Utah? I'm Tah-ler...

July 8, 2007

I woke up feeling existential and tired. After reading Life After God I couldn't say if I felt things differently. But I took a picture of the sunset, believing the one for that particular morning meant something more than any of the others thus far. We left and it basically flattened out completely, but not completely. First, there was passing through by the reservoir and then what looked like an expanse of unnaturally green and perfectly in-place gold which you assume are those amber waves of grain they rave about. In reality, it's all rolling, and cut through by channels and irrigation canals, and somewhere in the distance is a rise, which you assume is the last mountain you'll see for a while, but really it's just an ellipsis before the next series of geological features. The road was a lengthy camel humpback over deep washes and atop these expansive fields. At the water stop we spotted a fan man, someone piloting an enourmous fan strapped to his back attached to a parachute. In the last town before leaving Colorado, we spoke to a man and his wife who raised horses. We missed the town's relay for life by a day, but he was a cyclist and was enthusiastic about what we were doing. I made it a point to stop at the state line, and we did. It was a sign advertising all that Utah had to offer: red rock arches, skijumper from the 2002 winter olympics, and fresh white powder. Nick and Alex climbed the sign and we documented it.

Utah was welcoming, the stretch of highway we were on was tree-lined, like a parkway for at least a part of it, with a view of a single mountain rising in the distance, and the town we were heading towards, looming invitingly ahead. And there was also the road construction. And the truck traffic. I willingly went off-roading to avoid colliding with them. I wish the best of luck to anyone riding that stretch of the Western Express before they finish up construction, it was not fun. The day's ride, like the week of rides before, was a relatively short 60 miles, so we go to the stayover church before services were out. The parishoners were welcoming and one lady offered to let us use her shower. She told us about how the Mormons basically ran the state and were exclusionary to those who weren't. And she railed against the environmental protections that were placed on the public lands around the community, the Clinton administration, and how negatively the media portrays the war on Iraq. And for however much I disagreed with what she said, I still listened with respect. This was really my first taste of exactly how conservative folks in the midsection of this country are. Everything she said was fascinating because it gave me some idea of how people different from me think. The church was starting vacation bible school the next day, so we helped out by blowing up oversized, inflatable sports paraphenalia. It was a good test of lung capacity and the benefits thereto that we had gained since May 25th. I missed my chance to have ice cream by blogging in the church's radio station. Being in that studio made me miss listening to NPR.


I woke up and rode out to this.


I could never climb something like this Utah sign


I gathered that their bible school was sports-themed. These took about ten minutes to inflate

July 7, 2007

July 7, 2007

We left Telluride in the cold, in the shadow of the alpine valley, in the damp mountain altitude. We left behind the cozy storefronts and tourist-speckled streets and started the ultimate climb out of the Rocky mountains, spread out before us to admire for the last time before parts unknown, down the long, sloping expanse of western Colorado. I miss it now and I loved it then, passing by the gates in the road they close shut in the winter because it gets that much snow, and the reflection of the chalet next to the bluest lake near the top of Lizard Head Pass. On the other side, we passed through tiny Rico with it's drive-through coffee shop in a shack with free internet. I shot the breeze with my teammates before heading down the road with Drew and Sehee in tow. We ended up at the library in Dolores for lunch and the routine of staying in touch with the world through the series of tubes. I was excited that the Tour de France had started and jumped to finding results, a habit that I wouldn't kick until it wrapped up near the end of the ride.

The Ponderosa Restaurant in town generously fed us dinner. There Jon met a gentleman who lived in town summers named B.J. Mormon who gladly offered his time to be interviewed for the portraits project. Mr. Mormon, who spends his summers in Dolores, is from Lubbock, Texas and was a Frito-Lay long-haul trucker. He was fortunate to find out early that he had prostate cancer and was able to take care of it without much trouble. His story attested to the quality of care he was able to recieve and the importance of checking on your health regularly. I was glad to have sat in on his interview and hear his story defeating cancer.

The First Baptist Church put us up, and like all the churches we stayed in, there's always interesting reading material. In this case, I read Life After God by Douglas Coupland in one discontinuous stretch. The premise drew me in - what it's like for a generation of people like myself to be raised without religion, something I can relate to. I sat. and read. and helped Mark finish off a gallon of chocolate ice cream. and continued reading, without regard to the fact that I would lose sleep in the matter. Needless to say, I had a spiritual moment, but not necessarily a religious moment, in that the author illustrated how we need God in our life, Substance, something to Fill a Void, I fell asleep feeling cathartic.


The most beautiful morning imaginable involved seeing this.

A return to the blogosphere after a hiatus

Keroauc wrote On the Road on a single roll of paper in what was probably a drug-crazed 33 hours. Reading wikipedia, it was more like 3 weeks.

The least I can hope for is completing something before Thanksgivings break ends. It's not impossible. I did ride 4000 miles from coast to coast.

So let's do this thing called finishing up a reflection of what I did this summer

Hiatus

To the readers of whatlaudelikes:

Unlike Allison, I haven't been able to catch up on blogging, so bear with me while I try to fit updating my whereabouts here in the hectic daily cycle of eat, sleep, and bike. Thank you for your patience!

Laude

(Read Allisonacrossamerica.blogspot.com in the meantime)

In Lieu Of Words, Images

Entering another state and another whole new world of wilderness and people. I realize this picture is out of order in the narrative, but nonetheless it's a nice illustration

Rocky Mountain High, Colorado

After all the excitement of the previous day's celebration, we left an hour later than usual, down a long, gradual slope into a beautiful mountain reservoir surrounded by sheer cliffs, distant rises, and the sight of unfamiliar, young rock formations in the sense that they had only been carved out in the past 12 million years rather than 100 million. We stopped beside the water's edge, which is to say, a 30 foot climb down a cliff that Nick and Mike traversed to go into the lukewarm water above. Above, Andrew spotted mountain goats living on the bare fringe of those brown-reddish cliffs that I could barely make out, but they were up there, doing what goats do. Before long, I left to wind along the reservoir and stop at all the scenic points to take photographs and remember all the vistas that amazed me. And then the water stopped at a tall dam and behind it, a long, deep canyon that you could barely make out from the roadway, which slipped around the mountains in yet another marketing-worthy "S" that tests your downhill handling skills. The bottom was a scary confluence of a rocky stream and a rock wall that shrouded the roadway and gave little in the way of a shoulder. I had a Pop-Tart and courage and rode up along the part of this route that has the worst sight lines and most curves, but reaching the top gave me yet another roller-coaster descent to spin wildly and catch bugs in my teeth. And then I was still going downhill when my front wheel felt sluggish. I had front flatted, something I feared but when it happened, wasn't all that freightening except for the fact that it was a straight shot down rather than a twisted slope that would otherwise cause your wheels to slip out from under you and launch you into a tangent or a guardrail. I took off what I could and waited for the Alex and Keith who were behind and had a frame pump for me to borrow. With everything repaired, we soldiered on at a terrific pace to our lunch stop in another "blink-and-you'll-miss-it" town. I remarked to Anish that this is where we originally planned on stopping, to which he pointed out just how large the town was. And he was right, it was a single gas station / bait shop surrounded by giants bespeckled with shrubs, equal in majesty to a city sky line lit up at night. And so we left on the highway, out of one major "urban center" for yet another one, at least 8000 feet up. At the end of another exciting downhill was the real city of Montrose, the first town since Pueblo whose population exceeds its elevation. Brandt and I found the church on the outskirts of this sprawling burg, among the freshly platted streets and orange traffic cones and took naps on the concrete before Pastor Frank showed up and let us in to the cool air conditioned sanctuary. The team arrived and with my items in hand, I intended to go the aquatic center to swim or at least shower but instead went to the bike shop to buy a new tire to put on my front, which despite being all together, had seen better days over the course of 2500 or so miles. They had Gatorskins at a good price, so I bought one. The wrench there told me that the LeMond I ride is one of the best descending bikes he's ever ridden and I agreed with him. At the library I blogged about my fourth of July, believing it to be more worthy of a quick write-up than try to recreate my days since Eads, but I stopped before giving up and being distracted by a woman watching Linkin Park music videos on one side, either screening them for content for her daughter who was watching the same exact thing on the other side or making some attempt to better connect to her daughter's taste in music. It's been my experience that people on computers spent an excessive amount of time on MySpace or playing whatever games are popular now, leaving cross-country cyclists little time to blog and take care of other things, like informing their parents that they are in fact, alive. The wind had picked up and made the ride back a little slow. And then it picked up some more, blowing our plastic dishes and drying laundry around the playground behind the church while I ate macaroni and hot dog and broccoli and cheese, which was oddly satisfying. Earlier we had learned that the Johns Hopkins 4k for Cancer was in town at the same day we were, and I kept thinking that for every one of us, there has to be at least one or two of the same person on their team, and what their Keith or Anish, or better yet who their Mark would be, because they would want to discuss philosophy and then wrestle each other, and I would not want to miss out. At first, we were going to send over a small delegation of Illini 4000 riders to meet them, consisting of just our team leaders and Sehee, but instead everyone who was present in the church left, giving us a good representitive sample of who we were and more manpower if we would have to fight them. It was like looking into a mirror, the baskets of food stuffed with bags of cereal and bananas, the multitude of bags and sleeping gear spread out across a gym floor, the up-turned bikes resting on one side of the room, and the team car so packed that apparently the axles started bending (fortunately NOT the case with our van). They all have the same model LeMond which were bought wholesale from the manufacturer and which made their heads turn at the sight of Nick and my LeMonds, which despite being older and more steel-er, probably have better components. They also need two vans to haul around 27 peoples' worth of gear. Most notable was Arun's twin-sized inflatable mattress, something that would not fly on our team. I got the impression that we ran a tighter, more disciplined ship with our hour-long get-out-the-door sessions compared to what one of their members said lasted two hours and then some just so everyone can get packed, but they can do that because of their six-plus years of experience, longer-term relationships with hosts, and 4:30 wake-ups. In comparision, the Illini 4000 is the Spartan team to the Hopkins 4k's rich Athenian corps, but in the end, we both conquer a power that is greater than all of us. Alex, Sehee and I spoke to Alice, who had suffered some injury the first week of the Appalachians and had her knee wrapped. None of the riders were compelled to train beforehand and had to raise 3500 dollars which included the team bicycle. And so we all had a good time comparing scrapes and adventures when Michelle broke out some sprinklers to celebrate the the fourth of July a day late - their team collaborates with hosts to do mail drops and recieve packages with friends and family - which in her case included fireworks. I could go on with comparisions, but the only people close to a dopplegaenger were Sehee and their Korean rider who also came from Seoul. It was dark and after a viewing of their presentation and getting a complimentary H4k T-shirt - which was really, really nice, we left in the dark, only illuminated by the head and tail lights of Zach and Alicia's film car. Anish apologized profusely for making us ride in the dark and vowed that we would not do anything as dangerous again. We will not be riding in the desert at night and will have to make do with the early and late hours of sunshine. We will have to get used to getting up early and with all the excitement of the evening and meeting our peers, we begin tommorrow.

Friday we got up early to congregate with the Hopkins team at their church and eat our breakfast there before embarking on a joint ride towards our respective destintations. They took longer to pack and longer to eat, not surprising with a larger team, but had methods to keep together in the morning, like counting off in succession or their team ritual. In the morning they circle up and make the day's announcements before holding hands and making a team dedication. Today, they invited us to join us in their circle and together, the Illini and Hopkins teams made their dedications to family and friends, to the victims and survivors of cancer, to gracious hosts and folks met on the road alike. And then a long moment of silence to reflect, only punctuated with a long clap that increases in tempo before someone shouts "Where are we from???" to which the chorus is "Baltimore!" (or New York!) and "Where are we going???" to which one shouts "San... Francisco (Diego)!" This is repeated in succession until someone says "How do we get there???" and the response, something spirited to lighten to the mood, like "on the back of an elephant!" After that, we grouped together with members of their team and left with the intention that we would ride in groups of 3 to 4 with their groups of 4 to 6. I lost my group and went tandem with one of their riders who was interested in film and poetics and was also reading On the Road like I am. I'm surprised I didn't ask what his name was, but we ended up huffing and puffing up a hill to our first joint water stop a while before reaching the summit. They had a lot of food, more than the basket full that sat on the gym floor, like three baskets full, and enough for everyone to munch on at every water stop. After seeing this, our team made a lot of successful efforts in getting food donated like they do. I left with the gunners, those who don't like to take their time getting places, and it was like cycling with four or five Marks, folks who set a ferocious pace up and down and across and all points in between. I kept up for only so long and climbed up the day's pass, the Dallas Divide, and a paltry 8900 feet, alone and in lower gear. It was the steepest of the ascents we had done yet in Colorado, but it was rewarding to bomb down the other side into a V of a valley of tall pines where both team cars were waiting for us with lunch. It seemed like this was the time of day for tourists and middle aged day-riders alike to come by on their loaded down rigs and their multi-thousand-dollar titanium bikes alike. One couple apparently gave Allison two hundred-dollar bills as a donation for food alone, so this was the perfect place to stop. It was a sight, two teams swarming around their respective caches of food and mingling alike in the cool mountain air. And then the waiting game began as the anticipation of the caboose groups to arrive and eat spawned games of Throw-The-Rock-At-The-Rock. We departed happily down a lazy 30-mile-per-hour slope before they went forward to be concealed behind a rock face and we turned left, up the rapids of the San Miguel river. It was refreshing to ride with other people and above all, see how our compatriots live and work together. It inspired the six of us going up the mountains again to sing "Down by the Bay" and think of words that rhyme with Anish, Dan, Sean, Sehee, Keith, and Jon, which got tiring as the slope winded up through some brialliant red sandstone cliffs and narrowing, harrowing roads. Apparently the state D.O.T. decided to focus their construction efforts on the day we would be going into Telluride, so we waited in a queue, next to large pickups and even larger semis to be waved through one lane, squeezing between a rock and a hard piece of mechanical equipment. I made it out first, playing a game of Get Out Of The Way Of The Truck Baring Down On You Going Uphill And Weave Through Traffic Barriers, something my days of break-neck, white-knuckle fixed gear riding prepared me well for. I stopped at a scenic overlook into the Uncompaghre Forest and collected my teammates to wait for the lane of traffic in our direction to stop so we would have the road to ourselves. It would help, as the traffic was thick, and it helped that there was a null-traffic bike path going into town to avoid the logjam that is highway 143 into Telluride. And what a town it was with its European alpine charm and traffic circles and boutiques and family-friendly ice cream parlors and high-class dining and Victorian architecture and its liberal leanings, all surrounded by towering heights of green on all sides with a waterfall to the east and punctuated by clear-cut ski runs bare in the summertime, except for the skeletons of ski chairs that seem to go for an unusally long distance. The church we stayed at had to have been furnished by Williams and Sonoma or Crate and Barrel, it was cozy and extremely liveable. A couple from Texas who were guests of the pastor made us a spaghetti dinner and to say the least, they put avocado and organic dressing on the salad. I had died and gone to Telluride. Andrew and I wanted ice cream so we wandered the busy pedestrian main street for a hot and noisy ice cream parlor that managed to melt Sandy's ice cream before she paid for it and sent us packing to a grocery for something more timely and cost-effective. I resisted the urge to assuage my long-unsatisfied taste for organic soy milk but ended up buying a pint of Ben and Jerry's which, at a higher calorie density, I hoped would get me up tommorrow's climb. We then went to the gondola station to ride up the mountain. As a form of free public transportation, it had to be the most spectacular and the most terrifying, especially when the car slows to a stop, suspended one hundred or so feet above the ground, swinging back and forth before lurching forward again. At the mountain village I saw a map of the ski slopes and knew they made the slopes I've gone down in Michigan and Wisconsin seem paltry. Andrew said he had never skied before and I told him he wasn't missing much, just like we weren't missing much in the now-summertime ski resort that provides a lot of fresh, cool air, or Objectivists' conferences to celebrate the 50th anniversy of the Fountainhead. We spent little time in the village. At the summit I looked down at the village and it was an amazing sight to see that little resort town nestled in the receding light of the early night. We wandered into the visitor's center of a exclusive resort/restaurant/community and for some reason there was an empty executive desk in the lobby which Andrew sat down at and started asking me "so why do you want to be a part of this club?" I gave the classic Groucho Marx response, that I wouldn't want to be a part of any club that wants me as a member. And then we shook hands and agreed that twenty thousand a year was a reasonable offer. I really wouldn't want to have that high of an altitude lifestyle and am perfectly content with the open road and an expensive collection of road bicycles - for now. After the ride down we went to a Western wear store and tried on hats. I had joked ever since entering cow country that I wanted a Stetson. After seeing the price tag, I realized I should wait a while, or figured I would ruin it by packing it or wearing it while riding. Plus I really just wanted to try one on for size. After getting glared at by the saleswoman, we left into the cool mountain night, satisfied with our adventure through this all-season tourist haven.

Losing the war against Blogger and free public internet access (or) What I did on July 4.

Wednesday we got up an hour early and despite the best efforts to actually get out an hour early, we left at 6:30 or something, which was perfect because there was a fine chill to the air as we started out towards the west, towards our biggest climb yet. I was tired and sluggish from the early wake-up, but the mountain air and the moving bike got me awake real quick. It wasn't bad starting out, I started out 39x19 and figured I would save my gears for when I needed them and tough it out at a good cadence at lower altitude, where I figured I wouldn't be gasping for whatever thin air is at altitude. We were given horror stories about altitude sickness at last Saturday's team meeting, but I did everything to keep my climb from becoming one; I drank plenty of water, I went at a sensible pace and I stayed as alert as possible. It would turn out fine and I got to the top alive. On the way up I was dropped by Mark coming off the foothill, then caught up to Keith and paced him a few miles before I dropped him and Dan where the 6% or so grade and the right-hand climbing lane began. The view was stunning, being up close to those mounds of rock that from a distance, have the most foreboding shade of gray or purple or green or some combination thereof and then looking back to see it fade into the distance. And up I went, a white line down the middle, a precipitous drop or rock face to the right and traffic to the left. I dropped down to 39x21 and stayed there until the top, keeping a steady rhythm in my head by replaying some dance track in my head with a heavy bass beat, the same one that I did a climbing exercise to while spinning back in February. It stuck with me and I knew it would be my climbing anthem. A mile or so from the top, the hot, wet drip of blood fell from my nose, onto my stem, my rain jacket, my handlebars, and on the mountain. There were some mountain bikers literally climbing onto the road with their bikes and I asked them for toilet paper after ruining one of my bandanas. I guess my nose started bleeding because of the altitude. Or the lack of moisture in the air. In any case, it dried me out a bit, but I was soon on my way, passing both Dan and Keith who had gotten a jump on me in the five minutes I stood road-side. And then the road ahead, instead of a rock face or a wall of trees, revealed only the sky above and I knew I was soon at the top. And there I was, at the top of the world. There was a gift shop and an expansive parking lot full of motorcycles and mountain bikers headed every which way. I raised my arms above my head and let out a cry of joy. I had climbed up Monarch Pass, 11,312 feet above sea-level, I had crossed over the continental divide, a line on the map so much less arbitrary than a time zone or a state line, something with tangible geographic, topographic, economic, political, existential, etc. meaning. To the East, the Mississippi, that highway of water I had passed over weeks ago and eventually the Atlantic. To the West, the Pacific and a large body of water that I plan on diving into when I'm close enough. I was the second to the top and watched as everyone trickled in triumphantly, something we collectively had overestimated in difficulty. We stuck around for a hour or two and took it as a massive photo-op and rest shop visit. The mountain may have taken my blood, but I defeated it in the end.

Eventually we had to come down from such great heights and I left with Andrew and Mark. Almost immediately out of the parking lot, you could feel gravity pulling you down. Behind us was a pickup pulling a camper. It wouldn't pass us until well after the grade became less so gracious. I bombed down the mountain, tucked as low as possible above my drops. I only managed 39 miles per hour for only a few moments due to a stiff wind off the mountains, but kept at the posted limits of 30 or 35 around the curves. It was exhilarating to say the least, going so fast for so long on roads they film car commercials on; that much can be said about a lot of the Rockies. Andrew and I had a close call with a truck coming into our lane passing a car in the other lane, but I thought little of it, and reacted quickly enough, I was running that high on adrenaline. When it all flattened out, I kept a good speed all the way into Gunnison after catching up and pacing with Mark. In all, the day's worth of riding was perhaps the most memorable of all my days so far. In town, we gravitated towards the grocery store and the stores of food that would nurture us in ways that a van miles away couldn't. It was a scene repeated in my head and in these days over again, the click of cycling shoes, the lonely, tired wander past aisles of foods that are tempting and delicious and expensive, and a single loaf of wheat bread in hand as I wander back and forth in front of the cold cases, considering which of meat, cheese, and milk to sacrifice and wishing I were a Safeway member. I decided not to get cheese because if it's cheap it's made of fake stuff and if it's more than halfway edible, it won't meet my high calorie-per-dollar requirements. And so I sat down in front of the grocery with my teammates and downed a plastic turkey box worth of sandwiches. And yet, I'm getting by quite well in America. We traversed the streets of historic Gunnison to get to the parish center of the Catholic church and I laid down on a rug and either slept or read cycling mags until being group interviewed by Zach with Andrew and Dan, where we all said heartfelt things and worded them badly because it was meant to be spontaneous. I helped de-bone raw chicken and felt sick. During dinner, everyone smelled something strange and saw that one of the flourescent bulbs were smoking. As a precaution we vacated the building and Jon made an emergency call. And then the sirens of the town task force descended upon our building and it seemed like at least half of the town police and fire ladders came out and blocked off the street. There were fireworks to be seen and the setting sun and the orange-red clouds sufficed, but I still left with Zach and Alicia to the town park to see one of the only fireworks displays I can remember not being in Illinois for. But wherever you are, you can be assured that there are massive crowds and entertainment to be had beforehand. We caught the tail end of a bluegrass band as dusk settled on the scene and as Zach and Alicia spread their Chief Illiniwek blanket on the grass. And then I stood up as a local music student sang the national anthem, and another first as those explosions in the sky lit up as the rocket's red glare was recited and the report reverberated off the moutains in the distance. And then skywards, a beautiful display to highlight one of the most patriotic summers doing one of the most patriotic things you can do and that is see the entire country from up close, in that moment was a microcosm of Being Surrounded By People You'll Never See Again and Experiencing The Same Thing And The Same Feeling At The Same Time. And when all was said and done, I re-encountered my teammates on a walk through historic Gunnison and was renewed by the sense of how I spent the fourth of July.

Winning the uphill battle into Colorado

Friday we left Eads for another short, quick ride through the high plains with little to see and stop by, the exception being tiny Arlington, which comprised of two occupied houses, a Post Office in a barn, and a traveler's outhouse which is frequented by a lot of cyclists going along the TransAm. route. It was a nice outhouse, complete with lights, flowers, reading material, and a guest book that went back a few years. I felt I was adding to history by signing my name and our team info. The lady who lives across the road came out and talked to us, apparently she had resided in that house for the greater part of her life and had helped build the outhouse. I pointed out amazedly a tumbleweed blowing across the road and she showed us an entire yard full of them, as well as a cactus or two. I had anticipated seeing both of those during this leg of the journey and I was overjoyed to finally see the two plants that, in my mind, define the western part of this country. We up and left after my teammates got yelled at for playing a rousing game of "throw the stick at the stick." I wasted no time going the last 20 miles having been told by the lady that the mountains were "just around the bend." I didn't see anything and only strained myself speeding and squinting trying to see something far beyond the horizon. Sugar City was once the home of the National Sugar Company and once a lively town that in its heyday had brothels across the street and next door to the church we stayed at. The factory burned down 30 or more years ago, leaving behind a stone fence and gate and unfortunately lacks the excitement and immorality of its former self. It's now a quiet little burg with an air-conditioned church that I quickly took a nap in. I woke up to see Rory, the Irishman from Wednesday, who joined us for our spaghetti dinner which was provided by some parishoners and was also much appreciated. I drank too much iced tea and had trouble falling asleep that night. Before that, one of the ladies invited us to use her showers and while waiting I saw broadcast television for the first time since standing outside of the Today Show more than a month ago. Bob Saget is now a game show host and the quality of television had not improved much.

Saturday I woke up feeling less than rested, but enjoyed a breakfast of biscuits and gravy that again one of the parishoners had provided. It was the most satisfying, hearty, and filling breakfasts I'll have all trip. Rory and some other cyclists he stayed with the next town over joined us for breakfast and we ended up seeing them in Pueblo. This would be the last time we would see Rory and we wished him the best on his next set of adventuring. The ride was quick and the terrain changed from flat to speckled hills rising out of the Arkansas River valley. As we got into Pueblo I first had a glimpse of the mountains, having not noticed the low and only slightly darker-than-the-sky-around-them rises pop out of the distance until turning my head to the south and west. And as they grew, I remembered back to my childhood when I would imagine that the clouds in the distance somewhat resembled mountains. Within the hours, I knew I would see them up close. Someone flatted behind us, so Sehee, Sandy, and I stopped roadside to wait for them. I tried to take a picture of a praire dog but they were both too scared and quick to come out of their mounds. I threw rocks down their holes and didn't feel bad about it; according to the lady in Arlington, they destroy the soil which tears up the thin grass which is the literal basis of the ecosystem. I got into Pueblo, got lost, regained my bearngs, waited for the van, and rather than assuage my hunger, replaced my rear tire which I discovered in the morning had warped near the valve. By the afternoon it had not only warped but a tear was propagating through the tread; the inner threads were coming out. I had a bone to pick with the Schwalbe corporation for making a tire that lasted me only 700 miles, so I bought a more durable Continental Gatorskin which, to stay in budget, means I can't eat for the next five days. That done, I biked through the town's historic downtown district to get to the library and was impressed so much that I figured we should make the town a rest stop. At the library I finally ate and blogged for two hours and only made it up through Eads, I was that far behind blogging. It's the second Sunday after Pueblo and I'm still not finished. Sheesh.

I carried my full messenger bag back from the library the 20 or so blocks to the episcopal church we stayed at. Pueblo being in a river valley, the ride was uphill and good practice for the days ahead. Also it made me miss my fixed gear even more. Some of the guys on the team bought a guitar and I thought the whole situation was non-sensical given that we had just gotten rid of stuff and still had a packed van, but I kept my mouth shut. As a compromise, the ride leaders made them give up stuff to send home. Zach and Alicia were kind enough to make us a dinner of make-your-own burritos which were delicious and the least they could do for letting us tag along. There were supposed to be fireworks in the evening and I wanted to go, but ended up falling asleep post-dinner and cursed myself for not staying awake. I figure there would be more fireworks to come.

Sunday I didn't have to unpack breakfast with Sandy as per my day's assigned chore, one of the parishoners provided us with juice and fresh fruit and I reveled in having cheerios with whipped cream. Our ride out of Pueblo was complicated by some street closures due to a criterium that was taking place in downtown Pueblo. A few of us felt that Pueblo being a big town and hosting a bike race the same weekend we arrive should be a rest day, but we would get one tommorrow. The ride took us up and out though the city zoo and the sleeping stone and terra-cotta roofed neighborhoods to the west, further towards the majesty of those ever-increasing rises. It started out innocently enough with a lot of rolling terrain and deep washes where once a mighty flow cut through the rock but only now is reduced to a trickle. The shrubs and cattle increased in proportion to the decline of humans, save for the recreational traffic and tiny villages that if you blink, you miss them. I had taken my time and been cautious enough not to overexert myself but managed to do so over the highest, steepest rise yet that would nearly convince me of the difficulty of the day. I stopped too suddenly halfway up and nearly blacked out and probably did momentarily. I walked to the top or at least where it leveled out enough so I could build the momentum to clip in to my pedals without falling over. Jon was riding with me and was worried about my state, and I just continued in silence, telling him I had to save my breath. And then I was surrounded on four sides by steep walls of douglas fir and cedar and whatever other evergreens grow on the side of mountains around 7000 feet. I was plunging right into altitude and was feeling the effects of a misguided breakfast and struggled up something that farther away looked so benign and inviting but up close tells you to slow down a lot. Relief came half-way up the day's peak altitude and I sat down, drunk on mountain air, lightheaded, and containing an appetite just enough to enjoy a peanut butter snack, but not a sandwich. I consumed a lot of water and knew I had to and as such was willing, which was a good sign that I hadn't been completely consumed. And Drew and Zach scrambled up a rock face as I left to find a rhythm that would find me alive at the top of the climb, and it worked. It became manageable, I enjoyed the sights and crested the top of 9200 feet and had a "WOW! Gee Whiz!" kinda moment as the snow-capped sight of the Sangre Christo Range unfolded in front of me and then the road dropped dramatically and winded down at a steady pace, and around a bend, a large mound to the right and an unfolding collection of buildings coming closer to the front. And in those moments, I felt the most elated out of any of the days in that oxygen-starved sense of the feeling. The downhill lead me through the tourist-supported facade of a closed-down silver mine town and brought me right into another sunday-afternoon-in-the-mountains town where we would be staying the next two nights. I stopped at a cafe with Mark, Allison, and Mike and treated myself to a BBQ pork sandwich and milkshake, I needed something filling, not necessarily economical. I settled into the Westcliffe Baptist church outside of town and read Keith's Discover magazines to pass the time. We're on our own for dinners, so I purused the local supermarket for the most nutrionally dense foods for under five dollars and my search came up with a loaf of 99 cent wheat bread, single-serving deli meat and a half-gallon of chocolate milk. Despite my earlier misadventure with half-gallons of milk, I both suffered and enjoyed 64 oz. of the stuff. And then the sun-set time of night rolled around and I wandered into the park with its expansive view of the mountains to the west stretching north and south and to the east, the distance range I saw from up close doing the same. And there I was, in the saddle of a wide, green valley, on a park swing still clutching my jug of milk while Alex read J.D. Salinger out loud. And then the combination of darkness and a day of climbing wrestled with my stomach, itself fighting my taste for milk.

Monday I woke up under a table and decided to go running for the first time in a while. I had promised myself I would run in the mountains, at altitude, just for the experience. I got yelled at for not closing the door quietly and went into the morning, down a dirt road by the park with the sun peaking up in the east, illuminating the mountains in a way that made sense and kept me chugging along. It wasn't a long run and it wasn't a flat run and all the memories of running for years came back to me and all those long ascents up hills that pale in comparision to the landscape I was now looking at and thinking it would be cool to climb. I stopped too quickly and found myself on the ground, looking skyward. I stood up, hunched over and seeing black. I walked back to church and after eating my remaining slices of bread, fell asleep for a few hours. It was an overall satisfying experience. At lunch, wandering the supermarket aisles, mouth agape at all the food I take for granted, I bought enough to make turkey and cheese sandwiches for my afternoon and evening meal. It was back in Kansas when I determined what my budget was that I began recording personal food purchases and their caloric merit, and my meal was consumed by this process. For dinner I would end up buying a gallon of kiwi-strawberry punch, which at 99 cents, had 1760 calories of sugary goodness. Jon told me that was sick in his half-serious way, but I would get approximately 1600% of my daily values of vitamin C, whatever that means. Before our evening team meeting, outside, with a dazzling sunset and series of foreboding cloud formations to distract us and make me forget what the meeting was about, we took liberties to the church library and watched Iron Will, the Disney pic about a boy's struggle against the odds and a dog-sled race, the stuff that helps inspire us on our journey. I hadn't seen that film since fifth grade. That's pretty much how my rest day was spent.

Tuesday morning we left our rest stop for a long stretch of mountain travel, which fortunately was downhill for the first few moments. I vowed to finish my gallon of juice by breakfast, but would end up dangling it off of my handlebars for the first few miles of the day. I hit a pothole at a good pace and it knocked one of my water bottles filled with precious amounts of Gatorade, which spilled onto the road. I would later suffer a lot of bottle malfunctions where the cap would fly off and the liquid inside spill out. I avoided bombing down a particularly steep stretch of road and a rock or something flew into my jersey. At the gas station at the bottom of the grade I felt a biting, itching sensation and opened up my top to unleash a bee, which had stung me six times on the shoulder. Luckily the bites did not swell up like the time a bee flew into my face in high school and caused my left cheek to swell up. We had insect sting relief and a headset wrench to loosen my stiff steerer. And off I went, up U.S. 50, up along the rapids of the Arkansas river, surrounded by high canyon walls and faces of cut-away rock. And somehow, they managed to put a rail line on the other side of the river. The road made some impressive bends on its gradual uphill travesal, the kind that, again, would remind you of car commercials. Before a water stop I was tempted to ride a child's bicycle sitting at the side of the road with a "free" sign in front of it, but it had no pedals or a seat. A lot of folks have been finding souvenirs at the side of the road, and yet I have managed to not pick up a thing up to this point. We spent a few hours at our lunch stop in Salida for various reasons. It's a neat little town, like all the mountain towns we've been in, with its boutiques and historic downtown districts. For me, it was the library, the computers, the stacks of books and magazines about cycling which I read long after the van left. I made my way to the town park, which is situated right in front of the Arkansas and a perfect place for Kayakers to float on top of the cataracts in the river or for a tired cyclist to take a dip. Tufts of white were blowing from the cottowoods along the bank and some of my teammates went to climb the hill embalzoned with a gigantic "S." I went to the bike store with Sehee to look at the bicycle museum there, and all of a sudden a fascination with mountain biking came over me because this part of the world is the place to do it. I then went back to the park to regroup and get people to join me to our destination five miles away, but instead we met a cyclist who graduated from Bowling Green, which we had passed by a month ago, with his father and brother, who it seems has had everything bad happen to him - dehydration, sunburn, black outs, etc, all things to look forward to in the desert. I was hungry and left to yet another mountain town, except this next one was smaller and luckily finding the church was not too difficult. I got to the Christian church of Poncha Springs and sat down to a viewing of Castaway, where Tom Hanks loses 50 pounds and learns to survive in the wilderness. I'd like to think that I haven't lost that much weight but have learned much about survival in that reduced-means sort of way. The young pastor and wife made us hamburgers and they must have been marinated in something, they were tasty. I had about five. They also invited us to their house next door to take showers for the first time since the truck stop in Eads. And through their living room window, casting light onto a stuffed wolf, another stunning mountain sunset putting to end the day and casting light on the next stage of the Rockies.

High Adventure on the High Plains

Last Wednesday (computer access has been just that sparse, that or I missed my oppurtunity to blog on Saturday, but I'll get into that) we finished up our rest day in Girard, KS by taking a dip in the local pool and crashing on a picnic dinner hosted by the Bible church. They were more than happy to feed us and kept the grill fired to satisfy our taste for hotdogs. We mingled with the locals, tossing the pigskin and playing volleyball as the sun went down. We unfortunately missed the en masse tossing of water balloons, but we had already spent our time in the water. The walk back from the park gave us time to appreciate the expansive, painted Kansas sky at dusk and a preview of what it had to reveal to us. Back at the church, we watched Adaptation and I finally appreciate it having seen it for the second time. The movie screening set me back a few hours so I fell asleep on a pew without getting much done.

Thursday we got out of Girard right quick, and by then my warm-up had consisted of 20 minutes of fast spinning to get my legs going and then keeping on from there. It was easy to hit 20 mph, even on the slight uphills, it wasn't draining to keep up momentum. Some people managed to leave gear back at the church, but the group and the van pressed on. Having learned that, it was a good reminder to get things packed, ready, and accounted for before saddling up. I ended up in front with Dan and Brandt and a route detour dumped us onto a busier highway than expected, so I charged ahead for safety's sake. The inclines got longer, but not much steeper, and it became a draining up-and-down affair had it not been for an intermediate stop in Chanute, KS. I fueled up on sugary drinks expecting to have to go immediately after, but I stuck with the van, and we ended up waiting for Nick and Mike who had left stuff at the church and for a reporter who stepped out of the newspaper bureau we had parked in front of. We had a long, friendly chat and he pictures. He also mentioned having family members affected by cancer and a nationally recognized, oversized, mobile colon meant to raise awareness for colon cancer. I knew immediately I would have to check out the Colossal Colon once I got internet. We high-tailed it out of there and the break I was in ended up doing an echelon, which is a quick double paceline in which riders in a faster line fall off into a slower line as soon as their back wheel is in front of the next, slower person's back wheel. It was a rush, so to speak, and got us to lunch only so much quicker than the following group. I had sliced meat for the first time in a while. Sehee got fascinated by an oil derrick, or whatever you call the things that tilt up and down to get oil out of the ground. I gave some passing cyclists a bike salute by lifting Drew's bike above my head and giving a lot of encouragement. As I could tell, they were carrying a lot of stuff on really nice Bianchi touring rigs. As the smaller group I was in continued on, we ended up lost on some gravel roads which is never a plus and after some instructions from a UPS driver, ended up in the right direction. We went through some of the more "forgotten" parts of Kansas, extremely rural, wooded and overall secluded country lanes. And the landscape had still not flattened out like I expected it would. We ended up passing the cyclists I saw at lunch. From what I gathered, they were heading out to Page, Arizona, so they had a ways to go and many a mountain to climb up. Our destination was a state park outside Toronto, KS, but Dan, Drew, Sehee, Brandt and I went to town to fuel up and see the sights, which consisted of a short, wide stretch of Main Street, a smallish grocery, and a charming little cafe run by a diminutive lady. Brandt and Drew satisfied their tea fixes and seeing Dan's chocolate milkshake get made seduced me into getting one of my own. It was a sight to see, four smelly, tanned cyclists sitting at a lace-covered table sipping out of tea cups. We stayed long enough to avoid having to set up camp. We took our time getting to the campsite, and cresting the hill past the unguarded welcome booth, the park below opened up, woods and reservoir and beaches in all. I set my sights on the water and waded in after a necessary change of clothes. The water was muddy and warm, and I only went knee deep before having a change of heart and a badly needed warm shower. Dinner was cooked over a fire pit. We really were "roughing it" for the first time except for the semi-indoor bathroom facilities. Dinner consisted of the now-usual beans and corn meal mush and a treat of boiled brocolli and melted cheese which I had the pleasure of watching simmer over the fire. In between there, the leaders called a team meeting to more or less discuss protocol and ended up in discussions of meta-democracy and the suggestion that we should vote to see if we should vote on things. At that point, they gently reminded us that they would take suggestions and polls into consideration but the ultimate decision would rest with them. That said, I think the discussion should end there as there is not much to be discussed about how things should be run. Gripes now aside, I sauntered down a bank of fallen tree logs and crushed rock to the shore and watched the sunset. As it dipped below the trees, I felt happy and uncomplicated for a few moments and for the first time in 24 hours. I also began to smell like rotted oak from the driftwood I was sitting on. I tried to skip rocks, but unlike the Lake Erie shore, there are no smoothly polished pebbles from thousands of years of the lake lapping at the foot of the land. In the scheme of things, the Army Corps of Engineers had only dammed this lake yesterday and the crushed brick at the shoreline was still just crushed brick. So, in my final attempt to throw a stone across the water, it made a satisfying "ker-plop" and just sunk straight into the water. I walked away not so disappointed. Rather than packing, I inisted on lifeguarding for Alex, who had designs to swim in the lake after dark. There was enough light from the glimmer of the sunset and the moon above, but it was not enough to justify going in safely. Instead she pointed out all the stars which for reasons for optical correction or perception, I just couldn't see. I came to the conclusion that I have bad eyesight, despite the years of eyeglasses and visits to the optometrist. I then fell asleep on Alex's sleeping bag perched on the edge of the slope going into the lake and too tired to get up and lay on my own sleeping bag, fell asleep. I ended up going to the tent I put my things in after scaring Alex into thinking some stranger had fallen asleep atop her things, but it was only me, too exhausted to get up.

Friday we de-tented and got out with a quick start. I was with the lead group for the first 20 miles before our water stop. I filled up and didn't stop until Rosalia, another 20 away. There was no van, there was nothing in town except a closed convenience store with a pop machine and Dan, Mark, and Brandt waiting in front. I popped in three quarters and tried my darndest to get a can, but my first few choices were sold out, in true sparse, rural fashion. I settled on a Sierra Mist and its paltry 150 calories per can and no caffeine. By this time I had run out of on-the-road snacks and normally wouldn't drink anything carbonated, but during this trip alone I've already drank more soda than I have in the past five or so years. It also looked like rain, but it didn't end up that way thankfully. I left my worries in Rosalia and pressed on. The group I was in decided to take advantage of a great tailwind and all of a sudden cranked up to 25 miles per hour, leaving me behind and trying to catch them at a slightly slower pace. By this time, we were also traversing what is known as the "Flint Hills" region of Kansas, which by the standard with which we compare terrain, Pennsylvania, is still pretty flat. I caught them and we arrived in Cassoday, KS, which to our delight had a lunch buffet, and a good one with that. I loaded up on sauerkraut and breaded pork chops among other delights. After an hour of so of gorging, we settled into the city park we would be staying at and after a long nap on the grass and the myriad of biting insects, I took a longer nap in the park gazeebo. Having been thoroughly napped and lost my hunger satisfaction, I tried sitting on the park swings to alleviate my boredom. We lounged around without a clue in the world where the van was. It turned out that the leaders had decided to stop in the town by the first water stop to get things done at the library, buy things in the shop, maybe have a tan by the swimming pool, leaving us oblivious and unsupported for about five hours. All was well when I was able to get out my sleeping pad and laid myself down on inflated surface. For dinner, Nick broke out the camp stove and yeah, we were really roughing it for the first time, no quotes about it. There were not adequate bathroom facilities but a smelly, fly-infested outhouse. The trees were thick and plentiful instead. We ate pasta and passed around the last bits of the noodles and ate one at a time in a contest to see who would eat the last noodle. Instead of deciding a winner, the ride leaders apologized for not informing the group before departing during yet another team meeting. It was worth the wait. We met some college-aged cyclists who were heading east and warned them about Pennsylvania and the Ozarks. They were travelling relatively light and long - they said they would be in Virginia in 11 days, no small feat given it had taken us 31 at that point to get from NYC. I made the decision to camp out in the park Gazeebo with Andrew, Alex, Keith, and Drew, thinking that I would wake up easier with the sunrise. I left my bags inside a tent for good measure. Feeling safe, I fell asleep in the dark to the chattering of my non-tent mates.

At three in the morning Saturday there was some commotion as my non-tent mates all started packing up. There was a foreboding look in the sky and the wind had picked up. I thusly knew I needed to pack. It was a walk of the waking dead back to the tent I had put my things in, and rather blind except for someone's headlamp. I made it to the tent and threw my sleeping things inside just as the drops began to fall and quickly got in, knowing others would follow behind. We had not set up enough tents for everyone, so in come Sehee and Alex with her soaking wet sleeping bag. The drops increased and I curled up in my bag. I woke up tired. Minutes later I would be tired, wet, and indignant having to weather the outside. It was cool, moist and windy and going along the ever-flattening landscape, the sky had that familiar stretch of grey directly above and far beyond, stretching across my view, and somewhere to the south, the black streaks that only mean rain. We would be dry and ended up going through Newton, KS as the sky broke open to reveal another medium-sized Kansas town complete with it's wide boulevards, churches, car-wash fundraisers, charming retailers and those familiar national brands. I was with Mark, Mike, and Allison and we resisted the urge to stop at T-Bell. We sped along to the lunch-stop town and they went ahead and ate inside a diner, and I had my subsidized lunch of peanut butter and jelly and bananas oustide. I buckled down at the sight of cheap cones of ice cream and had strawberry. I also finished their unwanted leftovers. We left into the hot afternoon and I would soon run out of water having expected running through a town with services, but they weren't close enough along the route to bother visiting. I took a quick nap in the shade before seeing everyone congregated together. So we would then enter town in procession. And so we entered Hutchinson, lured by its attractive salt mine and cosmosphere with Omnimax theatre and strips of retailers that could only mean a large town. Our mission was to stop in at the library where Anish would be advertising for the American Cancer Society and trying to collect stories from those affected by cancer. I was a little skeptical about that last part and trying to approach strangers and stick a camera and a recorder in their face rather than through some congregation like we had been doing. I went into the library and instead used the computers. The wait was long and I was given a pager that vibrated when my time was on, so I left after checking my e-mail. I should have blogged then instead of letting the days accumulate like this, it's just that tedious of a process. In the wait to leave for our destination I read yet another book about Lance Armstrong and his cycling and non-cycling achievements, like beating the cancer that had metastacized to his brain and lungs. The church we stayed at was just down the street, so we settled in quickly before hearing reports of a dinner pizza buffet which most people agreed on as appropriate. Everyone headed out, some via bike, some stuffed into the van, but all enjoyed their pizza buffet. I gorged and had four plates and numerous glasses of sweet tea, knowing full well that I would have a long day ahead, despite having miscalculated the route distance when drawing up the route for the group to copy. Instead of packing I watched the Big Lebowski which Mark had rented for others to appreciate. I promptly fell asleep using the Sprint water bottle a representitive thereof had given to me as a pillow. It was rather uncomfortable as a pillow.

Sunday we headed out of Hutchinson and stopped at an exotic animal farm and bed-and-breakfast along the roads to look, fascinated, at their ostriches, which are rather large and dumb animals that will try to eat the food off of your hand even if you have none. It's definately somewhere to stop by the next time I'm in Hutchinson, along with the salt mine and the Cosmosphere. We stopped next in the middle of nowhere, nothing but wheat, fallow stretches, and tiny bullfrogs jumping across the road. The route would be changed due to a road closure and instead of a long stretch of nothing, we would be on a long stretch of something and thusly have more services availiable to us. We took it upon ourselves to stop in a gas station to fuel up and sit around for about an hour. It took a while to get out, leaving us the last to arrive at our lunch stop in Great Bend. I had a few sandwiches and napped. It was a tiring affair to get up and go the last 32 miles with Brandt and Andrew, but it all flattened out in a familiar Kansan style. Nothing was open at our destination and I had a craving for milk. The town was smaller than expected despite the map's indication of full services. Our arrival increased the population by 10% to say the least. I napped. A lot. I ate the familiar beans and corn meal mush and laid down again. I was undernourished and not doing much about it because there was not much to be done. I still managed to get up and pack and got frustrated at the bugs and the general lack of skin unbitten or clean despite the earlier hose shower.

Monday would be better - or worse. A shorter jaunt into the next town that began with a slow procession that I dropped quickly and sped off to meet the next town. And finally the high plains of Kansas with its long stretches of nothing. To put it in Truman Capote's words, "The land is flat, and the views are awesomely extensive; horses, herds of cattle, a white cluster of grain elevators rising as gracefully as Greek temples are visible long before a traveler reaches them." At the penultimate stop 60 or so miles in, I finally had my milk, a half-gallon of whole, vitamin D, bovine growth-hormone induced milk. I drank it over the span of half an hour or so as the others filtered in to do the same, but with more sensible ingredients. I thought it would be a good idea, but it wasn't. To say the least, I suffered a lot of gastrointestinal distress and had to leave the group to go ahead. There was a lot of farm equipment on the road being that it is harvest time, and wheat trucks carry behind them their oversized green John Deere combine harvesters that either honk at you, go around you, or given no choice, will cause you to temporarily become an off-road cyclist. And worse yet, I was on an empty stomach. I made it into Scott City to our destination church, the Holy Cross Lutheran, to be greeted by pastor Warren, who was good natured and humorous. Like the pastor in Girard, he suggested sleeping on a pew, and in the evening, turned on the lighted cross that stood behind the lectern, giving the sanctuary a glow that would either remind me of vegas or the Arcade Fire's Neon Bible motif, but I'm only familiar with the latter. I ended up sleeping in an extra pew in the basement. I still had stomach distress for the next series of hours, but made it to the pool with Keith and Dan where we played H-O-R-S-E with a local kid and met a cyclist named Ken who was biking the TransAm. trail and had started from Astoria, OR. I was impressed by his rig, which was a nice Surly Long Haul Trucker. I've actually been taking photographs of all the loaded rigs I've seen along the way. This is high season for touring, and the number I've encountered has increased noticably. When we got back the pastor had fired up the grill and I would end up eating numerous cheeseburgers despite my stomach. We also encountered another cyclist who sort of wandered into the church and introduced himself as Xiao Yu (sp?). He was following along the same route as the fellow we met in the pool, had even ridden with him for a stretch and would end up leaving in the morning with him too. He's a sophomore at U. Mich. and was by himself, which I was impressed by, and was carrying a mere 70 pounds versus the 110 that Ken had said he trudged up the mountains. That made my supported efforts feel weak, but it's inspired me to do something similar for sure. After dinner we headed to the county hospital where we met a terminal cancer patient, who after her third bout with intestinal cancer and third round of treatment had accepted the fact that it would take her life. It was an emotional moment hearing her story and even more so that she was in good spirits. Mark promised to send her a postcard from the Grand Canyon which she said she had never seen before. I left the hospital with a renewed sense of purpose in what I'm doing this summer. My stomach didn't hurt nearly as bad either. The pastor invited Xiao Yu to stay the night and we were happy to have company. I rather envied the fact he presented, that at Michigan, engineering students don't have to choose a major until sophomore year. We also welcomed back Zach Herrmann who had ridden shotgun our first weekend in May to film his documentary about us. He brought along his girlfriend Alicia who is also his legal-issues advisor, boom mic operator, driver, among other things. The group has become one big, dynamic, constantly-changing family.

Tuesday I woke up to the smell of bacon and sausage links. The pastor had made us pancakes and other delicious breakfast meats for our devourment, it was wonderful and generous and the best hot breakfast I've tasted in what felt like years. We departed into more of the same stretch of familiar plains with decreasing patches of green and more of the sun-burnt yellow that you would associate with western Kansas. At 11 o'clock Central we crossed into 10 o'clock Mountain time at the last county border we would cross in Kansas. I proceeded to do the time zone dance and realize that this system of time is even more arbitrary than state borders which also "just kinda happen." However, we gained back an hour, which shortened our day's trek in a technical sense. So we entered tiny Tribune, in honor of Horace Greeley's eponymous newpaper. Apparently it was Greeley who had coined the phrase "Go West young man! and grow up with the country." This part of Kansas must have loved him for the fact that he lured many into some of the loneliest parts of this country. The first attraction was the town gas station where I met the umpteenth retirement-age cyclist coming from Astoria, and later, two younger folks who biked over Monarch Pass, where we will be heading in days. From there, the county library where I managed to check e-mail, take a nap, and compile grocery numbers for people to call rather than make actual calls due to Nextel having the worst rural coverage out of any cell carriers. And in contrast to their road-level hate of abortion is their love of community swimming pools, a paradise for the sun-drenched cyclist. The showers were freezing but manageable and free. An Australian family was there, Mum and teenaged son on their own bikes and dad and younger son on a tandem. Doing something like this must take a lot of patience, but as they exhibited, it's possible. We ended up in the Presbyterian church in town which despite not having a DVD player, had a ping-pong table on a stage in front of yet another lighted cross, which together made for hours of active enjoyment. I took a walk to the local grocery store with Keith and Drew who were doing research on the cheapest, most nutrtional foods. Since we are on a limited budget, it's up to us to come up with dinner-time meals that are cheap and nutrtional. That or we can feed ourselves or make up for whatever goes over budget. I suggested lentils and rice once and should probably volunteer to cook dinner. As I discoverd, the most cost-effective on-the-bike snack food are store-brand toaster pastries at about 800 calories per dollar, so I bought two boxes and some Gatorade powder which is eminently cheaper than the bottled stuff. I no longer have to starve on the bike or have odd cravings for milk and then suffer the consequences. I figure I can do this every week and stay in budget. Brandt cooked dinner and made brown rice and brocolli soup mush with chicken which was filling, and with a little pepper and salt, surprisingly tasty. Before falling to sleep, I picked up my copy of On The Road for the first time in a while and just read, which was relaxing, equally so as Drew playing a long, forceful piece on the sanctuary piano before playing "Hotel California."

Wednesday we left Kansas, and only a few miles in did the landscape gain that semi-arid look when it changed from wheat and grass to low-lying shrub. Other than that, it still looked like Kansas, but that's the high plains for you. In a town called Sheridan Lake, named for the pond that it sits next to, they finally built a gas station. The gasoline pumps aren't there and the convenience-store goods are in the auto parts store next door, mayonaise and paper towels sitting nicely next to the motor oil, but they finally have a gas station. This is the meaning of desolate. The county it sits in and the county to the west, however, have established the Prairie Horizon Trail corridor along this section of the Trans Am. trail to encourage towns to support passing cyclists, which with the "share the road" signs, I thought was pretty neat. I ended up racing Keith and Drew into Eads and ultimately won. I treated myself to a sensible amount of chocolate milk before heading over to our home for the next two nights, the Kiowa County Fairgrounds building, a bright, sterile warehouse of a building with that smooth beige coating over concrete floor. It had a nice kitchen where we prepared our subsidized peanut butter and jelly. Outside, Zach, Alicia, and Alex were talking to a cyclist others in the group had seen before and we would see again. Rory O'Callahan had to be no more than 35 years old, had come from Ireland, became an Australian citizen, visited 38 countries, biked across the Sahara and some Arctic waste, was a soldier, fought mixed martial arts, had some money saved away for motorsporting, wanted to get into base jumping, got divorced, and was on his way to Oregon, trying to figure out where his new homeland would be within limits of his U.S. visa. And I just sat fascinated at all of his adventures. Yet as much as I want to live a life pursuit, I have to wonder how all of this is financed. In the scheme of things, I probably won't get an adventure until I'm retired. And yet, for folks like this, this is how they make their living. I went to the library knowing I'd have to come back when I could stay for longer than half an hour. Some local churches hosted a potuck dinner at the fairgrounds and we mingled and ate. I spoke to one of the pastors who had survived multiple bypasses as well as a lady who had lived with polio and spoke enthusiastically about all the attractions in town. And then we all stood up and introduced ourselves, team, cameraman, camerman's girlfriend, Rory, and all. The act of sharing a meal and sharing our stories was the least we could do to express our gratitude towards the town. After dinner the older folk went to the pub with Rory, leaving me and others to sort through our things to see what we could leave behind to save our poor van the weight through the mountains. So I don't forget, here's a list of what I left and if I hit myself later, the rationale behind that particular decision:

• black fleece zip-up jacket. It was bulky and took up space in my second bag, which I shouldn't have anyways. I have a rain jacket to keep me warm or failing that layers or my sleeping bag.
  
• brown polo shirt. At all these events I've just been wearing the Illini 4000 t-shirt, so there's no need for appearances.
  
• second saddle. I wasn't using it, and I discovered it's not all that comfortable anyways.
  
• pair of olive drab pants. Heavy, hard to wash, and as I discovered, I packed a pair that wasn't any of those. I only need one pair of pants
  
• brown leather belt. It goes with the pants.
  
• black Malaika run t-shirt. I need only four shirts and the black one goes because, despite its ability to hide stains, is unbearable to wear in the sun.
  
• long tights. I'm told it's not going to get that cold.
  
• two pairs of non-bike socks. I only need one pair.
  
• The copy of Life of Pi Brian lent me. Sorry Brian, but I wasn't finished with On the Road. Plus Jon guilted me out of it, which he's pretty good at.

So I had all my stuff in the world, laid out in a geometric grid, and saw that it wasn't all that much. I sat in a metal chair outside the building watching the lightning in the distance. It didn't come anywhere near us during the night. Except for that one night in Cassoday, the plains had not and would not drop a single drop on our heads.

Thursday was our rest day, and it started with Mark making unlimited chocolate chip pancakes for the price of one dollar which I paid for in leftover change and numerous pennies. I ate more than my share of bacon too, but they made a lot of bacon. Drew, Keith, and I went to the local art gallery across the highway from the fairgrounds and Eads, as it turns out, has a vibrant artists' collective called "the Artists of the Plains." And, as you would imagine, their subject matter revolves around the landscape. One such subject is the Sand Creek Massacre, an event in pioneer history that the U.S. finally lived up to after 143 years. Outside of Eads, the National Park Service erected a monument to the massacre in which a calvary general basically attacked, killed, and mutilated a large number of natives. The general was appropriately disgraced, but the event went unmemorialized until last April, so a lot of the newer works of art depict the Sand Creek and the dedication of the memorial. I had decided it was time to get a hair-cut, so I went at myself with a pair of clippers and cut it down to a 2. I left a stripe of hair down the middle of my head at its original length just to try something different. I was told it looked "nice." It will be very nice to have shorter hair when it gets hotter out. After that debacle I went to the grocery to feed myself and the library to blog. I think I overstayed my visit there, having been told a few times that I would be bumped near the tail end of my three-hour visit despite the fact that no one else besides my teammates were there, also blogging or checking e-mail. It soured my mood, but I was also eating at the computer station, so it wasn't completely unwarranted. So I only got up to halfway through Scott City and had to wait until Pueblo to finish my Thursday blogging and it's Saturday and unlike Eads, these have software time limits. For dinner I ate a lot macaroni and cheese that Alex had made and scoured over the maps and wondered where, and how high I would be going in the next few days. To give you some idea, into the Rockies and up to 11,312 feet. I'll see you there.

yet another picture post! and rest day number four

I'm still trying to figure out where we're going, or how to rotate photos 90 degrees so blogger will make them actually appear to be rotated 90 degrees


Our campsite on the grounds of SIU-Edwardsville at dusk


This is as close as I got to St. Louis immediately east of it. Also my last view of a major urban area (read: population > 100,000) until Pueblo, CO.


Crossing over the Mississippi outside of Chester, IL


A box turtle that wouldn't come out of its shell, so Andrew and I spirited it safely across the road.


The scenic overlook in the Ozarks and the penultimate climb out of the mountains


Ash Grove, MO: Railroad Town USA


James after his last ride before leaving. Because of his departure, he's disqualified from the beard-off leaving just mike, nick, and me


Time Out Pizza in Ash Grove, MO serves up a mean pineapple and canadian bacon pie. The Ash Grovers were very friendly and hospitable.


SeHee was fascinated by the farm equipment


This cow was the first thing we saw in Kansas, it was very mooooving. And I still can't rotate these photos.

Today I woke up in a pew in the Baptist Church, the pastor himself said it was a good place to sleep and it was, except I didn't have a pillow. I pretty much lounged around all day and finished off Mike's book about the Tour de France, about 160 pages of light reading. Breakfast was french toast and eggs and lunch was donated Subway sandwiches. I'm really loving this library, it's only a block away from the church, this computer has iTunes so I'm listening to NPR and everything that Ira Glass and Garrison Keillor has to say. Later we're going to a park to eat hot dogs courtesy of the Bible church. I guess I'm savoring this rest day above all others, we don't get another one until we reach Colorado a week from now, so in the meantime, flat land and endless fields of wheat. And hot dogs.

"On the road again, goin' places that I've never been"

Thursday I woke up and proceeded to suit up for the first time since Sunday, having sipped some cough syrup and popped some non-drowsy no-pseudophedrine nasal decongestant. I also wore my new gel-padded shorts and reveled in their comfort. And so it began. Adam left that day to start his job in the city, so we were down to 16, and Keith would not only have to take him to the train station but also stop by a bike shop in Edwardsville to get everyone's stuff, so we would ride the day unsupported. Through whatever process and convoluted detouring and bridge closures, I ended up in front with Dan and neither of us had directions. And we were in East St. Louis; from my experience, the urban areas immediately east of other major urban areas are always lovely in that dilapidated, run-down and seemingly empty sense of the word. To the west I could eke out a view of the city skyline and its familiar Gateway Arch. It all turned into countryside pretty quickly, which was surprising as we were supposed to be winding along some kind of river. It turns out I was going east and about 10 miles out of the way, so we had to rendezvous on course before we could all proceed. I had done, at that point, 40 miles at the 25 mile mark.

That put me back a ways as we headed along the bluffs that line the the floodplain of the Mississippi. This was an extremely rural area, just tall stalks of corn on one side and a wall of rock and trees on the other for 40 miles. I ran out of water, which was not too great for my congestion and overall fatigue from the morning. So collectively we all suffered until we came upon a feed store/weighing station along the way to fill up. And then we suffered some more until reaching Prarie Du Rocher, IL where I basically gorged myself and downed a pitcher of lemonade. And so it went, eventually up into the bluffs and around some rivers until we reached Chester, IL, the home of Popeye, a mental institution and medium-security prison. I had yet to see the Mississippi River. We stayed in the gym of a Lutheran primary school, which meant more contiguous days with hot showers.

By Friday morning we had Alex back with us and cheerful as ever. It would be a good day to return if you like climbing. Coming down bluffs, the river presented itself and crossing the bridge into the hazy Missouri morning meant crossing into the west, going in the direction of those explorers who crossed the mountains and plains and valleys seeking whatever they sought. I don't think I had seen the river before, but having done so, it stands out in my mind as a milestone on this journey. It means that the only direction we traverse until Colorado is west and up. After a stretch of floodplain we climbed up into the Missouri-side bluffs and a world of hurt. It didn't flatten out like you think it would in Illinois, the hills and the inclines didn't stop. Keith remarked that we had entered Pennsouri, but I like to think of it as Missylvania. Either way, the state is more or less a series of hills. Outside of Farmington, MO a lady gave us tickets for free Taco Bell combos and told us they were redeemable everywhere, but I insisted to everyone that we should find the T-Bell now and read the fine print about it only being valid at one specific location. It would turn out that I was right, so if I ever want a free T-bell combo I have to go back to Farmington. Instead for lunch we ate in a state park and everyone threw rocks in my helmet. On the way to our stop, my legs got tired so I sped ahead, which if you think about it, doesn't make much sense. In Ironton, MO I spotted a deliberately vague Civil War mural painted on a building and I couldn't make out who was firing the cannon and who was being bombarded, the Confederate or Union soldiers. This question would plague me throughout my venture through the state, as well as the larger question of whether or not Missouri could be considered part of the South. At first I considered it "southern" in the way you would think southern Illinois is "south," but the Confederate flags, obsession with Civil War history, the evident antebellum leanings, and the delicious sweet tea were a dead giveaway, that yes, this part of southern Missouri could be considered the South, giving our route that much more geographic variety. We stayed at the First Church of the Nazarene in town and we were hosted not only by the pastor but a group of young locals. I started reading "On the Road" for the first time since I lost my original copy and felt good about it again. I also replaced my saddle having realized that it made no sense to use a harder saddle.

Saturday was the worst yet in terms of challenging climbs as we headed into the heart of the Ozarks and its many winding rivers and national scenic riverways, which are just fancy words for tough uphills and roller-coaster downhills. I hit 45 miles per hour one time and the second time I had a rear-tire go flat on me, and had to ride down on it until I could slow down on a flat. Fortunately it was only a pinhole leak and in my rear tire, but it was my eleventh tube-tire emergency by official count and I was stuck in the middle of scenic nowhere without a frame pump. As it would turn out, however, I was ahead of everyone by a long shot so borrowed Mark's awful pump when they passed by. I managed to get into town underinflated, but nothing ruins your momentum like a flat. I longed for a slushie, something cold and sugary. I ended up at some gas station in Eminence, MO and asked for directions for sixth street, but got directions to US 63 instead, so went along into the other part of town that wasn't full of vacationing mountain folk. It would appear that the town is like the Wisconsin Dells of the Ozarks, with tubing and swimming and canoeing and hunting and fishing and basically everything related to the Jacks Fork and Current Rivers but without hordes of midwesterners or an indoor water park. We stayed in the gym of Eminence High School, which was new as of two years ago and downright suburban if not for the fact that it was in its own building and also contained the cafeteria. We shot some hoops, played with the automatic ball return machine, and after attempting to put quarters into the Coke machine to only see them get spit out again, I had a Yoohoo for the first time in multiple years, which was delicious. I remember eating trail mix and not much else, having napped for a lot of my "free" time.

So I woke up hungry Sunday and did what I could with peanut butter and multiple slices of bread. The last of the dreadful climbs came about and it was worth the scenic overlook we stopped at with the hills far and wide below us and the green of the Missouri softwoods behind a veil of morning haze. It flattened out insomuch as the hills had shallower inclines, but were nearly as long, but merely blips on the overall feeling of the day. I picked myself up with a mountain dew slushie and didn't realize that most of it was injected air as I put it in my water bottle to drink along the ride. At 70 miles I had no water left and stopped at a church along the way to fill up. The folks there were nice enough to not only give me ice but an extra bottle of cold, Sam's choice water. I was grateful to them and for once in my life, Sam Walton for making such delicious water. My delusions ended there, but I recall seeing one incline that winded up and to the left and thinking it looked like the Great Wall of China, and climbing up it, Jerry Lee Lewis started singing "goodness gracious Great Wall of China!" before banging on the piano. I made it to Hartville, MO alive. No one could tell me where the Church of God in town was, not the folks at the gas station from where I bought a gallon of sweet tea that I would ingest over the next few hours, nor the girls at the corner Subway from where I bought two footlongs. I was a hungry fella and had to make up for yesterday's lack of alimentary relief. The manager of the Subway told me a team of cyclists had been through a couple of weeks back and had camped out in front of the courthouse across the street. She also let me use the phone to call ahead to the church, which suprisingly was just behind the courthouse. I know we had trailed along the Johns Hopkins ride back in Ohio, but it would appear that their route through MO is north of ours. It's a comforting thought to think that there are other teams doing similar work for different causes. I could imagine the camraderie or madness that would ensue if two such teams crossed paths and inhabited the same town at the same date. It started raining, so I tiptoed as fast as I could in my cycling shoes to the church. There pastor Lowell greeted us and showed us the church. And then a blur of Subway sandwiches, sweet tea, teammates arriving, a glance at the first in the "Left Behind" series, more grilled cheese sandwiches; I fell dead asleep.

Monday it drizzled. Then it poured. I broke out the rain jacket for the first time and felt cozy but sticky inside from a lack ventilation. It was necessary to keep the legs moving for fear of cooling off or just losing that edgewise momentum, but I made the necessary stops for what little water I consumed and my usual rations of granola bars ever 20 or so miles. At a gas station in a town outside my stop, I found out my rear tire had gone flat, making it number 13 and potentially stranding me. Number 12 was Sunday, when it went flat all of a sudden at a gas station and I patched it up and managed to break one of my Park Tool levers. For this I buckled down and decided I should not only get a slew of new tubes but also a new rear tire. Back at the gas station, Anish showed up and saved me from the inevitable doom of having to wait it out at the gas station, but it started to pour like nothing else so I bought Hostess donettes and 80% of my daily values of saturated fat for a 2000 calorie diet, which is clearly below my required amount. We left and once again, I biked into our destination underinflated. Our stop had been moved closer, to a bigger town. We were originally slated to stay at the extensive city park in Ash Grove, MO, but ended up with accomadations at the First Christian Church. So we showered at the park after I tried to finagle people into racing me arond the 350-meter or so concrete oval in the middle of the park, but it was relatively unsafe for high-speed sprints. Also everyone was clearly tired. After getting settled at the church, we walked over to the local pizza place where the owner had dinner and a long table waiting for us, which was extremely generous and delicious, especially their pinapple and canadian bacon. So, if you're ever in Ash Grove, MO go to Time Out Pizza on Main St. James became the second of our ride leaders to leave the ride, but much unlike Brian, he will return with to us in Pheonix to finish off the adventure he helped to start. I mounted my new tire and hope like crazy that Schwalbe won't fail me until California, it can fall apart on the beach for all I care, I just want it to last. It became apparent to me during lunch when I had a Big Bopper (Cheeseburger and fries with a cherry Coke and other people's onion rings) that I am going to run out of money if I keep spending it like I am. Especially if my equipment keeps breaking and I keep eating out instead of drinking gallons of chocolate milk and calling it a day, I figure I'm going to run broke somewhere in Arizona, when I had previously expected to go broke just before San Diego. So I proposed to spend no more than 3 dollars a day or better yet, spend nothing at all to ensure that I won't have to eat my seat cushion on the airplane back to Chicago.

Today I managed to not spend anything yet, but I still think some chocolate milk would be delicious. Missouri never stopped having a lot of rolling hills until 30 miles to Kansas when it was finally generous enough to flatten out. That and Kansas kind of just happened, no signs, no signals that we were in another state other than changing road signs and newer asphalt and road markings, so we took a photo-op moment in front of a big, fiberglass cow outside of a radio station just over the border. We stopped for lunch in Pittsburg, KS and I napped more than I ate. I'm now in Girard, KS and have been blogging for about 2 and a half hours, it's just that long of a process. I'm hungry and there's a public pool somewhere in town that would be nice to shower at. This is also our fourth rest day stop and first one since Champaign last Monday, so I will probably put up photos tommorrow.

Another picture post!

My sister is a really amazing person.

Everyone, especially Nick is sad that Brian is leaving us

Dan caught this freight train, so we rode it into Springfield