Day 78: Eugene, OR to Florence, OR
62.8 Miles, 4,091.8 Miles Cum

The day that seemed impossibly far away three months ago arrived.  I thought I might feel a little bummed, maybe a reprise of that bittersweet feeling that hit me a few weeks ago when I first sensed the finish line, but I wasn’t.  I was excited, anticipant—something good was about to happen.

I met Laura on the corner where we ended our ride yesterday.  Our panhandler friend was there also; a contribution seemed appropriate since we now have a history.

Similar to yesterday, we had to decide whether to take the Trans Am route, which was longer, more circuitous and included a 1,000 foot pass or to continue on Route 126 which was more of a straight shot to Florence.  Regardless of which we chose there was going to be a final climb over the last ridge of the Cascades.  We quickly reached the same conclusion as yesterday-- get me to the coast—and set off along Route 126.

A pleasant surprise was that once out of Eugene, the route became rural again.  With towering pines blanketing the hills, it lived up to my image of Oregon.  We made it over the last pass with only a little grumbling (I know, it was 800 feet, not 8,000).  We reached Mapleton around the middle of the day, met Paul and Joe and stopped for a rest.  There was a little café, so we decided to stop in.  Normally, I wouldn’t eat a big meal during a ride and peanut butter and jelly proved to be my personal super-food.  Maybe to mark the exceptional circumstances or maybe just to extend the time until the end, I sat down to an omelet, hash browns, toast and coffee.  The waitress picked up that the girls were cycling across country and the boys were driving and had a field day with it.

With lunch completed, there was only one thing left to do: find the coast.  The sense of anticipation grew as the road signs posted progressively lower mileage to Florence.  The surroundings turned into marshlands, signaling our approach to the beach.  When we pulled into Florence, I saw Paul in a parking lot with a camera.  I pulled over as he snapped a photo.  He said that this is where the map ended and congratulated me.  I told him that I’m not ending my ride across the US in the parking lot of the True Value Hardware store.  We consulted a local map that showed the coast was still a few miles away, then pedaled off to the beach.

The first glimpse of the Pacific over the dunes was incredible, but there was still one final gauntlet before actually reaching the water.  From the parking lot, it was about a 100 foot climb over a sand dune before coming down onto the beach.  Again, I smiled that the trip was not giving itself up easily.  I kicked off my shoes, picked up my bike and started the hike up the dune.  My bicycle carried me 4,000 miles; it seemed a fitting homage to carry it the last few yards.  I continued straight toward the water and dipped my front tire in the Pacific, bringing closure to the string of events that opened when I dipped my back tire in the Atlantic. 

I took a minute in the surf to lean on my bike and look out over the ocean.  There was so much to be grateful for: for Paul who was with me all along the way, for my family and friends that offered their support, prayers and encouragement even though they may not have understood why I was doing this, for everyone who followed my trip not realizing how much it helped me, for the new friends that were with me representing all the new friends and amazing people I met of the journey.  When I turned back, I saw Joe poured some celebratory margaritas.

Before I wheeled by bicycle back up onto the beach to join the festivities, I looked inside myself to try to capture what I was feeling.  I was sure people would ask, but more importantly, I wanted to lock it in my memory.  It was an immensely serene, proud and satisfying moment.

Day 77: McKenzie Bridge, OR to Eugene, OR
59.9 Miles, 4,029.0 Miles Cum

It was energizing to wake up to a sunny morning.  I met Laura at 9:30 for a later than usual start.  We agreed yesterday that the longer we waited, the better chance there was for improved weather.  Today was gorgeous, a brisk morning with a touch of early autumn. 

Checking the map, we could either follow the recommended route which was longer but probably more scenic, or stick to the highway cutting off about 10 miles.  We were of like mind on the issue: get me to the coast.  We each ended our respective rides yesterday in McKenzie Bridge, but since the hotel was a few miles back up the route, but were repeating about 4 miles.  I didn’t mind; the dense forest was beautiful even in the rain.

After a scenic start, we rode into more populated areas.  It was an easy ride because of the flat terrain and the company.  I had forgotten how quickly shared miles pass.  Eugene, the destination for the day, was the largest city on the Trans Am Trail with a population over 100,000, and there was no mistake that we were coming into a city.  I understood why our choice was not preferred route.  It took us through the less salubrious outskirts of town, past the industrial buildings, pawn shops and welfare hotels.  For a while we lost the shoulder and just stuck to the far right side of a four lane road.  Closer to the center, we picked up a bike lane and found our way to an arbitrary corner for the end of the day.  We chatted with the panhandler on the corner while Paul caught up with me and Joe with Laura.  In fairness to Eugene, it’s not as bad as it sounds.  It’s the home of the University of Oregon and one of the top 10 cycle friendly cities in the US.  We just happened on its less photogenic side.

Laura and I agreed to meet again tomorrow for the grand finale.

Day 76: Sisters, OR to McKenzie Bridge, OR
54.2 Miles, 3,969.1 Miles Cum

Yesterday the Oregon DOT-cam showed that the morning temperature on Santiam Pass was 37 degrees, making me glad that I wasn’t going to tackle the pass that day.  The early morning view of the same cam today showed the temperature in the mid 40s, which was an improvement over 24 hours ago.

We drove back to Sisters to start the ride.  It was cloudy and cool, but dry; I was not particularly cold since I was wearing my fleece pullover.  I told Paul I’d meet him at or near the top of the pass, 20 miles further.  After that, I expected a long downhill run.  At some point I had to reach sea level and there really weren’t that many miles left.  That or the Pacific Ocean is at 2,000 feet elevation.

The early part of the ride was flat and the climb up the last pass of the trip started at about 10 miles and continued for 10 miles.  I thought I had a choice of passes, McKenzie which was higher and steeper but shorter with less traffic or Santiam which was lower and not as steep but longer with more traffic.  I debated several days earlier and decided I’d take McKenzie until I found out it was closed to all traffic due to construction.  Actually, McKenzie Pass is usually closed until June or July due to snow, which is why I thought it would be great to take the chance to ride over it.  Once it became the only choice, Santiam Pass sounded just fine.

As I started the climb, it started raining, which was strange after not seeing rain for weeks.  Even without a rain jacket, I was well bundled up and warm though the temperature seemed to be dropping.  When the rain became more steady, I worried that maybe I wasn’t visible enough.  I was also having some trouble seeing, especially if a truck or RV threw up road spray.  Three or four miles from the top Paul caught up to me and I flagged him down to grab my day-glo rain jacket.  Confident with my visibility, I continued up the pass as the weather worsened.

When I was approaching the top, with about 500 feet of elevation more to climb, the rain started to mix with sleet and freezing rain.  I watched the ice pellets bounce off my arms.  The wind swirled in every direction, with the icy rain pelting me one minute in the face, the next minute in my ear, the next in the back of my head.  I was laughing to myself because earlier in the trip when someone asked me when I expected to be done, I told them I planned to finish before the snows came.  I was a day late.  Still, I was not at all surprised that the trip was not fading quietly into a whimper of a finale.

I got to the top of the pass and I was wet and cold.  Paul convinced me to stop into the truck to warm up and have my sandwich.  The climb was surprisingly fine, even in the less than fine weather.  I went back out into the rain to start the descent off the pass.  Before jumping out of the car, I grabbed my down vest for the first time.  Now, in retrospect, maybe it wasn’t the wisest choice, since down is kind of worthless once wet, but I had this idea that once I got over the pass, the weather would clear and I would drop into a sunny Shangri La.  On the other side of the pass, though, the freezing rain continued, the traffic didn’t let up, it was cold and windy, and the shoulder turned into rivers, washing out sections of the road.  For safety, I rode the brakes hard, but the wet roads made it an effort to control speed and the cold temps were causing my fingers to cramps and feet to go numb.  With all the exertion to control my speed, I later saw that I still exceeded 34 mph coming off the pass.  Going downhill turned out to be more difficult than going uphill.

At the bottom of the 10 mile run down the pass, I was thoroughly soaked and cold.  I stopped a few times along the descent to stamp my feet and shake my hands to get feeling back in them.  I hopped back in the truck for a break to warm up but was worried about continuing while I was soaked.  Paul lectured me to put on rain gear and I pointed out the I had a rain jacket on.  He continued to press me and I was getting mad…I didn’t know what he wanted.  Finally it dawned on me.  He wanted me to get out of my soaking wet clothes, put on dry cycling clothes and put my rain gear over all of it.  I completely forgot I had waterproof rain pants and another rain jacket.  In that moment, I was convinced Paul was a genius.  I took off the multiple layers of wet stuff, dressed in dry cycle shorts, thermals, a fleece then covered everything with an outside layer of raingear.  Only my shoes and feet stayed wet, but with everything else bundled up, it was a small concession.  The remaining 30 some miles were sooooo much more comfortable, but I found that I was hoping for climbs to work harder to get warm.    

As I was approaching McKenzie Bridge, the end of today’s ride, Paul drove up and asked if I’d like to stay in a hotel instead of camping.  It was still raining, but not quite as cold since we lost a lot of elevation.  Of course, I wanted to stay in a hotel, but there were not many facilities and the few we checked were booked.  It turned out that Paul stopped into one of the places and there was a cancellation, so he booked the last room.  I was so thrilled, that it didn’t even matter what the room was like.

When I finished, Paul drove me back a few miles to the hotel.  It was fabulous with a lush forested landscape, the swollen McKenzie River running through it, a natural hot spring pool, and most of all a dry warm room.  If Paul did absolutely nothing for the entire trip to this point, today would have made up for it.  Once we checked in, I went to the hot spring and floated for over an hour until there was not a shred of chill left in me.

As we relaxing in our room in the evening, there was a knock on the door.  Paul and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders as Paul got up to open the door.  It was Laura, my cowgirl cycling companion, and her husband Joe.  They pulled in and got the last campsite and as they did, Laura recognized our truck.  She knew my last name but not Paul’s.  The people at the desk said our room seemed to be registered to the only Paul.  It was great to see her and to meet Joe, after hearing so much about him.  It was getting late and they just got in, but we agreed to meet tomorrow morning and cycle together.  It had a feeling of being like old times.

I had multiple layers of soaking wet clothes, but with so little of the trip left, I didn’t have to worry about most of them.  The only thing I focused on trying to dry was my shoes.  They were drenched and were possibly becoming a biological hazard.  I had a thought about finding an autoclave at the university when I get home to sterilize my shoes.  I’m sure this is going to provoke emails from my sisters insisting I forget the autoclave and find a garbage can.

Day Off 17: Bend, OR

It was a day off and a Sunday, so I decided to go to church, something I haven’t really done on my trip.  It felt like a good opportunity to be a little more formal in my thanks for all the amazing things that happened in the past 90 some-odd days.  I also thought it might be nice to stop into God’s house and thank Him for letting me cycle through His backyard all summer. 

On the way back from dinner yesterday, I noticed a church and checked the mass schedule on the plaque outside the building.  I obviously read schedules as well as I read maps, because I got to church at 9 am, but mass was at 11.  I took advantage of the quiet contemplative environment to reflect on the summer.

I came back at again at 11.  As is often the case, I walked out at the end of the service feeling uplifted, but today was a little different.  My emotions were charged from the review of so many places, people, family, old friends, new friends.  I left with a sense of fulfillment, of having done something good, of having been recognized for it.  It was the spiritual equivalent of getting a kiss on the forehead from my Dad.  I wish the real life equivalent wasn’t so many years ago.  

Day 74 and Day 75: Mitchell, OR to Prineville, OR to Sisters, OR
47.7 Miles and 40.4 Miles, 3,914.9 Miles Cum

The day had a similar profile to yesterday with an early climb over Ochoco Pass and the remainder of the ride dropping into the valley.  The climb was beautiful, alpine and pine covered.  The cool sunny morning and the fairly gentle grade made the climb a nice workout but nothing that caused any angst.  I met Paul at the summit and stopped for a sandwich.  Checking out the posted signs, it seemed a popular area in winter with Nordic ski trails and snow mobile paths.  Judging from the campers and RVs at the rest area, I guess it was also a big summer draw.  As I came over the pass, it was still clear and sunny but it was unexpected cold.  I found myself riding slower and slower, huddling on my bicycle trying to conserve body heat.  I was trying to will Paul to catch up with me so I can put on a warmer layer.  It was past 10:30 and instead of the temperature rising, it continued to get colder.  When Paul caught up, I waved him down and got a fleece pullover.  It was a relief to be warm again.  As the day and the ride continued, it never got warm enough to shed the fleece layer.

The rest of the day was a little anticlimactic, since the surroundings started to get more suburban.  For hundreds and hundreds of miles, I cycled through vast landscapes and tiny towns, deserts and mountains.  Today, riding through the suburban expansion of executive developments and model homes at the edge of established towns felt a little bland.  Still, bland was a pretty good trade-off for getting ever closer to the coast.  

The following day’s ride from Prineville to Sisters had a similar flavor.  I think I was already anticipating the end of the journey and these towns were just standing in the way.  Notable was the first view of the Cascades, sporting their snow covered peaks.  The Three Sisters, three peaks rising over 10,000 feet each, came into view outside of the town of Sisters.

Sisters itself is a lively, artsy town.  There was an antique festival going on and the town was packed.  We strolled through the town and shops, enjoying the ambiance.  Once we felt we saw all we wanted, we drove out of town to Bend since all the hotels in Sisters were booked for the weekend.    

Day 73: Dayville, OR to Mitchell, OR
39.1 Miles, 3,826.8 Miles Cum

Today was a short day with the first half consisting of a climb over Keyes Creek Pass and the second half a run down the other side.  Compared to some of the recent passes, Keyes Creek was placid.  The amazing part of the ride was coming though Picture Gorge and the fossil bed areas.  The rock formations were colorful, symmetric and striking.  This was a day that justified a video-cam (if I had one) because it was just not possible to capture the depth, scope or magnitude of the landscape in a photo.  As has happened more than a few times before, I felt humbled and tiny in such big, majestic surroundings. 

When I got to Mitchell, it was still pretty early, so Paul and I pulled out the map to see if there was a logical destination further along to reach today.  The next town was about 50 miles away and didn’t see the point of pressing on that far.  There were a few campsites, but I had to climb the next pass to get there.  Paul was concerned because the hotel on the highway that he checked out was pretty bad.  I took a quick look at town and there seemed to be a reasonable hotel so we decided that if there was a room available, we’d stay at the Oregon Hotel.  Just to put some framework around the situation, Mitchell has a population of 170 and the town is a street that consists of a nice city park, the Oregon Hotel, a gas station, the Little Pine Café, the Feed Depot and some houses.  As we settled in, we realized it was a great place to settle in for the evening.

The hotel was historic, comfortable and absolutely lovely.  There were wood floors and in some cases these old-time design linoleum floors and claw foot tubs and old brass beds.  It was also the place where I fell in love.  His name is Henry and he’s tall, dark and a good kisser.  Paul thinks it’s just a phase and he’s probably right.

You see, Henry is a 720 pound black bear adopted by Hugh, the owner of the Oregon Hotel.  When we checked in, the lady at the desk told us about Henry.  She also suggested that if we caught Hugh in the right mood, he’d take us into the pen to see Henry.  At the same time, Paul dismissed it and I went to find Hugh.  When I found Hugh, I asked if I can see Henry.  He pointed to the pen across the street.  I asked if I can go in to see him.  Hugh looked at me and asked where I was from.  I told him New Jersey and that I cycled here.  He thought for a second, then said, “Ok, we can show you Henry,” but he had a few things to take care of first.  I told him I would be as patient as he needed.  I went out near Henry’s digs and sat on the wall surrounding the fuel tanks of the gas station.  Hugh walked by a few times, taking care of the things he needed to attend to, and smiled shaking his head every time he walked by.  A few times he called out, “A little longer.”  It was fine with me, even though I wasn’t quite sure what I was getting myself in to.

Finally, Hugh came up to me and said, “Come on.” (not a man of many words).  He went into the back of the gas station shack and came back with a few apples.  He looked at me and said, “Do exactly what I tell you, nothing more or less or different.”  I nodded, tentative.  He opened the dual gates to Henry’s pen and walked in, telling me to wait behind the gate closest to the pen.  He coaxed Henry out of his cave asking him if he wanted apples.  Henry came out and crawled onto the big rock that Hugh sat on.  Hugh told me to come in and stand next to him; I came in and stood at attention.  He cut a piece of the first apple and gave it to me.  He told me, “Hold it out,” which I did and Henry grabbed it with his muzzle.  Not bad.  Hugh cut the next piece and said, “Put it in your mouth,” which I did, holding out my head.  Henry now nuzzled up to me taking the apple out of my mouth.  Hugh reprimanded me, “Don’t fight him for it…give it to him.”  The next few times Henry took the apple from my mouth getting hold of it and tickling my chin with his tongue.  I swear it was love….ok, at least infatuation.  Hugh was pleased with my behavior and with Henry’s performance and I was thrilled with an experience of a lifetime.  If someone told me when I woke up today that I’d be wrestling a bear lip-to-lip for a piece of apple, well…come on…what would you have said?

There was a bunch of other great things that happened over the course of the day and evening, but after my encounter with Henry, the rest faded into insignificance.  Kind of sounds like love, doesn’t it?

Day 72: Prairie City, OR to Dayville, OR
44.2 Miles, 3,787.7 Miles Cum

The ride today was a continuation of yesterday’s ride along the same road except that today there were no passes.  In fact, the ride was essentially a slow decline over the 44 miles.  When I got into Dayville, it was early enough to consider going further, but the next town was another 40 miles away.  I thought it might be nice to have a rest and catch up on things.  We rented a cottage for the night, but night was still a long way off.   We went to the café at the end of town, the only eating establishment, since I didn’t have my sandwich today.  Over lunch we decided to take a ride to the John Day Fossil Beds Monument; I was only moderately interested, but since we had the time, there was no harm in checking it out.

It turned out the monument was a gem.  The area represents over 35 million years of evolution in the era of the mammal, from 40 million years ago to 5 million years ago.  The various layers of exposed rock can be accurately dated in that time horizon and the different plant and animal fossils found in each layer paint a history of evolution and geological activity in the region.  The six main layers of geological strata total three miles in thickness.  Each layer is readily identifiable and all the interesting rock formations in the area comprise the fossil beds.  There are a number of paleontologists on site studying the findings.  Because of the age of the fossils, the main method of dating is potassium 40, whose half life is 1.26 billion years.  More conventional carbon 14 dating is inappropriate in time scale since the half life of the carbon isotope is only 5.7 thousand years.  I was glad we made the effort to visit.

Paul and I planned to barbeque for dinner since the cottage had both a gas and charcoal grill.  However, after foraging at both the mercantile and the mini mart, we couldn’t find anything non-meat to grill.  We ended up going back to the café for dinner also.

Day 71: Baker City, OR to Prairie City, OR
67.1 Miles, 3,743.5 Miles Cum

After the struggle climbing out of Hell’s Canyon to Baker City, I had a little trepidation setting out this morning.  Although I’ve maintained the ritual of handing Paul my jitters before setting off each day, today I actually had some jitters to give him.  The planned ride was just shy of 70 miles, but included three climbs over three passes.

Even though it was sunny we were still in the desert, the morning was cold.  Within a few miles, the landscape became more forested, which made me feel better.  Somehow, I related better to a wooded environment and realized that the desert doesn’t suit my temperament. 

Paul met me almost 25 miles into the ride, just before I started to climb the first pass.  We stopped at the edge of a field in the National Forest so I can have my sandwich.  If we sat quietly, we were able to hear more and more bird songs, since the open area was a bird sanctuary.  There was a plaque illustrating many of the local and migratory birds, including osprey and eagles.  I thought I saw a pair of osprey before pulling in, and as Paul and I were sitting, the pair soared near us.  When I got on the road again, I saw a nest with white heads poking out and got excited that it was an eagle’s nest.  Then I remembered that eagles don’t grow white feathers until they are mature.  I snapped a photo and as a passed the nest, I looked back and saw the adult osprey’s light colored belly as it watched me go by.  Ok, not an eagle’s nest, but still great sight.  A few miles further was another osprey nest; I didn’t stop or even slow down, but the adult took exception with my presence, circled above me and screeched until I was out of range.  

I got to the top of the first pass (Sumpter Pass), which wasn’t terrible, and had a run down the other side.  The second pass (Tipton Pass) seemed a little steeper and breezier, so it was tougher and I was really glad to reach the top.  The bottom of the second pass ended in Austin Junction, a combination store, restaurant, gas station and probably campsite if you asked nicely.  However, it was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, and today was Tuesday.  The services and facilities were 20 miles further over the third pass (Dixie Pass) in Prairie City.  By the time I started the climb over Dixie Pass the temps were in the 90s.  On my way up, I had a thought for submission to the OR DOT-see below.

The last pass was less steep than the previous two and from the top the view was of the Blue Mountain range on the far side of the golden valley below.  It was a 7 mile run down into Prairie City and as I was gliding toward town, a bug flew into my shirt.  This happens pretty often, especially if I ride the drop handlebars, but this time the bug was a yellow jack and decided to sting its way back out.  All of a sudden, I didn’t have enough hands to brake from 30-ish mph and maintain control and get the biting bug out of my shirt, but I was able to yell each time I was stung.  In the end, I had two or three stings--it was hard to tell with the swelling.

I finished the ride in Prairie City, but we stayed a few miles further in John Day because, like Austin Junction, Prairie City closes down on Monday and Tuesday.

Day Off 16: Baker City, OR

Without a major side trip planned, the day ran through a pretty typical agenda for a day off. 

Day 70: Oxbow, OR to Baker City, OR
70.2 Miles, 3,676.3 Miles Cum

One of the things with dropping into a place like Hell’s Canyon is that at some point you’re going to have to climb out again.  It was a gorgeous start with gentle uphills rising out of the canyon.  Just after the 17 mile point, the climb increased to a 5-8% grade for 5 miles with switchbacks snaking upward into hotter and more arid surroundings.  With the cool, almost autumnal days through Idaho and Montana, the dry heat caught me off guard.  I don’t remember the last time I had sweat pouring off me.  The run down to the other side of the pass brought me into a fertile valley, which is more how I anticipated Oregon to look.  From here I expected for the terrain to get more forested but it was nothing like that. 

It turns out the eastern Oregon is prairie desert.  Coming out of the town of Richland in the valley, the land got parched and scrubby as the temps soared (I guess being in the vicinity of a place called Hell’s Canyon should have tipped me off).  The environment was harsh and desolate, not much here aside from the dusty bluffs and sage. 

It turned into a day of gritting it out in the heat on the hills.  When I got to Richland, after crossing the pass out of Hell’s Canyon, I sat down in the shade behind a mailbox and gave myself a pep talk to keep going.  I had 50 miles to go and got a pang of doubt about whether I would be able to make it.  Paul caught up with me and gave me orange juice and ice; the combination of liquid, sweetness and cold was refreshing enough to make me feel better and to convince me that I can do 50 more miles today.

I can’t remember if I talked about the little mind games that I play while riding.  Talking to other people I’ve cycled with, it seems we all do some version of the same thing, of parsing the trip.  Standing back to look at the big picture, 3 Million Revolutions are parsed into about 75 days, so I might not be confident about tackling 4,000 miles, but I can do 50-55 miles a day for 75 days.  The rationale applies as any given portion of the ride is chopped more and more finely until I am confident that I can do it.  Sometimes the cut is a whole day (yeah, I can do 53 miles).  Other times, especially on a steep climb, the cut is as fine as the next road marker 25 yards ahead (yeah, I can make it 25 yards further).  The key for me is to find the next do-able portion and focus on completing it.  If I can complete it successfully, then I feel I made progress and can focus on the next portion.  Today, my parsing was in 10 mile sections.  So, when I cycled 3.5 miles, I completed an awesome 35% of a 10 mile section, not a measly 5% of the entire ride.  Others parse by pedal strokes, by landmark on the horizon or by rewards for accomplishment (if I make it over this pass, I can have a Big Mac, for example).   

At the end of the day, when all the parsed sections were completed, I climbed close to 5,000 feet, one of the biggest climbing days of the entire trip.  This route was also part of the Oregon Trail and some of the rutted trails taken by the wagon trains are still visible in the scrub.  Now, those people must have been crazy.

In Baker City, Paul secured a room at the Geiser Grand for two nights.  In its heyday in the late 1800s this was the place to stay.  It was renovated in the late 1990s after a long period of disrepair.  Even today, there are echoes of its rich history and checking out the rest of the neighborhood, this still remains the place to stay.

Day 69: Council, ID to Oxbow, OR
62.3 Miles, 3,606.2 Miles Cum

Checking the map this morning, I was surprised to see that the ride ended in Oregon.  I knew I was going into Hell’s Canyon and that I finished on the Snake River, but I did not realize that I finished of the Oregon side of the Snake River.  It hit home that the trip had an end in sight.

Like every morning over the past few weeks, it was cool and sunny.  Coming out of Council the roads were quiet and the pasture lands started to give way to drier scrubby woodland.  The route curved to the south to skirt a mountain, then climbed north gaining around 1,500 feet in elevation in a few miles.  As I pressed up the hills, the scrubby woodland morphed into even drier prairie desert.  The other side of the unnamed pass opened into one of those big landscapes, this time parched gold mountains contrasted against the cloudless blue sky.  Hell’s Canyon lay at the bottom of the hill.  No sedate ride into the valley today…I got down on the drops and let the wheels roll.  I exceeded my seeming terminal velocity speed of 40 mph, but at 42 mph it was not a personal record.

Riding into the canyon, I came upon a spectacular site.  In the valley, surrounded by the desert dry mountains was a reservoir formed by the Brownlee Dam on the Snake River.  The water seemed so out of place against the dry hills.  I continued downward toward the reservoir, riding along the eastern perimeter.  When I past the bottom of the dam, I descended further down the hill onto the Snake River and crossed a bridge into Oregon.  I almost couldn’t believe I reached the final state of the journey, unbelievable but very cool.

The last 12 miles were along the Snake River on the Oregon side.  All the land along both sides of the river is owner and maintained by Idaho Power that operates three hydroelectric plants (that I saw) along the river.  I wonder how they wangled that deal. 

When we got to Oxbow, we found a campsite on the river, one of the nicest and least expensive that we stayed in, also owner by Idaho Power.  The afternoon was hot, dry and clear, as you might expect in the valley of a desert.  There were still Stage 2 fire restrictions, so we couldn’t have a campfire.  In the evening we had dinner, took a walk along the river, crossed the bridge back into Idaho, and watched people fishing.  As with most of our days camping we crawled into our tent at nightfall.

Sometime in the night, I got up to go to the bathroom, which is always a bit of a pain when camping.  I don’t know what time it was, but most of the camp was dark and quiet, except for the odd RV that still had lights on.  On my way back from the facilities, I remembered how clear the evening was and looked up to check out the stars.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  There were zillions of stars; the Milky Way was so clear and obvious; the longer I stood, the more stars came into view.  I walked back closer to our tent and leaned on a split rail fence to enjoy the spectacle.  As I stared up in awe, a shooting star took a full rainbow’s arc across the sky.  By instinct, I reached out my arm as if I could catch the remaining embers.  I closed my eyes and wished for…come on, you didn’t really think I’d tell you what I wished for, did you?  If it comes true, I’ll figure out how to let you know.

When I got back to the tent, I tried to wake Paul.  I told him there were so many stars and it was so beautiful and that he should see it.  He grumbled something that I took to mean no, so I crawled back into my sleeping bag for a peaceful remainder of the night.

Day 68: Riggins, ID to Council, ID
59.3 Miles, 3,543.9 Miles Cum

Coming out of Riggins, I realized that I had a little attitude due to the long climbs, small roads, big trucks and non-existent shoulders.  The road I was taking, Route 95, was the only road through the area which explained the truck traffic.  The rock walls on one side and river on the other limited road expansion possibilities.  The truckers were mostly considerate but there was not much room on the road and I didn’t fancy taking a ride on the front bumper of one of the rigs.  The “Chain Up Area” signs served as a wake up call to my quads, because they signified hills ahead.  It really wasn’t a bad ride, but I was very close to starting to feel sorry for myself (Why?  I’m not sure).  Before I worked myself into a funk, I reached a plateau where the road widened and shoulders reappeared.  The ride eased and the surroundings flattened out into scenic pastures and forests.  There was a little headwind, but without having to worry about getting run off the road, even inadvertently, I decided I could deal with the wind.

I got another terrific lift when I stopped for a break.  My phone rang and I thought it may be one of my friends with whom I was exchanging voice messages.  It turned out to be my good friend Di, who was calling on a whim and happened to reach me.  We talk to each other once in a blue moon and this was the perfect occasion.  She overcame the challenges that were on her plate when we spoke a few months ago.  It inspired me to take my menial challenges—hills, wind, trucks-- in stride.

I had a hell of a headwind on my final run into Council.  I was tossed all over the road, so much so I worried that front tire needed truing.  In Council, we found a motel, a small modest but clean establishment that was the only choice in town.  When we checked into our room, we surprised the snake that was taking refuge in our room and it surprised us.  Paul let him out and I watched to make sure it didn’t slither into my cycling shoes that were airing out on the doorstep.  Once settled in our room, I checked the tire rotation on my bike and there was no problem.

Day 67: Grangeville, ID to Riggins, ID
45.0 Miles, 3,484.5 Miles Cum

The first few miles out of Grangeville were the culmination of a 3,500 foot climb that started past Lowell.  At the top of the unnamed pass, the highway took a steep, winding descent of 2,900 feet over the next 12 miles into White Bird, part of the Nez Perce summer grounds.  There was the potential to race down the hill, but it seemed that all the vehicles were struggling with their speed—you can smell the overheated transmissions working their way uphill and hot brakes controlling their speed downhill-- so I decided to control my speed down the hill in solidarity.  It was a stunning view, so the slow descent gave me an opportunity to revel in the natural splendor.  For today, I’ll bypass the speed induced adrenaline rush.

At White Bird, the road joined the Salmon River.  I continued to slow pedal the route along the river and through the Salmon Canyon mostly because it was so picturesque.  After a modest mileage gain, the ride ended in Riggins, a town of 400 people and 10 whitewater rafting outfits.  We got to Riggins early enough to either go swimming or go out on a river ride for a few hours.  The lady at the front desk of our hotel offered good advice on our various options and we decided to hire a drift boat for a few hours to float down the river.

The appeal of a drift boat (sort of a big row boat) is that we didn’t have to do anything, the guide steered the boat and we just enjoyed the ride.  The ride started in Riggins and rode the river back down, most of which I cycled past on my way into Riggins.  I was surprised at how deceiving the rapids looked from the road.  Because everything was so vast, the size of the rapids got washed out, looking like water going over rocks in a brook.  Once out on the river though, the rapids were anywhere from 1-4 feet high and a lot more exciting that they looked from the shore.  Our guide, Gary, had a degree in Wilderness Management and was a 30 year veteran of riding the river in all sorts of vessels.  He also works with the EMTs and police to do rescue missions on the river.  He quickly proved his skill maneuvering the boat through the first few sets of rapids.

We were in a calm portion approaching another set of rapids and Gary asked if we’d like to swim through the rapids.  I craned my neck to look over the edge of the calm water to check out the churning white water.  Before Paul could spit out “Don’t” I threw off my sunglasses and jumped overboard.  Gary warned to stay to the left and not get tossed onto the rocks on the right (now he chimes in).  It was a short but wild run.  I managed to get my adrenaline rush for the day.  Gary asked if I wanted to get back in the boat or float down a few hundred yards to a sand bar.  I floated down the river, watching the canyon wall rise on each side of the river.  It was very cool and very surreal.

Further down the river, we pulled over to calm waters for a swim.  As we were splashing around, Gary prepared rootbeer floats for us.  I haven’t had a rootbeer float since I was a kid.  It was cool and creamy and fizzy, an incredibly perfect treat.  We finished the floats and rode out the remainder of the rapids, screaming and getting wet as the water spilled over the bow of the boat.  The afternoon turned out way more exciting than the Huck Finn float on the river that we were expecting.

Back at the hotel, we sat out on the patio eating the complementary chocolate chip cookies and watching evening fall on the river as we recapped and laughed over our river adventure.  Yet again, routine has trouble gaining a foothold.

Day 66: Lowell, ID to Grangeville, ID
48.9 Miles, 3,439.5 Miles Cum

Overnight the wind must have changed again because all the smoke blew out of the valley for a sunny, clear morning.  Also, the temperature was more typical of late summer.  The ride continued down the Lochsaw river before turning toward Kooskia and the Nez Perce Reservation.  I was my lowest elevation since Kansas, well below 2,000 feet, and it was evident in the vegetation.  There were more deciduous trees as well as fruit trees and berry plants.  The black berries and currants were ripe and plentiful, apples were blushing red and aspens were already losing their leaves.  It felt more like mid autumn than mid summer.

As I came through the reservation, I started an expected 3,000 foot climb toward my destination at Grangeville.  The 2% grade increased to a 6% grade.  Three miles into the climb, I stopped at a roadside pull off to rest.  I drank most of my liquids and calculated that Paul should be catching up to me soon.  Great timing…I saw Paul coming around the curve.  I waved, but he didn’t see me.  I jumped up from the rock I was sitting on and yelled to him, but he was in his own zone.  It was probably a quarter of a mile from the lead curve to the next switchback behind which Paul disappeared and I had no luck catching his eye.  As I muttered under my breath, I took out my phone to call him and the call went straight into voice mail.  I was miffed (ok, pissed) that he didn’t notice me and that he didn’t have his phone on.  I pulled myself together and got back on the road.  At some point he’d realize that I wasn’t that far up the road.

Around the next curve, there was a flaglady stopping traffic.  Because of the shifts and slides in the road along the winding hills, the road needed to be built up and all the guard rails needed to be replaced.  She asked what I was doing out here and I told her about my ride.  When she asked if I was with a group, I told her only a small group of two, but my husband just blew past me.  She had the same thought I had….he’ll figure it out (and eventually he did).  She also confirmed that it was only another three miles to the top of the hill.

It wasn’t an easy climb, but it also wasn’t a crazy hard climb.  The worst of it was just shy of the apex when a headwind washed over me.  It blew at me constantly for the next four miles over the rolling hills into town.  Between the wind and the climb, I felt that I was riding a little carelessly, finding myself all over the road.  There weren’t many cars, but one or two beeped at me justifiably.  The top of the ascent brought me onto the high plateau which was covered with wheat fields that were about to be or were just harvested.  It was really pretty with the gold fields, blue skies and white cumulus clouds, but I was too focused on getting to town to stop and snap any photos.

Grangeville was a real town with shops, a main street, even a movie theater.  We talked about having a date at the movies tomorrow.  For dinner we went to a place called Ernie’s Steakhouse, a vertically integrated restaurant that got its steaks from cattle raised locally on their own ranch.  Paul said the steak was good, but still did not meet his benchmark for comparison, the rib-eye at Jim’s Steakhouse in Pittsburg, KS.

Day 65: Powell, ID to Lowell, ID
65.9 Miles, 3,390.6 Miles Cum

If yesterday morning was cold, today was really cold.  There was no frost, so it was above freezing, but it couldn’t have been by much.  I started out wearing a fleece pullover on top of my cycling shirt.  Once I got going, I realized it wasn’t enough and wished I had added another layer. 

Chill aside, it was a gorgeous, gorgeous ride down the river.  The road meandered back and forth in a slow descent along the river.  Around the middle of the ride, though, the winds shifted and the smoke and haze from the fires settled into the river valley.  At one point the visibility was so poor, I attached my flashing tail light onto my saddle bag to help make myself more visible to traffic coming up behind me.  The smoke got to my eyes and lungs; I may as well have had a cigar hanging off my lower lip for the day.  I thought of it as more of a distraction rather than a detraction from the ride.

There were no facilities between Powell and Lowell, but at least there were latrines at the trailheads into the Bitterroot Wilderness.  We found out later that due to the fires, the Wilderness area was closed.  Getting into Lowell didn’t exactly bring us into a great metropolis.  A sign at the town entrance stated a population of 24, which was crossed out and adjusted to 23 (I wonder what happened to number 24).  It turned out, though, that Lowell actually had a lot of activity, not due to its size but rather to its location.  It is perched on the convergence of the Lochsaw, Selway and Salmon rivers and is known for whitewater rafting.  The rivers looked placid today because of the summer season and the drought.  However, based on the pictures all over the main lodge, it looked like there were monster rapids in peak season.

We decided to camp for the night.  Due to the fires and drought, there were Stage 2 fire restrictions, meaning no open fires, only stove fires.  That meant that once we were done with dinner, there was no sitting by the campfire.  Since we had nothing else to do, we went to sleep.  Luckily, it got easier to sleep once the sun actually went down.

Day 64: Lolo, WY to Powell, ID
46.2 Miles, 3,324.7 Miles Cum

When we woke up, it was cold.  The temps were down in the high 40s to low 50s, so I waited until about 9 am for it to warm up.  It wasn’t going to be a high mileage day, but like some recent days, there was one big pass, Lolo Pass, to climb.  The pass was only at 5,200 feet, but we were at the lowest elevation since coming into Colorado, at about 3,200, so there was a 2,000 elevation gain in about 27 miles.  After Lolo Pass, Montana would be behind me and I would continue into Idaho, the penultimate state on the westbound Trans America Trail.

This stretch, like much of the rest of Montana, was quiet but not really remote.  There were always enough houses, farms or cars in the area to feel that you someone would be around to bail you out if you really got into trouble.  Heading out onto Route 12 towards Idaho, it was obvious that the terrain changed.  The pine forest got denser and the pines grew straight and very, very tall.  The kaleidoscope turned yet again and the new scene is a dreamlike oversized forest.  I feel as if I rode into the Land of the Giants.

It was an introspective ride, gently winding up the road to Lolo Hot Springs, the only town on the route about 7 miles from the pass.  Out of the Hot Springs, the ascent got less gentle with the last 3 miles constituting a good, sweaty climb.  At the top, there were multiple reasons to be happy: the pass was behind me with a ripping descent in front of me, I entered into Idaho from Montana, and I crossed into the Pacific Time Zone.   

Paul and I stopped into the visitor’s center, which was largely dedicated to the Lewis and Clark expedition.  I signed the visitor’s log and saw that Anna and Sandra were here two days ago.  They must have gritted it out to get this far as quickly as they did.  From there, I flew down a 6 miles descent.  Along the way, I passed a sign that read Winding Road Next 77 Miles, but I was going too fast to stop and snap a photo.  I snaked down the road following the Lochsaw River for 12 miles to the Lochsaw Lodge, where we were going to spend the night.  It was the only facility within 25 miles going back or 66 miles going forward. 

Day 63: Hamilton, MT to Lolo, MT
49.4 Miles, 3,278.6 Miles Cum

Today, I continued the ride through the Bitterroot Valley.  The route veered off the highway onto a parallel side road, but it seemed unusually busy, especially for a Saturday.  About half way through the day’s ride, I found out why.  It was the Annual Stevensville Creamery Festival and Montana State BBQ Contest.  I pulled into town just as the parade was starting.  I worked my way through the crowd and, for parts, joined the parade in order to get across town.  It looked like fun.

One I got through town, the roads got quieter.  I ran into the men from Cleveland, Tom and Charlie.  They had dinner with Laura last night but didn’t see her this morning.  The guys and I will be on the same path for a few days, before they head north to continue on the Lewis and Clark Trail along the Columbia River to Portland.  I will take a parallel southern route across Oregon to end up on the coast about 150 miles south of Portland.  Just for the record, it is incredible and surreal to be talking about the end of the trip.

A few miles before the end of my ride, I came across a restaurant, Café Firenze that Dennis recommended a few days ago.  He actually gave us the phone number, so when I finished for the day, I called the café and made reservations.  It was another really good meal in Montana with a really good accompanying bottle of wine.  The surprisingly good meals in Montana have made up for a lot of mediocre or lousy meals up to now.  John, the owner, talked about his passion for food and wine and was planning to expand the operation to a more formal restaurant and a farmer’s market in addition to the café.  The establishment got a nice write up in a local tour magazine and we asked John to autograph a copy for us so we can say we knew him when.  Considering the overt Italian theme, John admitted that he had never been to Italy.

When we got back from dinner, Paul and I stood in the parking lot of the Days Inn, looking at the smoke from the fires blowing across the sky.  A young Asian woman walked up to us and asked about the bicycles on our car.  She asked if we were cycling across country and I said I was.  She said a friend of hers was doing the same this summer.  He was a lawyer from Washington, DC.  “Tom?!” I asked.  “Yes!” she replied emphatically.  This was too weird.  I told her that if it was the same person, that I met him in Missouri, in the Ozarks, and that we rode together for a day.  I knew he was trying to get to Denver by July 4 to meet some friends.  She got animated and blurted, “Yes, that’s him.”  What are the chances?  I have no idea who she is, why she was in the Days Inn parking lot, how she knew Tom, where she was from or where she was going.  I only asked her name, which was Tammy.

The impact of the fires grew more evident.  Outside, the smoke blew in like storm clouds and made for eerie scenes.  On the TV, mandatory evacuation warnings ran across the screen.  We were not close enough to pack up our bags, grab a fire extinguisher and run, but we were in the viewing area of people that were doing just that.

Day 62: Jackson, MT to Hamilton, MT
85.3 Miles, 3,229.2 Miles Cum

For a small lodge in a tiny hamlet, the Jackson Lodge was hosting 5 cross country cyclists.  A group of three from Colorado were riding supported westbound and stopped here for the night.  They were feeling rough with only 900 miles completed and I think they felt even worse talking to Laura and me and our respective woes at over 3,000 miles. 

Paul had a great idea and asked Laura if she would like for him to take her panniers.  She thought for a few seconds and agreed.  We should have offered earlier.  In any case, it should make her climb over Chief Joseph Pass less painful.

We stopped for a few minutes in Wisdom and ran into the University of Montana cycle team equipped with beautiful, matching Obrea bikes.  Then we moved onto the Big Hole Battlefield site.  The story is that in the 1870s a band of Nez Perce Indians were seeking refuge in Canada from their reservation and set up camp in the Big Hole Valley.  The US Army under Colonel Gibbons attacked the Indian settlement, killing those in the camp, many of whom were women and children.  Although the survivors proceeded North the massacre ultimately led to Chief Joseph’s surrender in order to salvage the remainder of his tribe.  The site is still treated as a burial ground for the Indians killed there.  Underscoring the somber tone of the visit, the winds changed directions and the smoke from the fires in Idaho crept in and obscured the visibility in the valley.  A park ranger confirmed that the Idaho fires were impacting this area, while the Montana fires were impacting the Missoula area.

From there, we headed for the Chief Joseph Pass at over 7,200 feet.  The climbs just don’t go away.  It was a slow, steady climb for all but the last 4 or 5 miles.  The winds, not too favorable on the early part of the ascent, were kind to us near the apex of the pass.  With a few days rest, I felt strong on the climb and like all the passes since Colorado I haven’t had to drop off my second chain ring and, in most cases, haven’t had to drop into the lowest gear on that ring.  Laura was not far behind, but was still feeling the sting of the miles riding fully loaded.

From the top of the pass, we raced down to the Lost Valley visitor center (the same place where the masseuse was a ski instructor) to catch up with Paul.  From there it was a lightning fast 13 miles down into the Bitterroot Valley.  Laura took off like a shot—she rides so much sleeker than I do and generates so much speed.  I tried to keep up but felt like I was being tossed around by the crosswinds that hit on the backside of each curve.  I ran down the 13 miles at 35-40 mph; Laura was faster.  We lost 3,000 feet in elevation on that descent.  I was sweating adrenaline.

In the valley, we were at the lowest elevation since Pueblo, dropping to near 4,000 feet.  There was a stiff headwind that was blowing the smoky haze into our path.  Darby was the original destination for the day, but Paul got a hotel in Hamilton, about 20 miles further, since it was more of a real town.  Laura quit in Darby.  As we dropped her off and returned her panniers, a cyclist rode up and sort of joined us.  He and a friend were from Cleveland and he proceeded to fill us in on their trip in detail.  We half listened and half said our own good byes.  I continued toward Hamilton, but at 85 miles, just a few miles short of the city limit, I decided I fought the headwind long enough and called it a day.  I would pick up from the stopping point tomorrow.

Paul and I found an awesome restaurant, The Spice of Life, that catered to all appetites but was especially amenable to non-carnivores.  I had a super dish of Manila clams, which we have not even seen since NJ.  To attenuate the eating experience, we splashed out on a bottle of Flowers chardonnay, an unexpected find in the middle of Montana, and enjoyed every drop.

Day Off 13 and 14: Jackson, MT

We stayed in Jackson for another two nights.  I realize I exaggerated the population; in fact, it is 38.  For a small town, though, there is a lot of activity in the area.  In the morning, Paul and I soaked in the hot springs and later in the morning I got a massage.  This lady knew what she was doing.  It turns out she is also an instructor at Lost Trail Powder Mountain, down the road.  We talked about my coming out in the winter to track fresh powder together then plan a massage at the end of the day.  I’d be surprised if it actually happened, but I took her card anyway.  It’s a great place-holder for a future adventure.

In the afternoon, Paul and I drove to Missoula to visit our friend David who was there on business.  If you recall, David drove over 500 miles to have dinner with us in Carbondale, IL.  It only seemed appropriate to reciprocate a few of those miles.  David’s friends Dennis and Fleur joined us; Dennis is an ex Washington Post journalist that took a year off to teach journalism at the University of Montana —that was over 8 years ago.  Dennis is also of Indian descent, Osage I think.  (I expect to get a note from David with corrections)  Paul and Fleur developed a simpatico, since they both have to deal with temperamental spouses that act on, rather than just talk about, their hare-brained ideas.  Unfortunately, we only had a few hours together.

The Indian theme remains strong on this part of the journey, since we are amid current reservations and historic sites of Indian decimation.  Jackson is in the Big Hole Valley and near the site of the Big Hole Battlefield, where the Nez Pierce got clobbered by Colonel Gibbons and the US Army--more about that tomorrow.  We have also been following the Lewis and Clark Trail and will continue to pretty much across Idaho.  Interestingly, their guide, Sacajawea, was a Shoshoni woman.  Not only that, as she led Lewis and Clark through this part of the expedition she carried a papoose on her back.  It seems history should more conspicuously celebrate of her contributions to westward expansion.

Getting back to the here-and-now, we have moved close enough to the forest fires burning in Montana and Idaho to see and smell the smoke.  About 4,000 acres in Idaho have been effected; I’m not sure how many in Montana.  The haze was most obvious in the Bitterroot Valley near Missoula, but it followed us back up into the Big Hole Valley.  It was a little unsettling, but I have to admit, the haze from the fires made for an amazing sunset.

The next day, still happy to be resting, we spent most of the day in the springs.  Paul found out that if he sat on the benches outside the hotel, that he was able to scam a wireless internet connection from Sheppard’s Garage across the street.  I did the same.  I got an email from Laura letting me know that she took some time off but should be in Jackson today.  She actually met me on the bench outside the lodge.  It was good to hear her Texas drawl.  We asked her to join us for dinner and it was great to hear about her time off with Perri and her friends in Yellowstone.  Unfortunately, Laura was going through what I went through…hitting the wall and struggling to go on.  When I told her in a note a few days ago that I was going to take a few days off, she replied in a very nice way that she was happy that I was having a hard time.  Remember, I am carrying 50-60 pounds less gear and I still needed a break.  Tomorrow we decided to cycle together over Chief Joseph Pass.   

Day 61: Dillon, MT to Jackson, MT
38.4 Miles, 3,143.9 Miles Cum

After some rain last night, we woke up to see the end of the front moving through, the sharp line of clouds delineated from the clear morning sky.  The Weather Channel forecasted mid90’s as the high for today, but it was such a chilly start that it was hard to believe there would be enough time for the temps to soar.  It wasn’t a long day in terms of miles, but it was going to be a day of climbing.  There were two passes, one at about 6,700 feet and the next at 7,400 feet.  I had a few reasonably flat days, so I was not too worried (anyway, I can’t change terrain and I’m going where the road leads).  At the end of it, I was anticipating a few days off at Jackson’s hot springs—some respite from the cumulative miles that seemed to be catching up with me.  With echoes of Wyoming, today, there were no services between Dillon and Jackson.

I already started the shallower part of the ascent yesterday.  I continued onto the steeper part of the climb and felt good.  It was remote, but lush, a cross between Wyoming and Colorado.  The hills and conifers and occasional birch had the look of bear country.  In the event of a sighting, my plan was to snap some photos and hightail back down the mountain, but I didn’t need to put the plan into action.

At the top of the first pass, I met Paul for a top up of Gatorade.  The air was still, which made the climb a little easier.  Paul thought there may have been a little tailwind picking up.  I had a nice run down into the valley, past streams and fields and cattle, before starting the climb over the next pass.  As I got onto the hill, a stiff head wind kicked in.  The route was steep and I was working harder than I expected, than I wanted.  The wind wasn’t helping but it wasn’t just the wind.  I felt drained.  I stopped a few hundred yards from the top to hydrate and rest a minute.  At the top, I stopped again rather than jumping onto the run down the other side of the pass.  Even after my ritual pbj, I felt empty.  I was wondering whether I was already shutting down a little, since I knew I had a break coming.

The last 15 miles into town were the most difficult downhill miles I rode.  Even though there was a steep descent, the headwind made it difficult to get above 10-12 mph.  On the flat part, I struggle to break double digit mph rate.  The worst part was that the wind droned in my ears continuously for the 90 minutes it took me to get from the top of the pass to Jackson.  There was nowhere to hide and no way to shut it off.

We got to the hotel, which was at one end of town.  The other end of town was 100 feet further.  Jackson posts a population of 58, including me and Paul.  We got a cabin at the hot springs and once inside I lay down on the bed and crashed.  The restaurant was closed for the evening and Paul had the prescience to buy crudite, cheese and wine for dinner.  I woke up, cycling clothes and shoes still on, long enough to eat the meal Paul laid out, then crawled back into bed sans cycling clothes and shoes for a 14 hour nap.

Day 59 and Day 60: Ennis, MT to Sheridan, MT to Dillon, MT
33.9 Miles and 47.4 Miles, 3,105.5 Miles Cum

On our original schedule, these two days were split up so that the first day was 15 miles and the next day was 65 miles.  Even through there was a 15 mile climb out of Ennis, not taking advantage of the drop off the pass seemed silly, so we carved the days up a little more equitably.

I had a pleasant surprise at about 10 miles.  It was a serious climb, longer and steeper than anything in recent days/weeks, but more than approachable at a slow and steady pace.  At 10 miles, I saw Paul’s car and wondered why he wasn’t at the top of the pass.  As I got to him he congratulated me, but I told him to save it for 5 more miles.  Then I looked around….there was nowhere left to climb.  The next 5 miles were a run down to Virginia City.  I screamed down the pass, but I still seem to be struggling to get over 40 mph.  The runs are long, but maybe not steep enough.  Or maybe 40 mph is my personal terminal velocity.  In any case, it was a thrilling drop into the old, preserved gold rush town.

Earlier, Paul and I agreed to stop in Virginia City, having learned it was worth a look.  Per our Sunday morning tradition at home, we stopped into a café and had a big breakfast.  Normally, I don’t like to eat a lot while riding, but, what the hell, I decided to live a little.  The café was quiet and the lady at the counter explained that there was a big festival last night and that it will take longer for the town to wake up.  No issues for us.

After breakfast, we walked around Virginia City.  Apparently it and its twin, Nevada City a mile down the road, are the best authentically preserved gold rush towns in the US.  Walking around, I think it deserved the billing.  Paul and I lingered under the canopied sidewalks and watched the locals and the tourists.  If you asked me to justify it I couldn’t, but I felt some ownership and belonging in town and counted myself closer to the locals than the tourists. 

Once it felt as if our lingering turned to loitering, I pedaled the remaining easy 18 miles to Sheridan.  In was a lovely, clean little town and we stayed in a quaint motel run by an elderly couple.  It seemed to be mostly a residential village, so to make productive use of the rest of the day we went shopping for food/supplies and did laundry.

Montana has an interesting weather pattern.  It’s cold in the morning, 40s or 50s, but by 4 or 5 in the afternoon, it reaches 95 degrees.  Today was no different, sitting outside the coin-op.

As I was sitting outside (I think Paul was enjoying the steamroom environment inside the coin-op), a white pickup truck with a dog in the flatbed backed into the little bit of shade in the parking lot.  Out of the truck jumped a cowboy.  It was 95 degrees and he was wearing jeans, boots, a long sleeve button down shirt and a straw (rather than felt) cowboy hat, likely his concession to the heat.  He appeared young and old at the same time; his face was young, livened by blue eyes and dark hair, but his sun bleached handlebar mustache gave him a weathered look. 
“Howdy, cowboy,” I said, always wanting to say that to a cowboy.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Is it really that obvious, I thought.  “Is it really that obvious?” I said.
“I’ve only been in these parts for 9 months, but…yeah.  Where are you from?”
“New Jersey”
“I knew it!  That is not a Montana accent!” he seemed triumphant.
It turns out he is from Oregon and he works as a... cowboy.  He drives cattle and breaks horses.  He pointed out to the hills when he talked about where he lived.  He said there was not much out there, so he kept a lot of dogs and that he just picked up the pup in the back of his truck today.  I guess even cowboys need to do laundry, so we chatted until he got a phone call.  Paul and I were close to done and waved goodbye while he was still in his truck on the phone.

The rest of the evening was taken up with the mundane things that need to be addressed, no matter where you are. 

The next day was really a continuation of yesterday’s ride.  It was a flat to slight downhill start for 10 miles, followed by a flat portion, for 10-20 miles, followed by a slow incline working its way up to the climbs over some passes tomorrow.  It was a leisurely day freewheeling through the Montana countryside.

Day 58: West Yellowstone, MT to Ennis, MT

71.6 Miles, 3,024.4 Miles Cum

Having walked through West Yellowstone yesterday and cycled through the rest this morning, it seemed not much more than a dormitory town for Yellowstone Park.  There were several hotels on each block, but a dearth of places to eat.  Still, it was a jumping off point into Montana.

It was a terrific induction into the state.  The 70 mile route was mostly downhill with a gentle tailwind.  There were very few cars or houses or people.  The road ran along the Madison River, which looks like a mecca for trout fishing, based on the people tucked into nooks and crannies of the picture-book river, casting their lines.  One more dramatic portion of the ride ran along Earthquake Lake, as the name suggests a lake formed by an earthquake in 1959.  I was feeling so good I wanted to see if I could do the entire 70 miles without stopping.  I came to my senses around Mile 37 or 38; since there were so few facilities along the route, I decided to take advantage of those at a campground.  It was a good thing, because the next facilities weren’t until Ennis.  I didn’t feel too shabby about one stop in 70 miles, either.

Ennis was a cowboy and angler town.  We walked around to check it out.  There was an espresso shop, saloons with terrific dinner menus, a library with a guest-lecture taking place, neat sculptures and loads of real estate shops.  All-in-all a pretty civilized place and we got to enjoy all but the real estate amenities.

I took some time to collect my thoughts on Wyoming.  Thinking back, I couldn’t say enough good things about Colorado.  In some ways I feel the same about Wyoming, but in a different way, for different reasons.  Wyoming is vast, rough, remote and wild.  Whereas Colorado was alpine and majestic, almost feminine in character (with all due respect to CO cowboys and mountain men), Wyoming was windswept and harsh, a place where you had to fend for yourself.  What both states share is immense beauty—one more pretty, one more rugged, but both incredible. 

Aside from rolling into another state, today I also surpassed the 3,000 mile mark.  The accumulated milestones are starting to feel a little snug under my belt.

Day 57: Grant Village, WY (Yellowstone National Park) to West Yellowstone, MT

49.6 Miles, 2952.8 Miles Cum

Yesterday I traveled through the park as a tourist.  Today, I am going through the park as a cyclist.  Because we got to see so much yesterday, I didn’t feel compelled to stop and check things out, at least along the first half of the ride.  Yesterday we drove the western half of the double loop figure eight that makes up the roads through the park, running from Grant Village to Madison Junction, then on to Mammoth Springs.  Today, I cycled to Madison Junction and turned west.  It was 14 miles to the end of the park at the West entrance. 

I met Paul at a stop area and we lingered for a long time.  Although I was riding at a good pace, Paul reminded me that once I completed these 14 miles, Yellowstone would be behind me and I may not want to race it away.

A few miles before the end of the park, I ran into Sandra and Anna, the mother-daughter team riding across country for the American Cancer Society.  I knew they were in the area and it was nice to catch up.  We rode into West Yellowstone together and will likely cross paths for at least the next few days. 

Day 56: Coulter Bay Village, WY (Grand Teton National Park) to Grant Village, WY (Yellowstone National Park)

38.0 Miles, 2,903.2 Miles Cum

It was still raining when we woke up this morning.  The tent-cabin had a canvas overhang, so we sat by the picnic table and Paul made coffee.  I decided I would wait until 10 am for the rain to abate.  After that, I would take off, regardless of the weather.  Fortunately, the rain turned to a drizzle sometime after 9.  Still, the moody mists hung on the mountains for most of the day.  Yesterday, Smokey the Bear signs warned that the fire hazard was severe.  The precipitation hopefully took the risk down.

The ride was short, given my mileage in recent days, and drizzly, but—so what—I was heading into Yellowstone.  Once in the park, the roads were ok, but not great.  The shoulders in this part of the park were better than many in Kansas and than all in Missouri.  The big difference in Yellowstone was that the speed limit was 35 mph, not 65 mph.  Although a few RVs came closer than I preferred, it was nothing scary.  In case you’re wondering, whenever you pass a cyclist, slowing down is probably the best thing you can do.  Slow and wide clearance is best, followed by slow and less clearance.  Fast and wide clearance is not the best, because it’s hard to tell vehicle distance, but you can hear the speed.  The worst is passing fast and close…you are just garnering curses on yourself and your family and you really don’t want that, do you?

Coming through the southern entrance, much of Yellowstone is still scarred from the fire of 1988.  Miraculously, the forest naturally reseeded itself as a result of the fire.  In a generation, there will probably be no signs of the fire.

We got to our campsite and set up tent during a break in the drizzle.  Finally in one of the most beautiful spots in the world I did the only thing I could think of-- I crawled into the tent and slept for a few hours.

We had dinner at one of the Grant Village lodge, since it was too rainy to cook at the campsite.  The restaurant was pretty in a rustic way, but the food was remarkably unextraordinary.  We bought a guide of the park and plotted our course for touring Yellowstone by car on my day off tomorrow.

Day 55: Dubois, WY to Coulter Bay Village, WY (Grand Teton National Park)

52.0 Miles, 2,865.1 Miles Cum

It was another sunny, cool start to the day.  To bad I didn’t take advantage of yesterday evening’s wind, because this morning the wind shifted into a headwind.  Oh well, I can’t control the weather and I can’t change the terrain and I’m going where the road leads, so I settled in and pedaled.  The ride started as a climb that was going to continue to the top of Togwotee Pass at over 9,600 feet.

About 8 miles out of town, back in Wyoming’s wilderness, I came across a young guy with his bicycle turned upside down for repair and his panniers piled up on the side of the road.  I stopped to ask if he needed help.  His chain was broken, but it looked like the bigger issue was that his derailleur was bent and possibly his frame also.  I turned my bike upside down to line up with his, so he could see what it should look like.  As I was comparing bicycles, I looked at his and chuckled.  “Where did you get that?” I asked.  “In a garage sale for $25,” he replied.  It was an old steel frame Raleigh 10 speed.  He introduced himself as Adam and he rode from New York to Lander, WY in 18 days to attend a climbing festival.  He didn’t really have a plan, but was generally heading in the direction of Seattle.  He said he had $50 and wasn’t sure he could afford repairs but was sure he couldn’t afford another bicycle.  I knew I wasn’t going to be much help, so I called Paul, who was still in town shopping and doing whatever it is Paul does, and asked him to stop and help Adam.  When Paul was a few minutes away, I wished Adam well and continued on my route.  Paul later confirmed that the frame looked like it was buckling from the weight, so he took the kid back to Dubois. 

I remembered hearing that there was construction on the pass and that part of the road was out.  An hour out of Dubois, I got to the road works.  I asked the flaglady if it was passable and she said there was essentially no road for 8 miles and once the pavement resumed, it was still 5 miles to the top of the pass.  I was going to catch a ride with the pilot car that paces the traffic through the construction area, but just then Paul caught up, so he was able to ferry me to the other side.  It was tempting to have him ferry me to the top of the pass, but I decided that would be cheesy and I let the thought pass.

It was a harder climb to the top of the pass than I hoped, which made me a little glad that I got an 8 miles freebee.  The view of the bluffs stretching skyward motivated me toward the pass’ summit.  On the other side of the pass, the terrain morphed from desert plains, craggy and rugged, to lush alpine with trees, fields, flowers and streams.  There was another construction stop just over the pass.  The flagman called me over, told me to stay on the right side behind the other vehicles and have the ride of my life.  On the side of the road was a road sign that showed a truck going downhill underneath which read 6% grade next 17 miles.  Yyyeeeaaahhh!

I was greeted by the Tetons on one of the first turns and continued to race toward them for the next 20 miles.  It was a great run.  At the end was another stretch of construction, which I started out on.  Within a few hundred yards, there was no longer any road.  Paul drove by and told me to hop in.  Normally, I’d pass on the opportunity, but this time I hopped in because I it wasn’t possible to cycle through and I guess I was feeling this past week’s miles.  I got another 6 mile gift.

I got back on the road with maybe 15 miles to my destination.  I saw a cyclist on the other side of the road coming toward me.  When she got close, she called out, “Are you Natalie?”  My mind said, “No way!  Are you serious?” but my mouth said, “I am.”  She was Laura’s friend and was coming out to meet her and cycle with her to Jackson.  She heard about me and Paul and invited us to stay with them at a friend’s cabin in Idaho.  I thanked her for the kind invite and told her Laura had our number.  It was another one of the neat little synchronicities of the trip.  What are the chances that as you’re riding your bike through the backcountry 3,000 miles from home that you not only run into someone, but that someone asks for you by name?

Once inside Grand Teton National Park, we found our tent-cabin and went to check out the area.  It was sunny all day, but the clouds started to roll in during the evening.  As we were walking along a lake, an electrical storm blew in, completely obscured the mountains and started dropping hail.  We ducked into the boat house to wait out the storm.  The severe weather moved through quickly, but it clouds looked like they were going to hang around. 

After dinner, we retired to our tent-cabin.  It was a unique lodging, part canvas tent, part log cabin.  It cost only a little more than camping, but we didn’t have to pitch a tent.  The weather was amenable enough for us to sit by a fire until we went to sleep.  For the rest of the night, there was a steady rain, as we understand, the first in this area in over two months.

Day 54: Lander, WY to Dubois, WY

77.8 Miles, 2,813.1 Miles Cum

I was on the road by 7 am to get in miles before the desert heat kicked in.  I was starting the climb toward the top of Togwotee Pass, but I won’t actually reach the pass until tomorrow.  Paul stayed in town until the post office opened, since we had our past month’s mail forwarded to Lander.

About 10 miles into the ride, I entered the Wind River Reservation.  The 2.2 million acres are the ancestral home of the Shoshone Indians and, as a result of a treaty with the US government in the 1860s, also the home of the Arapahoe tribe.  The surroundings were still arid and rugged, but due to irrigation there were also pockets of agriculture, resulting in incongruous landscapes.  More notable were the colors of the rock.  Some stretches were pastel pink, then the next stretch of miles was fiery red, and some were the yellow and purple found on Georgia O’Keefe’s palette.  Some areas were still remote, but more ranches dotted the route and in some places, it looked as if new communities were being built.  By the time I reached Dubois, I gained over 2,000 feet in elevation, but it wasn’t too tough.  A terrific meal and a good night’s sleep yesterday, coupled with the visually stimulating environs today made the nearly 80 miles pass quickly.

Dubois (pronounced DooBOYS, not the French way) is a cowboy town where the buildings on the main street are built of logs or stone with covered wooden walkways that run alongside the storefronts.  Paul and I had dinner at the Cowboy Café at an outside table to enjoy the cooling mountain evening.  The wind blew out of the southeast, which would have made for a great tailwind.  As we were deciding on dessert, Laura walked up the street and joined us.  It’s nice to sort of feel like a local.

Day 53: Jeffrey City, WY to Lander, WY

57.8 Miles, 2,735.3 Miles Cum

We couldn’t get out of Jeffrey City soon enough.  Much as I was glad to be on the road once again, yesterday’s ride took its toll.  Laura had it even worse, both because she carried an additional 50 pounds with her and because she mentally was prepared for 80 miles, not an additional 30 on top.

We struggled through the morning to find our pace.  There was a full on head wind and although I tried to create a draft, Laura said it didn’t help much because I was too small.  We were still in the desert plateau so it was hot, arid and windy.  Yesterday’s rolling hills continued.  There were few towns or facilities, therefore nowhere to stop and rest.    There were signposts that showed the history of this route.  It was shared by four overland trails: the Mormon Trail, the Oregon Trail, the California Trail and the Pony Express.  I can’t imagine what it was like being one of the early pioneers through this area.  I feel like a pioneer today (probably because not a lot has changed in the past 150 years), even though I can bail out into an air conditioned, 4WD SUV at a few miles notice.  The early intrepid travelers either really wanted to get somewhere or really wanted to get away from somewhere, because I don’t think you end up here by accident.  Any similarities to this author are purely coincidental.  

Paul was a godsend to both me and Laura.  At one point, Laura sat down in the shade of the truck, the only shade all day, and asked if she could rest a while.  There was a café a few miles further on and she needed enough energy to get there.  I asked if she wanted a lift to town, but she declined as I expected.  She told me to go on (I did) while Paul waited until she was ok.  Luckily, it was a downhill run to the facilities.

I never found my pace today and struggled my way into town.  In Lander, I stopped at the first stop light.  On my right was a new Best Western.  It looked so inviting that I asked Paul if we could stay there.  We had no other plans, there was vacancy and we got a room.  We had dinner at a place called Cowfish and it was one of the best meals I had on the trip.  I started with ahi tuna followed by a rich, delicious artichoke pesto pasta.  I also split Paul’s southwest spring roll appetizer with him, although I’m still not sure if he appreciated it.  When the server asked if I was done with my pasta, I gave her the heads up that normally I would be done, but today I am going to stay here until I ate every last morsel.  It felt so good to be filled up again.

Catching up on my stats that evening, I saw that I crossed 2 million revolutions.  It sort of snuck up on me.  I was officially in the back third of the trip.

Day 52: Saratoga, WY to Jeffrey City, WY

109.7 Miles, 2,677.5 Miles Cum

It’s becoming more difficult to determine what is routine, since the days have been taking different flavors more regularly.  I can say with certainty that today was on the edge of the bell curve.

I met Laura, as planned and we agreed to ride together at least to Rawlings, 40 miles away.  I was glad to have company for the early part, since about 15 miles were on Route 80, the same interstate that goes across the country to New Jersey.  There aren’t a lot of roads in this part of the state, so cyclists are allowed to use the interstate.  There was a steady stream of trucks, but there was also a wide shoulder on the other side of a rumble strip; it wasn’t terrible, but I was still glad to get off.

When we got to Rawlings, Laura decided to stop in town to eat, rest and go to the bike store.  I was feeling good and if I wanted to put in serious mileage, I had to keep going.  She said she would catch up to us in Lander tomorrow, splitting the miles into two 80 mile days.  As I headed north from Rawlings, the surrounds were changing from high plateau to plateau desert.  The flats gave way to hill and the trees were replaced with scrub brush.  It was dry, hot, craggy, dusty and remote.  There were few cars and fewer signs that anyone lived here.  I passed an occasional group of post boxes, but I could not see any houses to which they belonged.

I thought about how different today was and concluded that everyday was sort like looking through a kaleidoscope; you look through it and see a unique, beautiful image, then the next day you turn the lens and there’s a very different image but equally unique and beautiful. 

There were two towns on the map that were potential stopping points.  When I got the first, Lamont at 75 miles, it was a dump--not a run down or decrepit town, but literally a dump.  There were was a junk yard where the owner let people camp.  We decided to check out the next potential stop at Muddy Gap about 10 miles further.  Muddy Gap didn’t even have a junk yard to camp in.  The next choice was Jeffrey City, which at least posted a population (106).

When the temperature and my mileage was in the mid 90’s, Paul pulled me over and made me get into the car to cool off, eat and drink.  I was in my own little mojo and would have kept plugging away.  I realized once I stopped how hungry and dehydrated I was.  I was glad he strong armed me into stopping.  I needed it.

Closing in on Jeffrey City, I started having the mind bending thoughts that come from too much heat or too many endorphins or too much time on my own.  Looking out onto the cliffs around me, I got the association with Forrest Gump.  Since I started talking about the ride months ago, people drew the parallel to Forrest Gump running across America.  Yeah, I kind of saw the similarity, but today it hit me over the head.  In fact, I realized that in some ways my life has become part Forrest Gump and part The Truman Show.

After 110 miles, I rode into Jeffrey City, but it was abandoned.  There was a dilapidated motel, which I also thought was abandoned, but I saw Paul’s car.  The few rooms were rented long term to miners.  We gathered our thoughts to decide what to do.  Lander, the next town, was 60 miles away.  I had maybe 20 miles left in me, but that wouldn’t get us anywhere.  Paul offered to drive to Lander, but that added 120 miles of driving; it was a fall back option.  There was a small RV park, but it looked like people lived there.  The only spot was an exposed patch of field with no services.  The last option was to pitch a tent behind the Lion’s Club.  It was no different from the RV park, except that it was free.  Paul said Laura called and she was pressing on to Jeffrey City also, since there was no other option. 

There was one functioning building among the ones that were closed and bordered up.  It was a café, bar and townhall.  We went in to clean up, find something to eat and wait for it to cool before pitching our tent.  We found out that Jeffrey City was a ghost town that was abandoned in 1978 when the uranium mines closed.  There were miners in the area deciding whether to reopen operations.  It’s hard to believe it would be possible to attract anyone out here.  The population is currently 56; maybe the 106 included people driving by on census day.

Paul and I ordered food and beer.  I was hungry, but the food was inedible.  Instead, I had two beers to at least sedate me into sleep.  Laura pulled in and we gave her the low-down.  As dusk fell, we set up tents in the picnic shelter of the old, defunct Lion’s Club.  To add to the other-worldly sensation, among the tumbleweeds along the wall of the shelter, there was a newspaper from 1985 and Pepsi cans marking Wyoming’s centennial in 1987.  How did they survive 20 years in a building open to the elements?  I half expected Rod Sterling to step out from behind the wall to join us.

We made it to morning uneventfully and were greeted by the sun and by pronghorn antelope in the fields around the Lion’s Club. 

Day Off 11: Saratoga, WY

When Paul found the Saratoga Inn, it seemed like a good option to spend an extra day.  We did the normal things: big breakfast, laundry, general bike maintenance, but we also got to soak in the mineral springs and in the afternoon I treated myself to a massage.  I like to think that my legs muscles are in pretty good shape, but all it takes is a little kneading to realize how tender they really are.  Still, I completely enjoyed the 60 minutes of indulgence.

My new cycling buddy Laura spent an extra day in Saratoga also.  Her cycling partner, Gene, went his own way, at least for now.  Laura and I agreed to meet tomorrow and at least start the day together.  She was planning to do a 75 mile day and I was considering pushing for over 100.  I wanted to ride at least one century during the trip and I think tomorrow was going to be the day. 

Before wrapping up for today, I wanted to capture some closing thoughts on Colorado.  First, it seems impossible that Colorado is behind me.  It was the part of the ride that I most anticipated and maybe most worried about.  I expected a love-hate experience with the state—consummate beauty countered with grueling difficulty.  But I was surprised…it wasn’t love-hate, it was just love.  From the time the tailwind blew Chopa and me into the state, to successfully sending Chopa off, to Gillian’s house, to viewing the Royal Gorge from the bottom and top, to meeting the mayor of Guffey, to being stunned on the mountain passes, to cheering at the rodeo, to summiting the highest point of the cross country ride, to riding the high plains, to meeting new friends, to maxing my speed to date, to crossing into Wyoming on another tailwind, it was study of superlatives.  I’d like to say that I will retrace my tracks across the state again and again, but in reality, I’m not sure I’ll ever do an encore.  No matter.  Colorado has left a mental souvenir that will last a long, long time.

Paul pulled up, took out our floor pump and helped Gene with the tire.  A few minutes later Laura rode up to us, having backtracked when Gene didn’t catch up to her.  It gets busy out here in the wilderness.  Once Gene was put back together, we continued together toward Walden, our mutual destination for the evening. 

The climb to the pass continued.  Maybe it was the company, maybe it was the gradual slope, but it seemed too easy to cross the 9,600 summit.  We had a fast run downhill, but there is no way I can keep up with the guys riding loaded.  I just don’t have enough weight.  We had essentially a 30 mile downhill run, but it was like an Escher diagram.  We kept running further down and down through the high plateau but were still at 8,500 feet as we pulled into Walden.  The terrain was wide open, surrounded by mountains far on the horizons.  The road was lined with purple flowering sage brush which filled the air with herbal scents. 

Paul and I checked into a flea bitten motel.  Gene and Laura decided to camp in the city park.  Paul and I walked the one block that constituted town and saw our new friends at one of the two eateries.  They asked us to join them, so we did.  It was fun to catch up on the Peyton Place of the Trans Am Trail.  In the evening, when Paul and I were back in our room, an electrical storm blew in.  As we experienced in the past, our dodgy digs were suddenly warm, dry and actually pretty nice.

Because of the cold night, the heat was on all night in our hotel room, which threw me off when I went outside in the morning.  It was freezing, so Paul and I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and waited for the sun to warm the morning.

The first 5 miles was a bike path that ran along side the highway.  There were prairie dogs scurrying everywhere.  Paul thinks they have suicidal tendencies, jumping into oncoming traffic (But then again, this is also the man that somewhere in Missouri told me he had to swerve to avoid hitting a suicidal turtle that jumped out of the grass to motor across the road; I had to stop him and ask, “Are you listening to yourself?”  Still, I’m sort of in agreement about the prairie dogs).  The bike path ended in Alma, a small town at 10,500 feet.  From here, the destination was the top of Hoosier Pass at 11,542 feet.  I passed a sign announcing the summit of the pass was 4 miles ahead.  It was a steady, constant climb to the top.  After yesterday, I was concerned about the traffic, but there were few cars and few tourists on this stretch.  I was surprised and delighted that I was able to make the ascent on my middle chain ring, and not even in the lowest gear.  The difficulty was getting enough air into my lungs; I was taking long breathes which sounded as if I was struggling more than I actually was.  To ease the challenge were more breathtaking views.  I didn’t want to stop along the final climb to the top of the pass, but I couldn’t ride past the views without capturing a few photos.  I knew I reached the top of the pass when I came around a curve and saw Paul with a camera.  We sat on the Hoosier Pass monument for a half hour to revel in the accomplishment and to bask the high altitude induced euphoria.

Just over the pass started a 12 miles screaming downhill.  I didn’t move the pedals for 4 miles.  My speed was moderated by a loaded truck winding down the hill.  A line of cars plodded behind the truck and I lined up among the cars.  It was a fast, fun, twisting run down into Breckenridge. 

We could have continued, but decided to enjoy the town.  We walked around, had cappuccino (what a treat), bought tire tubes and stopped into some of the trendy shops.  I was in Breckenridge 20 years ago when it was a mountain town.  Now it seems like an alpine transplant of Orange County.  We stayed in a ski condo that was modern and comfortable—so different from the past few days.  We were still at 9,600 feet and with the clear skies, the overnight temps dipped to 45 degrees.

This is the most spectacular day I’ve had cycling since yesterday.

The morning was sunny, crystal clear and cold.  Paul never found Monster yesterday, but in typical feline fashion, as I was getting ready to leave, the cat showed up, mousering behind our cabin.  Paul got his photo op with the mayor. 

Out of Guffey, it was a climb to 9,500 feet over Current Creek Pass.  The ride leading to the pass made for a gorgeous alpine morning, but once I got to the top of the pass, the view was jaw-dropping stunning.  I had to stop because I got so choked up.  Coming down onto the plateau, I had this feeling that Nature put this magnificent here millions of years ago, knowing that I’d cycle through here one day.  Maybe I just needed more oxygen.

The plateau rose gradually to 10,000 feet at Fairplay.  Although a gorgeous ride, the road was narrow with no shoulders and there was a bevy of vacationers rushing to get to where ever they were rushing to.  My view is that there is no room for ill will on the road, especially at 10,000 feet with traffic and no shoulders and the occasional swirling wind gust.  However, I’d like to make the following observation about the drivers on this stretch of road on this day: Colorado’s Share the Road campaign isn’t working.  The money would have been better spent giving these drivers remedial courses in Fundamentals of Sharing and How to Find and Use Your Brake Pedal.

The 45 miles from Guffey seemed much further.  Once in Fariplay, we confirmed our room at a historic B&B, but our room would not be ready until 3 pm.  To pass the time, we went to the rodeo on the outskirts of town.  It sounds like a cliché, but it was fun to watch the events, notably calf branding and wild cow milking.  My rodeo enthusiasm waned after that.  Plus, I felt a little silly still dressed in lycra among the sea of denim and leather.

Before dinner, we went to South Park, the restored Wild West town literally at the end of the block.  It was really well done, but to be honest, it didn’t look much different than Guffey looks today.

Taking a step back and squinting to blur the details, the first half of 3 Million Revolutions was much more spectacular, eye-opening, fulfilling and difficult than I expected.  And I loved every minute of it. I can't wait to see what the second half has in store.

Trying to learn our lesson from yesterday, we got up early and set out on the road by 6:30.  Because the road in front of the hotel was not paved, we had to walk the bikes out until we got to the pavement.  Once back on Route 96, we found the road was really quiet, even as the morning wore on.  Based on Sheri’s comments, we concluded that we must have drove into the harvest cross-over day yesterday when many of the guest workers and their equipment were moving on. 

I didn’t realize how close to Colorado we were, but it was such a boost to get there.  It officially marked the mid point of the trip in terms of states (5 down and 5 to go) and miles (2,100 down and 2,100 to go).  As Chopa and I stopped for photos, a convoy of harvest trucks went by, blowing their horns and waving, but we weren’t completely clear why.  Either they were recognizing our cross into Colorado, or they were celebrating their cross into Colorado, or they were just happy that we weren’t on the road while they were driving by.  Whichever case, it was a fun exchange.

Once across the state border, the wind direction shifted from the south to the northeast, giving us a nice tailwind to ease our ride into Eads.  Except for the gradual elevation gain, it was a calm day riding through the vast, empty high plains.  We pulled into Eads and when we got off our bicycles, Chopa gave me a big hug and teared up.  She did a super job, surprising a lot of people including herself.

Paul caught up with us after making a detour to the site of the Sand Creek Massacre, a national monument in the making.  The event is still raises controversy, but the upshot is that a regiment of soldiers, made up mostly of volunteers, ambushed the Indian settlement at Sand Creek slaughtering 160 Cheyenne and Arapaho Indians.  Paul paid his respects at the Sand Creek site in honor of our friend David, of Sioux descent, who told us about the site when he visited us in Illinois.

Chopa wrapped up her tour with 260 miles under her belt.  We drove her to Denver, from where she would fly home tomorrow.  We celebrated the successful segment with a bottle of Chopa’s favorite champagne (Billecarte Salmon Rose that Paul and I purchased in the great wine store in Springfield, MO, in anticipation of this occasion) and dinner at P.F. Chang’s.  Ok, it’s not the most creative choice, but, so what?  Dinner was terrific.  Per chance, we spoke with our friends Andrea and David during dinner; we told them about the visit to Sand Creek while they told us they were returning from visiting David’s family on the reservation in South Dakota.  Interesting confluence.

Day 41: Scott City, KS to Tribune, KS
47.0 Miles, 2043.4 Miles Cum

We all knew that it was going to be hot and that we should leave early, but Paul made us coffee and Chopa and I lingered by the lake to watch the sun rise.  By the time we packed up camp and got back to Scott City, it was after 9 o’clock and already hot with not a cloud in the sky.  As soon as Chopa and I got to the outskirts of town, we were hit by the strong hot crosswind, blowing from the south.  We also unwittingly rode into a hive of activity on the roads.  Unusual for a Saturday, trucks were rushing both east and west.  Their drafts and backdrafts blew perpendicular to the wind, causing a lot of air movement in every direction.  When a truck came toward us, the backdraft felt like a wave crashing on us, first the initial head-on shock followed by turbulent air jarring us in every direction.  Once or twice is unnerving enough, but this went on all morning.  It required concentration and enough forward momentum to maintain balance.  Chopa was struggling with the heat, wind and traffic, not to mention her asthma and freshly healed broken foot.  I was worried that she would be blown over.  We agreed to form a little pace line for strength in numbers.

The surroundings were beautiful—fields of wheat and corn.  Harvesters were working the fields and trucks hauling humungous combines, grain collectors and grain were heading in every direction.  The trucks carrying the equipment were oversized, taking up most of the road.  By the time we got to the half way point in Leoti, I was really concerned about Chopa.  She asked that I hang in with her and I rebuffed that I didn’t want to send her home in a bucket.  I have to work on my encouragement skills, I guess.  To her credit, she was ready to continue, so I was ready for us to continue together.

Out of Leoti, the road narrowed and lost its shoulder.  There was simply not enough room for a harvester-laden truck and two cyclists.  We agreed on a new plan: if anything big barreled up behind us, we jump off the road onto the grass; if anything big came at us, we stay close behind one another and brace ourselves for the turbulence.  The cross wind became secondary to the challenges of the traffic.  The heat was still a factor as the temperature arose to 95 degrees.  We continued slowly toward Tribune, stopped often, but felt safe with our decision.  Paul stayed close, meeting us every three to four miles to give us ice and Gatorade.  Chopa and I went through eight quarts of Gatorade and lots of water.  Tribune was visible on the horizon for miles before we actually reached it.  When we got there, it was searing and dusty with a howling hot wind.

Paul went ahead to check out the Barrel Springs Hunting Club as a place to stay.  Back in Virginia we met cyclists from Oregon who recommended a B&B in Tribune, since there are very few accommodations.  The three rooms in the B&B were booked with a family reunion, but the owner suggested Barrel Springs as another option, which we took.  Sheri, the proprietress, clarified why Chopa and I had such a trying day with the traffic.  The harvest was in full swing and was over 90% completed.  She apologized for any crazy drivers, but they were rushing to wrap up the season.  Sheri explained that in the past ten years, they were only able to cut wheat three times due to lack of rain.  The last time they harvested, her family cut 300 of 1,600 acres.  This year, it was an excellent harvest so everyone was working it hard.  The hotel was more of a dormitory, which until today was full with harvesters; everyone checked out today.  There was a communal room with animal pelts and stuffed fowl, reminding us it was a hunting lodge during the fall and winter.  Sheri prepped two rooms at the end of a long hall for us.  The rooms were simple, clean and comfortable.  We laughed because the rooms reminded us of a hotel in Basel that we stayed in during our vacation a few years ago, except that the rooms today had air conditioning.       

There were only two options for dinner.  We stopped into one, The Trench, that didn’t serve dinner until six.  We had a beer and shot a game of pool to pass the hour, but at 5:30, we decided we weren’t too comfortable with the crowd—mostly local and mostly drunk.  We went to the only other option, the VFW hall.  We brought the average age down by a factor of two but we were able to get beer, a great salad bar and steaks at a price beyond reasonable.  More important, it was comfortable and relaxed, which help sooth our overworked nerves.

We passed into the Mountain Time Zone just before getting to Tribune, and I crossed the half way point for the cross country ride.  It was a treat to have the extra hour of sleep.

The rain cleared and the morning was cool with a light cloud cover that looked like it would burn off as soon as the sun came up in earnest.  We made our way back to our stopping point from Great Bend via an unpaved road.  It seems that the thoroughfares through the fields and prairies are mostly dirt roads that are set up in a large grid (A Ave, B Ave, C Ave, and so on).  A pick up stopped as we pulled over to the intersection of T Ave and Route 183, our starting point.  The man asked if we were lost.  We told him we were cycling and he said his house was on the original Trans Am route some miles back.  The first year 10,000 cyclists rode past and many, he explained, were in pretty bad shape.  It’s not surprising since, regardless of direction, the riders completed about 2,000 miles by this point and in 1976 bicycle technology was not what it is today.  We asked him about the infestation of frogs that we noticed yesterday, and looking around us, were more prevalent today.  He told us that a few weeks ago he was doing a survey for the wildlife department and found more than one toad per square foot.  The influx of toads, not frogs he corrected us, happened every two to ten years when the conditions-- involving a lot of rain-- were right.  Yesterday, Chopa and I were able to avoid the amphibians on the road; today, we squished some and heard them pinging off our tires.  The roads were discolored with puddles of flattened toads.

The traffic picked up compared to yesterday, but there was a good shoulder and the drivers, mostly truckers, were courteous and gave us wide clearance.  It gave Chopa a chance to get used to being on the road with big vehicles.  Ten miles into the ride, we turned left on Kansas Route 96.  From here we had 200 miles due west on 96 until we reached Colorado.

We got to Ness City, a dry, dusty cross road for cattle trucks and oil men.  We had the option of staying in the Derrick Motel or camping in the city park.  We checked out the park, which had the city pool and a baseball field, but no obvious place to pitch a tent.  We chose to stay in the motel tonight and camp tomorrow in a state park.

Chopa and I cleaned up and went to walk around town.  She pointed out two cyclists on a bench at the main intersection in town.  Coming closer, it was my friends Sandra and Anna, the mother-daughter team.  They were hitching a ride to Scott City to catch up with some friends.  Now they met both my sisters.  Later, when Chopa and I picked up Paul and were walking back to town for dinner, we saw that the ladies were getting a ride from a pick up truck.  I hope to catch up with them again further down the trail.

I think this would be a good place to explain my sisters’ names again.  One sister is named Sonia and that’s what we call her, so that’s easy.  Another sister is named Lesia, which is what a lot of people call her, but when she was little, I nicknamed her Chopa (proper Ukrainian pronunciation is TSYOpa), which doesn’t mean anything but it has a connotation of smallness.  The name stuck and a lot of people call her Chopa also.  For me, it would be most natural to address my younger sister by her nickname, so that’s what will appear in the subsequent journal entries.  I guess she can decide how to deal with any repercussion in her professional life.  

With camping, it’s always an early start.  We now keep farmers’ hours, going to sleep and rising with the sun.  It has a certain milk-on-the-chin wholesomeness to it, but it rubs against my natural grain.  Normally, bedtime is just after Jay Leno’s monolog.

From all I heard and read, this was going to be a tough day on a roller coaster of hills with steep inclines both up and down.  The few eastbound riders that I met complained not about the Rockies, but about the Ozarks.  No matter, I was ready.  Just out of Ellington, I met a self supported cycler.  We tag teamed up and down the hills for the early part of the morning.  I am in awe of the self supported riders, since they carry another 50 pounds of gear.  At one point, I got ahead on one of the longer, steep grades.  At the top, I met a recumbent cyclist heading eastbound and we stopped to chat.  He had been on the road since April 26 and is also logging his trip on the web under www.grandpalosthismind.com.  He was one the cyclists caught in the snow storm in Montana, which set him back two days.  As we were talking the guy I was riding with earlier caught up and we spent about half hour filling each other in on what to expect.  Grandpalosthismind asked about dogs (I showed him my whistle) and the hills in the Virginia.  We asked when we hit the plains and how tough were the Rockies.  Grandpa (Steve) suggested a few places to see or stay, including a hotel in Houston, about 40 miles on.  We talked about what brought each of us on the road, then finally wished each other well and moved on.  Each of us is on our own personal journey but we also share a common thread.  Funny, these strangers are kindred spirits that understand a part of me better than anyone else. 

Tom (we spent the morning together, but we never asked each other’s name) and I continued to Eminence.  We talked about why each of us chose to cycle across the US and found that we shared a similar optimistic view of the future.  We got to a portion of the road that was being repaved (as if there weren’t enough challenges today).  The flag man said we can ride on the paved or unpaved side, but the paved side was just laid down two hours ago and was still hot while the unpaved side may have incoming traffic.  We started on the paved side which was like cycling on the sticky side of Scotch tape.  It was worth the risk to take oncoming traffic head on.  We got through the road works with no problem and continued on the roller coaster until we parted ways in town.  Tom went to rest and eat, since he was planning to ride another 50 miles today.  I had another 20 miles in my plan and took off to finish before the temperatures soared.

The rest of the day was a series of climbs that gave me flashbacks of Virginia and Kentucky.  The difference was that in Virginia I approached the hills wondering whether I would make it up, while today, I was never in doubt about my ability.  It was a good feeling and an excellent day.

When Paul and I got back, we thought about going tubing, but the last thing I wanted was more time in the sun.  We pulled our mattresses out of the tent onto the river’s edge and napped in the shade.

In the evening, it was time for another celebration.  I passed another major milestone.  Today, I surpassed 1 Million Revolutions!  Only 2 Million Revolutions to go! 

Day 24: Simpson, IL to Carbondale, IL

42.6 Miles, 1,164.7 Miles Cum

After yesterday’s festivities, we didn’t get as early a start as we should have, so it was already hot and humid as I pulled out of Simpson.  I looked forward to cycling through the Crab Orchard Wildlife Reserve because it was supposed to be scenic and flat and maybe a little cooler, due to its numerous lakes.  Also, Paul decided to join me for a ride through a portion of the Reserve. 

The ride didn’t live up to expectations.  The road to Crab Orchard was undulating with fresh gravel laid on the early miles of the route.  Once in Crab Orchard, there were a few miles of cool flat cruising, but by the time Paul joined me (leaving the car in a lot some miles ahead and biking back to meet me), the terrain started rolling.  The roads never got close enough to the lakes to get the cooling effect and the later part of the ride zig zagged through busy roads, nowhere near the water.  The high temps and humidity added to the discomfort.  The ride was planned to end near our hotel; originally I was going to go 7 or 8 miles further to finish Map 10, but I decided to save it for an early start tomorrow (I swear).

We drove through Carbondale to find a bike store.  There were three within two blocks.  The Bike Surgeon guys were great, replacing my front tire tube on the spot.  A part of the valve broke off two days ago, no longer letting the tire be inflated.  I guess Paul and I could have changed it, but why not take advantage of the pros when they are readily available?  I picked up new shorts and two light weight shirts.  My oldest and favorite shorts had to be retired; they may be ok for a short ride, but they lost too much cushion and stretch.  I found that shorts have to fit tightly, not for fashion but for performance.  Slack=rubbing=chafing=pick up the diaper rash ointment. 

This evening, our friend David drove from Indianapolis to have dinner with us.  To be clear, I would not expect anyone to drive 300 miles (he insists it’s closer) to have dinner, but I’m really glad he did.  David is married to my dear friend Andrea, who was in Florida with their two daughters visiting her family.  David might be a familiar face, since he was a TV reporter for the FOX affiliate in Denver during the Jonbenet Ramsey murder in the late 1990’s.  As the story was breaking, David made appearances on national TV.  Paul and I lived in England at the time, so missed the bragging rights.

We spent our time catching up, then hunched over the US map, reviewing the ride and more importantly, identifying places to possibly meet along the rest of the route.  David, of Sioux heritage, pointed out the site of the Sand Creek Massacre which was right on the Trans Am trail near Eads, CO.  Apparently, Eads also elected a cat as their mayor--covered by reporter David (se correction on Day 46).

We had dinner at a place that billed itself as serving unique ethnic food; it turned out to be Indian food.  It was the easy, enjoyable type of evening that unfolds naturally among friends.  Again I forgot to take our picture at the restaurant, but at least I remembered before David left.  On departing (we couldn’t coerce him to stay overnight), David left a gift, a copy of 1000 Places to See Before You Die inscribed by the author to me and Paul.   A quick flick through the pages confirmed that there are still a lot of places to see.

Day 23: Marion, KY to Simpson, IL

57.1 Miles, 1122.1 Miles Cum

Just when I thought that everyday was starting to be more or less the same, routine took a day off. 

We started early to beat the heat with a short drive from our hotel to my start point.  Along the road, I noticed a sign that read “Trail of Tears.”  Paul asked, “Do you know what that is?”  I guessed, “My ride across Virginia?”  Paul explained that it was the path along which the Cherokee Indians were banished from South Carolina to Oklahoma.  Social injustice was a good topic to ponder once I got underway.

At about 12 miles, we had to take a ferry across the Ohio River into Illinois.  Paul went forward to see about the logistics of the crossing.  When I caught up, I saw Paul at the head of the line along with a few motorcyclists (to avoid confusion: they are bikers, I am a cyclist) and a few cars.  The pavement just ended at the river; it was as if someone removed the bridge.  I weaved though the small crowd to make my way to the front.  As I got there, one of the Hog bikers said, “Didja think we were gonna run you off the road?”  They must have passed me on the road.  “Are you kidding?” I rebuffed, “I love seeing motorcycles.  You guys are the most courteous drivers on the road…you always give wide clearance and sometimes simmer down the traffic.  No, bikers make me feel safe and comfortable.”  She chuckled and I got the nod from her group.

We had a few minutes, so I went to see what was going on under the tarp set up by the roadside.  There was free coffee and water, but I didn’t need any yet.  I saw a sign “Bikes Blessed Here.”  Well, it couldn’t hurt!  I wheeled my bicycle around and suggested that maybe this isn’t the type of bike they were talking about, but can I get it blessed.  The older lady on the other side of the table said any bike is ok.  She came around to me, joined by a man in black jeans, black leather vest with Harley patches, black bandana wrapped around his head and black mirrored glasses.  As we gathered around my bicycle, the woman held out her hand.  I personally subscribe to the fire-and-brimstone God, not the let’s-hold-hands-and-pray Deity, but since I made the approach voluntarily it seemed appropriate to follow the woman’s lead.  I took her hand.  She presided over a brief invocation for the safety of the bicycle, the rider and the ride.    

I chatted with an older biker, who explained that there was a rally on the other side of the river this weekend and 10,000 bikers were expected.  He warned that you want to stay away from that one, all sorts goes on there.  People ride their bikes naked—even women!  I noticed his Christian Bikers Association patch.  He was more supportive of the Little Sturgis Rally two weeks from now in Sturgis, KY, where 40,000 bikers were expected.  He pointed out Cave-in Rock across the river, where Disney filmed Davy Crocket in the 1950’s.  The biker played a bit role in the film. I noticed the ferry was docking, so I thanked the group for the good wishes, left a small donation and went to board the ferry.

Now, the ferry was not much more than a large pontoon.  About a dozen cars and bikes and I rolled on.  I parked my bicycle behind the Harley gang and asked to snap a photo of them.  Afterwards, one of the bikers, with a patch on his leathers identifying him as Bad Ass White Boy (in my younger days, I would have had a crush), came over to ask about my ride.  I filled him in and in return asked about the low down on this rally.  It’s called Hog Rock and is one of many that take place over the summer leading to Big Sturgis in South Dakota in August.  It essentially is a big drinkfest with concerts and comedians entertaining the 10,000-20,000 participants staked out in tents on the 100 acre site.  It sort of made me want to get a Harley to find out more.

We all rode off the ferry wishing each other good luck and a good time.  I pedaled away happy to have been able to straddle the fence between the good-boy and bad-boy bikers.  Within a minute I was greeted by a sign announcing I was in Illinois.  This was also where one of the westbound cyclists that Paul met in Kentucky recommended an alternate route to the Tran American.  It was a good option.  By 9:15 am I was back on the Trans America route having my breakfast break in the river town of Elizabethtown.  Paul and I sat on a bench under an awning outside a bar on the crossroad.  As many people were going into the diner across the street as were going into the bar welcoming the Hog Rockers.  I felt like a goldfish among whales. 

A biker and his woman parked their hog in front of us and as they dismounted, the biker looked at my bicycle and said, “It that yours?”  I quipped, “Yeah, I brought the wrong bike.”  They laughed and the ice was broken.  The biker reminisced about the 2 speed Schwinn his father bought him on which he said he must have rode 100,000 miles.  “I put 1,100 miles on this bike in the past three weeks,” I offered, pointing to my bicycle.  He shook his head, “Shee-it!  And ah though’ ah was tough!”  We talked more, about motorcycles, the rally and my ride before wishing each other good luck.

The roads were full of bikers headed in all directions and the day had a festive, weekend rhythm.  The day ended in a quiet little town, but it was just the end of part one today.  I’d like to say we went back to check out the rally.  Better, we went to meet some of my family for dinner.

One of my cousins in Nashville (I see some readers raising their eyebrows; a branch of my family tree on my mom’s side settled just outside Nashville) was following my journal and contacted me when I mentioned Mammoth Caves, since she had once worked there and we agreed it would be a cool place to hook up.  Of course, I was my flexible self (we can meet on Tuesday at 1 pm or 4 pm—hope you can make it), so it didn’t work out.  We persevered and made plans to meet in Paducah, KY for dinner tonight.  It turned out convenient for Paul and me, since we were only an hour away and amenable for my family since it provided enough incentive to spend some time at the casino river boats in Metropolis before meeting us.  We all made our way to CC Cohen’s, a steakhouse in a historic building that is haunted by the last owner.

The evening slipped by quickly as we caught up on family facts and gossip, shared stories from the ride, and made plans for the next time we’ll get together.  Thanks to my Aunt Carol, Tamara, Nadine, Ron, Tania (good luck with the baby), Chris, Anastasia and Ted for dinner and for a really lovely get together.  Paul and I have been doing well with only each other’s company, but this was just the crowd to liven things up for a night.

I went to sleep thinking that today’s journal entry was going to be long.     

Day 22: Beech Grove, KY to Marion, KY

51.1 Miles, 1,064.9 Miles Cum

Today’s ride followed on from yesterday’s.  A few more hills snuck in, but nothing insidious, and the roads were well maintained with very little traffic.  It seems early to bring them up, the corn fields are impossible to ignore.  I don’t associate Kentucky with corn, but this area is covered with fields at various stages of maturity.  According to the signs posted along the periphery of the fields, the crop is earmarked for crop fuel.

This area also is also home numerous Perdue and Tyson facilities.  If I wasn’t paying attention to the signs along the route identifying the various sites,   I would have realized something was up from the white feathers all along the road.  The final dead giveaway was the trucks loaded with live poultry transporting the chickens to…well, you can guess where they’re being transported.  

The temperature continued to rise as the morning wore on.  The forecasted high was in the mid 90’s with low humidity.  I expected to be done before the heat of the day, but it was already warmer than I hoped.  I met Paul for lunch, hydrated, topped up my water bottles and expected to be good for the last 20 miles.  A few miles up the road, my route turned into a beautifully flat, newly paved and painted stretch of black top.  As I pulled onto it, there was so much hear reflecting from the black surface, it felt like pulling onto a giant griddle.  The 60 ounces of liquid that I carry were gone within 10 miles and I had to call Paul, so that in true support team fashion, he can replenish my supply of fluids.  I sat in the shade of a tree on the roadside until Paul arrived.  I iced my pressure points to cool off and filled my bottles with equal parts of ice and Gatorade.  The cooling off carried me through the rest of the ride, but was hot, but not oppressive.  Hey, it’s mid-June; 90 degrees is fair game.

At our hotel, we jumped in the pool to cool off and I snoozed a good part of the afternoon away on my lounge chair, as the music pumping through my earphones made me oblivious to the outside world.

Day 20: Sonora, KY to Rough River Dam, KY
54.8 Miles, 959.0 Miles Cum

The day started overcast and, although the forecast for sun and clouds, it turned out to be just clouds.  The early part of the day went through mostly flat Amish country.  As I was getting onto my bike in the rural town of Sonora, a horse drawn carriage was coming toward me.  I whipped out my camera and snapped a photo before considering that it was probably culturally insensitive.  

Near the mid point of the day, I met Paul at a country gas station/market/restaurant for my pbj sandwich.  A beat up blue station wagon pulled up.  The man asked if he saw me earlier (he did) and asked if we were going across country.  He spoke very fast with a thick Kentucky accent, so I had to concentrate on what he was saying.  He must stop to talk to cyclists, since he proceeded to fill us in on what the recent through-passers reported.  His young daughter, also a fast talker, told to me pedal real hard downhill so that I can make up the big hill on the other side.  “I really want you to make it,” she pleaded (why?).  A few miles later, I saw what she meant.  I made it, but I can’t say it was pretty.  The big redeeming factor was that at the end of the steep ascent, I crossed into the Central Time Zone.  It is another major milestone, combined with my mileage pushing the 1000 mile mark.  Very cool.

Today was also a day for coming across other cross country cyclists.  I met three heading east bound.  Paul met one of the men at the rest stop and they swapped tips on the route.  The man recommended taking Route 142 after the ferry crossing into Illinois to eliminate hills; it was a tip being shared among the cyclists.  Paul told him about Route 451 in Appalachia to avoid a few miles and a lot of trucks.  There was also a west bound couple on a tandem.  Paul saw them and expected we may meet up since we were on the same path.

As we approached Rough River Dam, our camping destination for the next two days, I started to shake the sluggish feeling I had most of the day.  I only covered 45 miles and told Paul I was going a little further.  I ended up pressing on over 10 hilly miles. I felt good and was happy to have a jump on the next segment.  Paul surprised me with a Klondike bar he bought at the general store where I ended my ride.  It must have been spiked with mood enhancing substances, because it was impossibly good.

Tomorrow we are taking the day off to visit Mammoth Caves.  There is actually an 80 mile cycling loop to the caves.  Much as I liked the chest beating potential for biking 80 miles on my day off, I’m opting for the more humble approach of driving.