speck. This is a pretty good clue that it’s not (a) a signpost or (b) piping and probably a member of the chordate phylum. Then you close the distance a little more, and spot bit of reflective tape, or some garish spandex. Since cows have yet to master the zipper, odds are good it’s a human being.

I saw more eastbound touring cyclists today than the last week combined. A couple of singles, a group of four middle-aged women, then more than a dozen supported tourists, all of whom were coming straight across the U.S., doing the ACA’s Western Express. It’s considered rude to ride by a loaded cyclist without stopping to say hello, so I got plenty of breaks today.

My ride took me through Toronto, never a big town, but it was totally closed up this morning. It looks to have (and the maps indicate) several restaurants, shopping, a library and post office, but no signs of life. Kind of creepy to roll through all these weathered buildings and not see a soul. Banners advertised Toronto Days, July 4-5-6, so perhaps everyone’s resting for some truly bacchanalian Independence-Day feats. I was hoping for chocolate milk.

That wish was granted a few miles down the road at Lizard Lips Country Junction, on the corner of 106 and 54. You can get your hunting license, night crawlers, car battery and a gallon of milk along with your deli sandwich and super unleaded. One-stop shopping. I was greeted by the proprietor’s granddaughter who brought me a cyclist logbook to sign. The owner let me know I was heading into the Flint Hills, one of the last stretches of true prairie. Named for the flinty chert at the surface, this area’s too rocky to plow — its 4.5 million acres of bluestem grasses primarily serve as pasture for more than a million head of cattle each year.

I’m calling it quits in Eureka. Home’s the pool and city park two blocks south of Main Street. There’s a pavilion, but the roof doesn’t look so great, so I’m putting my tent up again. There’s a cold shower, but I’m too sweaty to care. Whatever cyclist came through last left a pavilion-warming bottle of Fat Tire behind(!). Coming back from the library (where you can check out designer cake pans) and grocery store, I’m joined by Rob, a well-bearded Maryland cyclist who grew up in Herndon, Virginia, and went to James Madison University. He’s been to Foamhenge. Rob’s riding the Western Express across, and hopes to ride up the coast to Portland, where 2014’s World Beard and Mustache Championships are being held. He works at an outdoor ice rink, which doesn’t exist five months out of the year, so he’s got the time. A couple of hours later, a second Rob rolls in. He started in Vermont before riding south and picking up the TransAm to Pueblo, where he’s also opting for the Western Express. The Robs began today in Pittsburg, and rode more than 120 miles to Eureka. Big days. Rob No. 2 doesn’t have the ACA maps — he’s navigating by rough descriptions from the ACA, combined with an iPhone and state maps. He spent some time on the interstate today.

Wildflowers are great!

Luckily, not going this way.

You can take these fun cake pans out on loan from Eureka Public.

Sharing with Rob and Rob.