tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67644974252216890692024-03-13T11:32:13.992-05:00Transam Shazama bike ride across the statesThe Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-46853797148088656152010-08-29T00:07:00.003-05:002010-08-29T00:12:03.946-05:00The Third Coast<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/THnr-sZ5T7I/AAAAAAAAByM/FIjjZ9zWPZg/s1600/old+mich+map2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 174px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/THnr-sZ5T7I/AAAAAAAAByM/FIjjZ9zWPZg/s400/old+mich+map2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510695081368702898" /></a><br />I am currently riding around Lake Michigan and blogging the trip on <a href="http://www.thethirdcoasttour.blogspot.com">The Third Coast Tour</a>.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-37397682979561520982008-08-13T17:04:00.020-05:002008-08-14T18:04:02.123-05:00Epilogue<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SKPANqCYiVI/AAAAAAAAAho/SscYYpTMA5g/s1600-h/Madison+Valley+Panoramic.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SKPANqCYiVI/AAAAAAAAAho/SscYYpTMA5g/s400/Madison+Valley+Panoramic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234238532789766482" /></a><br />I reached Astoria over two weeks ago and I've been back in Chicago for a week and a half. But time is deceptive. It passes differently now that I've ended my journey. My seventy-five days on the Transamerica Trail may well have been a year; the past few weeks but a few days. This is one of the many things that I'm readjusting to now that I'm back home.<br /><br />It's hard to sum up the ride without resorting to a string of tired superlatives. It was simply the best thing I've ever done. The adventure, the challenge, the people, the scenery, and a significant amount of good fortune combined to provide an experience that I will remember fondly for the rest of my life. I won't say that it was a once in a lifetime experience, as I would certainly consider pedaling across the country again on a different route.<br /><br />After the details and colors of each state's beauty have faded from my mind, what will remain are memories of my time spent with people from across the country. Often my encounters with these strangers, almost all of whom I'll never see again, were short, but their conversation and hospitality defined my journey as much as the roads and terrain that I travelled.<br /><br />A story from my last day provides a perfect illustration. On Sunday morning, the final day of my ride, I pushed my loaded bike through a few hundred feet of sand in Seaside, OR, so that I could dip my tires in the Pacific. Rolling my Surly through the loose sand proved to be one of the more difficult challenges of the trip. As I stood beside my bike taking in the ocean's breeze and reflecting on the past two and a half months, a middle-aged guy playing fetch with his dog walked up the beach toward me. "This looks symbolic," he said. "Where'd you come from?" When I told him the Atlantic, he broke into a huge grin and excitedly said, "That's what I was hoping you'd say!" He congratulated me, gave me a high five and said, "I don't even know you and I'm proud of you." I told him a bit about the trip, he graciously took a few pictures of me and then he headed off back toward town.<br /><br />Several people who had finished the Transamerica before me had commented on how reaching the Pacific can be anti-climactic. There's no bannered finish line, no parade, and no fireworks. There's just another town going about it's daily business. Yet, my five-minute encounter with that stranger on the beach provided all the acknowledgment that I needed at the end of my 4,700 mile ride.<br /><br />A few readers have requested a best/worst of list. Below is a hodgepodge of awards marking some of the trip's highlights and lowlights.<br /><br /><strong>Trip Awards</strong><br /><strong>Food</strong><br /><br />Best Mexican: Mexican Food Bus, Dillon, MT. The attention to detail given to the presentation of my $4 plate of tacos-to-go was truly impressive. An array of radishes and hot peppers accompanied the taco assortment made with surprisingly fresh vegetables.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SKOyi_1tPNI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/F6X9UVussQw/s1600-h/Burrito+Bus,+Dillon+MT.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SKOyi_1tPNI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/F6X9UVussQw/s320/Burrito+Bus,+Dillon+MT.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234223506256641234" /></a><br /><br />Best pizza: Christian's Pizza, Charlottesville, VA.<br /><br />Best BBQ: Sugarfoot & Peaches, Fort Scott, KS.<br /><br />Best shake: Fresh raspberry shake at a fruit stand outside Tillamook, OR.<br /><br />Best pie: Apple Pie at Delaney's on Broadway in Goreville, IL. Truly memorable pie and I ate a lot of pie.<br /><br />Most consumed meal: Bacon cheeseburger.<br /><br />Least amount of Heath in a Heath Bar Blizzard: DQ in Scott City, KS. The dearth of Heath in my Blizzard forced me to inform the workers that their DQ was the most miserly with their Blizzard fillings from Kansas to the eastern seaboard.<br /><br />Best donut: Daylight Donuts, Scott City, KS. The town redeems itself.<br /><br /><strong>Animals</strong><br /><br />State with the most roaming dogs miles from any visible residence: Kentucky. Was there any doubt?<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SKOzjfdNcUI/AAAAAAAAAhY/kWa0_Vt_yc8/s1600-h/Dog+Attack.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SKOzjfdNcUI/AAAAAAAAAhY/kWa0_Vt_yc8/s320/Dog+Attack.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234224614255456578" /></a><br /><br />State with my closest encounter with a dog: Virginia (reenactment pictured here).<br /><br />Most common roadkill in the East: Turtles and snakes.<br /><br />Most common roadkill in the West: Deer.<br /><br />Animal only seen dead never alive: Armadillos.<br /><br />Best animal sighting: Foxes on the Katy Trail.<br /><br /><strong>Vehicles and roads</strong><br /><br />State with the most cars built before 1980 on the road: Montana.<br /><br />State with worst road conditions: Kentucky.<br /><br />State with the best shoulders: Wyoming.<br /><br />State with best drivers: Virginia, Kansas, Wyoming.<br /><br />State with worst drivers: Out of respect to my friends in Missouri I won't name the winner.<br /><br />Scariest vehicles: Rented RVs the size of a Rolling Stones tour bus that are pulling an SUV and being driven by an elderly couple that probably should not even be driving a car much less a 50 foot-long vehicle. Runner-up: Empty school buses. The drivers are like teenagers whose parents are gone for the weekend -- all wild abandon.<br /><br />Biggest pet peeve: Oncoming cars passing other oncoming cars by moving into my lane while I'm in it.<br /><br />My dumbest move: Flipping off those oncoming drivers.<br /><br /><strong>Miscellaneous</strong><br /><br />Best campsite: Cliffside site at a Jellystone Campground near Canon City, CO.<br /><br />Sourest people: Employees of the HOB Cafe in Hartsel, CO. I knew I was in trouble when a customer was told she could smoke in the restaurant if she paid a dollar. It is illegal to smoke indoors so the owner charges customers for the privilege to pay off the fines. <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SKO1q_xN7BI/AAAAAAAAAhg/VuO9ot7JPao/s1600-h/Fence,+Flowers,+and+Tetons.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SKO1q_xN7BI/AAAAAAAAAhg/VuO9ot7JPao/s320/Fence,+Flowers,+and+Tetons.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234226942211648530" /></a><br /><br />Most photographed state: Wyoming (pictured here). Runners-up: Colorado, Oregon.<br /><br />Least photographed state: Illinois (I only spent three nights in the state).<br /><br />State with the most free overnight stays: Virginia.<br /><br />Most expensive lodging: Jackson, WY.<br /><br /><strong>The Tops</strong><br /><br />Favorite states: Montana (pictured outside Ennis in the panorama above), Colorado, Virginia, Idaho.<br /><br />Favorite city: Missoula, MT.<br /><br />Most enjoyably tacky town: West Yellowstone, MT.<br /><br />Most peaceful ride: The Katy Trail, MO.<br /><br />Best overall rides (in geographic order): Blue Ridge Parkway, VA; Loop to Mammoth Cave, KY; Canon City, CO to Hoosier Pass, CO; Grand Tetons National Park, WY; US 12 through Idaho; Three Capes Scenic Highway, OR.<br /><br />Finally, I still plan on making a few additions to the blog. After I organize and winnow down my photos, I'll post them as a single album on Flicker and provide a link here. Also, for those looking for helpful logistical information on riding the Transamerica Trail I will link to more information about what equipment proved most useful and what businesses along the route were most cyclist-friendly.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-16729822319606282352008-07-27T14:04:00.000-05:002008-07-27T16:03:49.314-05:00Astoria<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIzh4lbI0tI/AAAAAAAAAgc/KDcXOKBUEek/s1600-h/IMG_3202.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIzh4lbI0tI/AAAAAAAAAgc/KDcXOKBUEek/s400/IMG_3202.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227801629705163474" /></a><br />I made it.<br /><br />After relaxing for a few days, I'll post some final thoughts on the trip and what I hope will be helpful information for anyone planning their own ride on the Transamerica Trail.<br /><br />For those of you who were waiting to make a donation to the Appalachia Habitat for Humanity until you were sure that I would actually make it to Astoria, now is the time to send in your check or donate online. I'll keep the link active for a few more days.<br /><br />Thanks for sharing this journey with me. Your support helped me get through the tough days.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-53441144101385491472008-07-26T23:00:00.000-05:002008-07-27T03:06:47.087-05:00The Pacific<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwVewXM8mI/AAAAAAAAAgU/S7clJ_9WsO8/s1600-h/IMG_3151.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwVewXM8mI/AAAAAAAAAgU/S7clJ_9WsO8/s400/IMG_3151.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227576885592781410" /></a><br />I arrived at the Pacific yesterday afternoon. Although I hadn't reached my final destination, I was officially on the western shores of the country. I'm not certain but I may have heard angels singing. <br /><br />After a six mile ride out of Monmouth yesterday morning, I stopped at the Eola Hills Winery. Eola Hills is an avid supporter of cycling, hosting bike tours of Oregon wine country every Sunday in August. These forty mile rides stop at four wineries for tastings, include a lunch stop and then end with a barbecue back at Eola Hills, where they offer unlimited food and wine. My next few rides will be more along those lines. I sampled a few red wines before starting my last stretch to the coast.<br /><br />The highway heading west was extremely busy. I worried that my last few days were going to be full of unpleasant, stressful riding. Fortunately, as I approached the coast, my route moved onto less traveled roads. One stretch of road, Old Scenic Highway 101, was narrow, winding, and overgrown. Two cars passed me over the course of ten miles.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwQ8Uz09wI/AAAAAAAAAfk/QeZ062oUCTI/s1600-h/IMG_3145.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwQ8Uz09wI/AAAAAAAAAfk/QeZ062oUCTI/s400/IMG_3145.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227571896034588418" /></a><br />I hit the coast at Neskowin, OR. I pedaled off route so I could get my first look at the ocean and then followed the coast for twenty-five miles. The road rose and fell, providing great viewpoints at its peaks. Monolithic remnants of an earlier shoreline rise from the coastal waters.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwUx4Cc3mI/AAAAAAAAAgE/e_tTmYxY3k0/s1600-h/IMG_3194.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwUx4Cc3mI/AAAAAAAAAgE/e_tTmYxY3k0/s400/IMG_3194.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227576114559114850" /></a><br />I camped out at Cape Lookout, an Oregon State Park. Hikers and bikers pay a quarter of the price and have guaranteed spots at many Oregon parks. Four dollars secured me a spot within 100 feet of the ocean, where I was lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves.<br /><br />For the first time on my trip there was a critical mass of campers in the hiker/biker section of a park. In fact, I have probably seen as many cyclists with touring gear in the past two days as I have during the previous seventy-two days. Most of these bikers are on short trips down the Oregon coast and wonder why I would cycle up the coast, against the wind.<br /><br />I was up and out of the campground before anyone else was stirring. The skies were overcast and it soon began to drizzle. That early in the morning the roads were wonderfully quiet. Mist over the water made everything seem even more peaceful.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwSw62izzI/AAAAAAAAAfs/vRGiUBaeAIQ/s1600-h/IMG_3180.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwSw62izzI/AAAAAAAAAfs/vRGiUBaeAIQ/s400/IMG_3180.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227573899111354162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwVMBQykzI/AAAAAAAAAgM/SB2SyZ__aAg/s1600-h/IMG_3189.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwVMBQykzI/AAAAAAAAAgM/SB2SyZ__aAg/s400/IMG_3189.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227576563711775538" /></a><br />Continuing my free sample tour, I stopped in Tillamook at the Tillamook Cheese Factory welcome center. I watched workers process the sharp cheddar from an observation deck and then tried a variety of cheeses. The place was a madhouse, so I didn't stay long.<br /><br />Outside the Tillamook center, I met Len, a fellow cyclist, who was heading down to San Diego. Len told me that he had been diagnosed with stage four lymphoma five years ago. He credited cycling with the fact that he was still around. Between chemo treatments he tries to take a long ride -- this was his fourth trip down the western coast. In September after he finishes this ride, he has another treatment scheduled. Despite his diagnosis, he looked healthy and strong and was tackling the tough hills along the Oregon coast.<br /><br />Oregon has designated much of Highway 101 as an official bike route. The state has done a great job with signage, including a button-activated warning sign that cyclists are in the upcoming tunnel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwUR9ot8YI/AAAAAAAAAf8/vg-6mC1R_Hg/s1600-h/IMG_3187.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwUR9ot8YI/AAAAAAAAAf8/vg-6mC1R_Hg/s400/IMG_3187.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227575566305980802" /></a><br />On the advice of a few cyclists I met back in Wyoming, I decided to stay in Seaside tonight, a town sixteen miles south of Astoria. I have heard that Astoria does not have easy access to the ocean, so I've enjoyed Seaside's two miles of beach.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwTcqggvfI/AAAAAAAAAf0/yaB30LofMPU/s1600-h/IMG_3168.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIwTcqggvfI/AAAAAAAAAf0/yaB30LofMPU/s400/IMG_3168.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227574650638220786" /></a><br />The town suffers a bit from Niagara Falls syndrome, but on the upside that means multiple places to buy fudge. I had dinner at a sushi bar. When the sushi chef found out I was wrapping up my cross-country tour, sushi and beer were on the house.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-58170987372861044962008-07-25T23:30:00.001-05:002008-07-27T16:08:47.997-05:00Appalachia Habitat For HumanityOver the course of my cross-country ride, people have been incredibly hospitable and generous. It has been inspiring to see strangers repeatedly go out of their way to help me and fellow cyclists. To honor those who've been so generous, I've decided to try to fund raise during my ride across Oregon, the final leg of this trip. I've chosen an organization, the Appalachia Habitat for Humanity, that serves residents of one of the poorest areas that I traveled through on the Transamerica Trail. The Appalachia Habitat is the second oldest affiliate of Habitat for Humanity. While this branch doesn't have its own website, I have talked with several employees of the organization and they stressed how important every donation is to the work that they do. The organization completes sixteen to eighteen major projects a year.<br /><br />So, if you have enjoyed this blog, or even if you haven't, and you're so inclined, please make a donation, how ever large or small. You can make a donation online by clicking the "Donate" button on the side of this blog and following the instructions. If you are more comfortable with the analog world than a digital one, you can also donate by sending a check to:<br /><br />Appalachia Habitat for Humanity<br />P.O. Box 36<br />135 E Robbins Rd<br />Robbins, TN 37852<br /><br />I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for continuing to follow my travels and for your comments and emails.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-65829643224574170802008-07-24T23:00:00.005-05:002008-07-25T04:30:45.362-05:00Willamette Valley<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SImXUngIlXI/AAAAAAAAAfU/LrzFIcQ5IiE/s1600-h/IMG_3122.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SImXUngIlXI/AAAAAAAAAfU/LrzFIcQ5IiE/s400/IMG_3122.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226875222997112178" /></a><br />After sleeping on it, I decided to ask a few more people about McKenzie Pass before climbing up there yesterday. The last thing I wanted to happen was to reach the summit, only to find that I couldn't get through and had to go back and take the Santiam Pass. At a local bike store, an employee told me in no uncertain terms that I would not be able to get across the pass due to snow and bridge work. While cyclists are allowed to ride up the road, they have to turn around at some point and retrace their path. He spoke with enough authority to convince me that I would have to take the Santiam Pass.<br /><br />I got a late start because I woke up to find my rear tire partially deflated. It seems the tire had a slow leak. (Did I mention my luck is running out?) I couldn't find a hole in the tube, so I fully inflated the tire and headed out of town. The road was busy, but manageable. On the way up I had clear views of Mount Washington.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SImQeio805I/AAAAAAAAAfM/x4IINcOwRl8/s1600-h/IMG_3108.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SImQeio805I/AAAAAAAAAfM/x4IINcOwRl8/s400/IMG_3108.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226867696909210514" /></a><br />Toward the top of the pass, the land was barren. Five years ago, a fire burned over 90,000 acres leaving dead, charred trees covering the mountain sides.<br /><br />In the Cascades, I passed a series of lakes, waterfalls, and campgrounds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SImY9yb3x4I/AAAAAAAAAfc/ig2hinonSQw/s1600-h/IMG_3114.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SImY9yb3x4I/AAAAAAAAAfc/ig2hinonSQw/s400/IMG_3114.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226877029818288002" /></a><br />As I descended, the road ran alongside the McKenzie River. On the westside of the mountains, the land was considerably lusher. Nurseries and orchards became common.<br /><br />My options for lodging at the 80 mile mark did not pan out. I was in a stretch with no other campgrounds, motels, or cabins, so I had to push on thirty more miles. When I arrived at my destination, Coburg, OR, I was told that the one motel in town had burned to the ground. Fortunately, there were several motels five miles down the road. IHOP, which was next to my motel, never looked so inviting.<br /><br />When I talk to people about my trip these days, they often tell me how close I am. And today I began the last of the twelve maps that outline my route. So it's starting to sink in that my ride is coming to an end.<br /><br />The roads I pedaled today were more like those from the East than the roads I have traveled out West. They were quieter back-roads that usually only exist as unpaved, dirt roads in many of the western states. The fields and farm houses I passed reminded me of my rides through Virginia.<br /><br />As I've moved into western Oregon the wind has picked up and this afternoon it significantly slowed my progress. I was also delayed by a stop in Corvallis, which has to be one of the most bicycle friendly towns in the U.S. I stopped at Corvallis Cyclery to get what I hope is my last new tire tube of the trip. One of the mechanics had just returned from an Adventure Cycling tour of Washington and had done the Northern Tier route a few year ago, so we exchanged notes. Having failed to make it to a winery that I wanted to try before closing time, I decided to cut a few miles from my day so I can hit it tomorrow. For those keeping score at home, I'm about 177 miles from Astoria.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-22141132848667057082008-07-22T23:00:00.000-05:002008-07-23T03:39:58.707-05:00Passing On<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbaxEu_wEI/AAAAAAAAAe8/I8AcjwrTyPU/s1600-h/IMG_3101.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbaxEu_wEI/AAAAAAAAAe8/I8AcjwrTyPU/s400/IMG_3101.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226104954229342274" /></a><br />Before reaching Oregon, I met several Oregonians during my ride. Clearly proud of their state, they always wanted to see my maps to check the route that I was going to take across Oregon. Several of them told me that the road through John Day and Dayville is beautiful. I wasn't disappointed. Compared with Colorado, Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho, eastern Oregon's landscape is more subtle. Nonetheless, it's beautiful to ride through.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbZF0P3MuI/AAAAAAAAAes/Q6hVvTuWzCA/s1600-h/IMG_3084.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbZF0P3MuI/AAAAAAAAAes/Q6hVvTuWzCA/s400/IMG_3084.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226103111557788386" /></a><br />The last few days have been defined by a series of passes. On Sunday, I rode over a trio of summits -- Sumpter, Tipton and Dixie. For each pass I climbed to 5000 to 5200 feet and then dropped between 1000 and 1200 feet before climbing to the next pass. Fortunately, in Baker City I was able to fully inflate my new tire tubes with a bike store's floor pump, making the climbs much easier.<br /><br />At one point in the ride, the setting reminded me of northern Michigan -- a first on this trip. Pine trees lined both sides of the road and the sound of motor boats rose from a lake just beyond the trees.<br /><br />After spending the night in John Day, I rode through the John Day valley yesterday. The valley is home to fossil beds that preserve its history as a tropical jungle where saber-tooth tiger and giant sloths once lived. While I wasn't able to see any of these remains, I did ride through Picture Gorge, named for the prehistoric pictographs on its face. The overcast skies muted the color of the Gorge's red rocks. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbYcHk9n0I/AAAAAAAAAek/GYYDjTf5ggY/s1600-h/IMG_3091.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbYcHk9n0I/AAAAAAAAAek/GYYDjTf5ggY/s400/IMG_3091.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226102395192057666" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbXCrhumzI/AAAAAAAAAec/w42aiRQ9DxM/s1600-h/IMG_3095.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbXCrhumzI/AAAAAAAAAec/w42aiRQ9DxM/s400/IMG_3095.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226100858653940530" /></a><br />Of course, where there is a valley, there are also mountains. My day ended with climbs up two more passes. My destination was a U.S. Forest Service campground at the top of Ochoco Pass. As I neared the summit, the clouds darkened and I raced to beat the rain. I managed to set up my tent just before a short rainstorm.<br /><br />This morning my day began with a gradual decline from 4700 feet. As I headed west toward the Cascades, the relatively quiet roads became busier. However, I still managed to see some wildlife.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbZ8UepnfI/AAAAAAAAAe0/2oDzpul3dlo/s1600-h/IMG_3085.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbZ8UepnfI/AAAAAAAAAe0/2oDzpul3dlo/s400/IMG_3085.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226104047922683378" /></a><br />The scenery became more dramatic when the snow-capped mountains of the Sisters range came into view.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbbUN0lmfI/AAAAAAAAAfE/nNJfs-aQARQ/s1600-h/IMG_3105.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIbbUN0lmfI/AAAAAAAAAfE/nNJfs-aQARQ/s400/IMG_3105.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226105557964134898" /></a><br />While I was taking a picture of the mountains, a woman got out of her car and walked over to me. She invited me to camp out at her property. I just happened to be stopped right near her house where she and her husband have hosted cyclists for twenty-five years. Unfortunately, I had to push on, but the gesture boosted my spirits.<br /><br />Tomorrow I have my last big climb. McKenzie Pass, the more scenic, less trafficked route is currently closed, allegedly due to snow and logging. This means that all cars are driving up the Santiam Pass, a route twenty miles longer than McKenzie. I wasn't looking forward to pedaling up to this busy summit. But tonight I heard conflicting reports about whether bicyclists can ride over the McKenzie Pass. Some say that it is open to cyclists, others say that loggers at the top may not take kindly to our presence. Given the prospect of a thirty-five mile car-free ride, I think I'll take the risk.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-29447718419031978852008-07-19T23:29:00.002-05:002008-07-21T12:25:07.974-05:00Oregon Trail<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN8pKtSuZI/AAAAAAAAAeM/l3nZkS0L6fk/s1600-h/IMG_3062.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN8pKtSuZI/AAAAAAAAAeM/l3nZkS0L6fk/s400/IMG_3062.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225157039370713490" /></a><br />I crossed into Oregon, my tenth and final state, yesterday. It was a great feeling.<br /><br />On Thursday, I tried to wait out the Idaho heat, but when I got back on my bike at 5pm, it was still sizzling. As I climbed to 4200 feet, the land changed from dry and brown to a lush green meadow with forest in the distance. I rode until dark, using a dirt bike path for the last few miles into the Evergreen Campground, where I was the lone camper.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN6gbRZLjI/AAAAAAAAAd0/Bn2Lq0RsWY8/s1600-h/IMG_3030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN6gbRZLjI/AAAAAAAAAd0/Bn2Lq0RsWY8/s400/IMG_3030.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225154690175020594" /></a><br />Ever since Kentucky, I had heard from several bikers that the upcoming stretch of Interstate 95 in Idaho was one of the worst stretches of road -- narrow, no shoulders and a stream of high-speed trucks. I opted to avoid this road by riding the Weiser River Trail. The few miles that I rode the night before should have been a good indication that this was not going to be like the Katy Trail, the other rails-to-trails path that I took across Missouri. The Weiser Trail was rough. The surface was uneven, quickly changing from loose rocks to potholed dirt to a harder-packed surface. Though I have fatter tires on my Surly than many touring riders, my bike could barely handle the bumpy ride. In the end, the thirty-five miles on the trail probably took me twice as long as they would have on the road. Nonetheless, the path was a welcome change of pace. I startled many deer and cattle as I pedaled along.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN7GFL2G6I/AAAAAAAAAd8/f61ihWFmh4g/s1600-h/IMG_3036.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN7GFL2G6I/AAAAAAAAAd8/f61ihWFmh4g/s400/IMG_3036.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225155337081199522" /></a><br />I do need to get to the coast soon though because my luck is beginning to run out. After getting only two flats between the coast of Virginia and central Idaho, on the Weiser Trail I had my second flat in two days.<br /><br />After leaving the bike trail, I had thirty more miles to the Oregon border. I rode along the Brownlee Reservoir with the evening sun reflecting off its surface.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN7YT9CnKI/AAAAAAAAAeE/WledE7Hb4IY/s1600-h/IMG_3047.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN7YT9CnKI/AAAAAAAAAeE/WledE7Hb4IY/s400/IMG_3047.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225155650283281570" /></a><br />It's strange to see such a large body of water with essentially no shore. Campers and fishermen had already settled into the area for the weekend. I camped in Oxbow, OR, at a site run by Idaho Power, which operates the dams in the area.<br /><br />This morning I was on the road by 6:30 am. My first order of business was getting something to eat as there were no stores or restaurants in Oxbow last night. I rolled up to a store three miles down the road happy to find that the door was wide open and the lights were on. One of the negative aspects of the trip that I haven't mentioned is that I am, at times, at the mercy of rude store or restaurant owners because they are the only option for miles around. If I want to eat I have to deal with them. Such was the case this morning.<br /><br />When I walked into the store the woman barked, "We're not open." Funny way of showing it, I thought, after walking through the open entryway. "What do you want?" she asked. I told her I just wanted some food, thinking that was a reasonable request for a place that advertised "Groceries" on a billboard down the road and on a large sign in front of her store. "We don't have food," she told me tersely, "we're just a pitstop." Understanding a pitstop to be a place that would have something to eat, I played a game of "Who's on first?" with her trying to understand what that meant. Once it was established that she had absolutely nothing to eat in her store I resigned myself to just getting a drink, food would have to wait for another twenty miles, which as it was uphill meant about an hour and a half. As I walked to the cooler she reprimanded me for walking on her floors (you're kidding me right?) and not on scattered mats and holding the cooler door open too long as I retrieved a Gatorade. It was far too early in the morning for me to handle this woman. As much as I needed a few calories, food <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> a drink would have to wait until the next town.<br /><br />Fortunately, run-ins like those are almost always quickly countered by more positive experiences. As I rolled into Halfway, OR, further down the road, I met a couple selling baked goods on the corner. We discussed my trip as I ate a delicious cinnamon roll and homemade cookies before heading to the local cafe where I had the rest of my breakfast.<br /><br />In town I met an Australian couple headed East. Experienced bike tourists, they're taking a leisurely pace of about forty miles a day, which had them a little concerned about making their flight back in early November.<br /><br />Today's ride was desolate and hot. It was certainly one of the hottest rides I've had thus far. The landscape is reminiscent of eastern Colorado, covered in desert-like brush. The dusty rock hills intensify the afternoon sun. A few mountains appeared on the horizon to the north with just a little snow left on their peaks. I rode alongside the famous Oregon Trail, whose wagon ruts can still be seen running across the land.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN9DozygSI/AAAAAAAAAeU/o7Zh6pb-l9Y/s1600-h/IMG_3076.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SIN9DozygSI/AAAAAAAAAeU/o7Zh6pb-l9Y/s400/IMG_3076.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225157494127624482" /></a><br />I arrived in Baker City by mid-day. This weekend is the town's Miners Jubilee, an annual celebration of its mining heritage. Vendors were set up in the park and Main Street shut down for a street dance, which seems to be a big summer event in many of the towns I have passed through.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-36499245951681148082008-07-17T14:33:00.010-05:002008-07-17T17:10:09.759-05:00Idaho<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-3A6_AP3I/AAAAAAAAAdc/95r2Px0WVLU/s1600-h/IMG_2984.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-3A6_AP3I/AAAAAAAAAdc/95r2Px0WVLU/s400/IMG_2984.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224095319234461554" /></a><br />Before this trip, Idaho was a state that I was barely aware of. You'd say "Idaho," I'd say "potato" and that's about where the word associations would end. But after my past few days in this state, I know I will be back. While I have yet to see a potato field, I have traveled through canyons, along rivers, and past golden hills. The terrain has far surpassed any expectations that I had.<br /><br />As I left Missoula on Tuesday, it looked like bad weather was finally going to catch up with me. The Weather Channel was calling for rain in western Montana and in Idaho and the sky was thick with clouds. A light drizzle fell as I retraced thirteen miles out of Missoula. However, after I turned west toward the Idaho border, the clouds began to break up. Within the hour the sun was shining.<br /><br />To get to the Idaho/Montana border, I had to climb to Lolo Pass at 5,235 feet. I had yet to see a bull moose on this trip and, unlike a grizzly, which I also have yet to see, I wanted to see a moose. I finally did at the top of the pass.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-0wCohN_I/AAAAAAAAAdM/mShyhX2Tx7k/s1600-h/IMG_2953.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-0wCohN_I/AAAAAAAAAdM/mShyhX2Tx7k/s400/IMG_2953.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224092830206605298" /></a><br />After reaching the pass the remainder of my day was spent descending through Lochsa Canyon. U.S. 12, the Northwest Passage Scenic Byway, meanders along the Lochsa River with mountains rising on each side.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-2MPvMg_I/AAAAAAAAAdU/0zqL8kuPvFI/s1600-h/IMG_2973.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-2MPvMg_I/AAAAAAAAAdU/0zqL8kuPvFI/s400/IMG_2973.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224094414272234482" /></a><br />This stretch of winding road stands out among many outstanding rides. National forest surrounds the canyon, so there were several NFS campgrounds to choose from. As the sun set behind the mountains I set up camp at Wilderness campground.<br /><br />Yesterday I finished my ride through the canyon and once again began climbing. I hit a low of 1200 feet and rose to 4300 feet. Unfortunately, I have a lot more ascending and descending between here and the Pacific. Once again much of my riding was along rivers, which provide a beautiful setting for biking.<br /><br />As I approached the steepest part of my climb on a busier U.S. highway, a guy on a motorcycle rode up next to me. He told me that he had biked the Transamerica thirty years ago and he wanted to warn me that at the top of the hill the road was covered in gravel and that I should take an alternate route. Sure enough, for the seven mile 7% grade descent, crews had covered the road in an inch of loose gravel. This seemed like a great way to kill bikers and motorcyclists. Fortunately, after a mile I was able to turn off onto Old 95, a stretch of switchbacks that took me down into White Bird, my destination for the night. Old 95 provided unimpeded views of the surrounding hills.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-4vPho1gI/AAAAAAAAAdk/IeTaiZnyfM8/s1600-h/IMG_2997.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-4vPho1gI/AAAAAAAAAdk/IeTaiZnyfM8/s400/IMG_2997.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224097214534047234" /></a><br />White Bird offered two options for dinner, I chose the one that my hotel clerk described as "classier," which I believe meant that I had less chance of getting caught in a bar fight. As I ate my burger at the empty bar, to my great surprise, my Uncle John walked in. My uncle had emailed me earlier in the week that he may try to fly out to Idaho to see me on the road, but I hadn't heard from him so I assumed he hadn't made it out. In fact, he flew into Missoula, went to Adventure Cycling and bought a map, and followed the route I have taken over the past two days, stopping occasionally to ask people if they had seen me pass by. Two rafting guides told him that they had seen me eating breakfast and put him on track toward White Bird. It was great to see him. We had a few $1.75 drafts at the bar and caught up, as some locals came and went.<br /><br />This morning I rode out of White Bird with the plan to meet my uncle for breakfast either twenty or thirty miles down the road before he returned to Missoula. He drove the stretch of road stopping occasionally to take pictures. Fortunately, he was behind me when I had my third flat tire. A sharp metal pin worked its way through my rear tire. With my uncle's help, I replaced the tube quickly and was back on the road.<br /><br />I had been warned that this section of Idaho heats up. A sheriff's deputy pulled over as I was taking a picture to recommend places where I could swim. Since my uncle and I ate and he headed back, I have been sitting out the afternoon heat in the Riggins Public Library/City Hall.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-5hj367PI/AAAAAAAAAds/ZPia7TKRrx8/s1600-h/IMG_3014.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SH-5hj367PI/AAAAAAAAAds/ZPia7TKRrx8/s400/IMG_3014.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224098078989675762" /></a><br />My last 100 miles in Idaho includes a stretch on a rails-to-trails bike path that will be a welcome break from the increasing truck traffic. Then, tomorrow, I cross the Oregon border.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-41987884918989389582008-07-14T17:40:00.000-05:002008-07-14T18:48:30.198-05:00Mad About Missoula<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHvd_6MpfCI/AAAAAAAAAcs/tirkuLIcWt8/s1600-h/IMG_2949.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHvd_6MpfCI/AAAAAAAAAcs/tirkuLIcWt8/s400/IMG_2949.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223012282890026018" /></a><br />Missoula ranks up there with Charlottesville, VA, and Columbia, MO, as one of the best towns I've traveled through. I had a nice and easy ride into town from Hamilton yesterday. Fifteen miles of bike path provided a reprieve from a busy, four-lane highway. Once in Missoula, bike lanes abounded and bikers were everywhere.<br /><br />Missoula sits surrounded by mountains and has the Clark Fork River running through it. The historic downtown is lively and walkable. As the city houses the University of Montana, there's an abundance of young folks. Access to the outdoors couldn't be easier. Kayakers can drop in the river near the center of town and hiking and biking trails traverse the city.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHvechPuPgI/AAAAAAAAAc0/uIk_BNHShF8/s1600-h/IMG_2935.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHvechPuPgI/AAAAAAAAAc0/uIk_BNHShF8/s400/IMG_2935.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223012774408240642" /></a><br />A few downtown corners played host to groups of "gypsy" kids. When I lived in Tucson, during the winter months the downtown was home to a significant number of these wanderers, who were usually traveling with pets. Some were street performers, others were talentless. They disappeared from Tucson in the summer when it got too hot. I think I now know where some of them ended up.<br /><br />It just so happens that the free weekly, the Missoula Independent, released its Best of Missoula issue a few days ago, so I've been working my way through the list today. So far I've been to the best coffeehouse, eaten the best meal under $7, had the best milkshake, taken one of the best day hikes, and sampled beers at the best brewery. Tonight, a trip to the best pizza place and a movie at the best theater, a restored movie house, are on the itinerary.<br /><br />My hike took me up a surrounding hill, providing great views of the city. A herd of sheep was grazing on the trail, a quarter mile from the neighborhood below.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHvfTQCknXI/AAAAAAAAAc8/WuybWbGV7PY/s1600-h/IMG_2942.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHvfTQCknXI/AAAAAAAAAc8/WuybWbGV7PY/s400/IMG_2942.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223013714682486130" /></a><br />This morning also included a visit to the headquarters of the Adventure Cycling Association. The ACA is a non-profit organization that promotes bicycle tourism. The organization developed and mapped the Transamerica Trail and numerous other bike routes throughout the States.<br /><br />One of the ACA's cartographers greeted me, took my picture to add to the wall of cyclists who have passed through this season, and offered me free drinks and ice cream. It was fun to see photos of the riders who preceded me, some of whom were familiar faces. The office was decorated with bikes that the founders rode on various trips, including this one that was used on a trip from Anchorage to the Tierra del Fuego. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHvfvn8tl4I/AAAAAAAAAdE/nE5JetAUuCE/s1600-h/IMG_2933.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHvfvn8tl4I/AAAAAAAAAdE/nE5JetAUuCE/s400/IMG_2933.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223014202136696706" /></a><br />I've also caught up on some reading today. One interesting article, relevant to this blog, that I read was on the relative risk of biking. The article is <a href="http://gristmill.grist.org/story/2007/10/8/143547/109">here</a>. The conclusion -- safer than most people probably think, but not as safe as it could be.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-72576988828558164342008-07-12T23:15:00.001-05:002008-07-13T10:38:27.231-05:00Big Hole Valley<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHodyaaUcEI/AAAAAAAAAcM/X5KdKaxyYwk/s1600-h/IMG_2918.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHodyaaUcEI/AAAAAAAAAcM/X5KdKaxyYwk/s400/IMG_2918.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222519469809889346" /></a><br />Back in Virginia and Kentucky, good biking weather was often warm air, but overcast skies, so it wasn't too hot. Since I hit the Rockies in Colorado, I've had the reverse weather combination, brisk air but full sun to keep me warm. Yesterday the balance shifted and I had my first cold day of riding since early May. The sky was clear and the sun was blazing, but it wasn't enough to warm the cold wind blowing from the northwest.<br /><br />I intended to arrive in Jackson, MT, on Thursday, but was slowed by the winds. After an even slower ride yesterday, Jackson became my destination last night. Several eastbound riders recommended that I stop at the Jackson Hot Springs Lodge, where for $10 I could camp and use the springs.<br /><br />Jackson, which is in the Big Hole Valley, is the only town that I hit on my forty-nine mile ride from Dillon. The uphill ride took me over two passes and through quiet terrain. Occasionally, I passed herds of grazing cattle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHoedesvqdI/AAAAAAAAAcc/rr2goVnvKRM/s1600-h/IMG_2902.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHoedesvqdI/AAAAAAAAAcc/rr2goVnvKRM/s400/IMG_2902.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222520209695287762" /></a><br />The Jackson Lodge has a bar, restaurant and a number of cabins. I overheard the bartender tell a couple sitting at the bar that the lodge employs half the town's residents. It's not much of an exaggeration. Thirty-eight people live in Jackson and the lodge has fifteen employees. After setting up camp, I soaked in the hot springs, which I had all to myself. The water was considerably cooler than the Saratoga springs, so I could comfortably swim around the large pool.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHoeLbG7_EI/AAAAAAAAAcU/V3cRbWtHtnI/s1600-h/IMG_2905.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHoeLbG7_EI/AAAAAAAAAcU/V3cRbWtHtnI/s400/IMG_2905.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222519899493760066" /></a><br />I spent the evening at the bar talking with the lodge's chef and two ranch hands, who worked nearby. The ranchers had spent the afternoon shooting beaver that were building dams in creeks and flooding grazing lands. Greg, the chef, told me that the valley only has fourteen non-frost days a year and yesterday wasn't one of them. A group of women arrived at the bar in puffy, winter coats -- a strange sight for July 11.<br /><br />Despite a late start (even by my standards), I still managed to travel a good distance today, riding until 8:30pm. Western Montana has long summer days, as it doesn't get completely dark until after 10pm. After today's ride, Montana is quickly ascending on my list of favorite states on the route. I continued my ride through the Big Hole Valley -- "the Land of 10,000 Haystacks." A guy, standing next to his truck and holding a pair of binoculars, asked if I was ready for a cold beer as I rode by. On any other day I would have taken him up on his offer, but not today. I stopped to chat. I assumed he was out counting cattle as I have seen other ranchers doing, but he was on a bird-watching tour. An avid kayaker, he had four kayaks on the top of his truck.<br /><br />I also stopped at the Big Hole National Battlefield, where in August 1877, the U.S. Army conducted a dawn raid on five bands of Nez Perce Indians, who refused to be forced onto a reservation. After losing about sixty tribe members, many woman and children, the Nez Perce warriors rallied and held off the army, allowing the tribe to escape. But by September of that year, after a few more battles in Idaho and Montana, the remaining Nez Perce surrendered. At the battlefield visitor center, a quote on the wall from one U.S. soldier struck me. While asserting that the Indians had to conform to the will of the white man, he said, "But power is not justice and force is not law."<br /><br />After leaving the battlefield, I had to climb to Chief Joseph pass at 7240 feet. I then had an exhilarating descent into the Bitterroot Valley. One six-mile stretch of narrow, winding road was particularly stunning. The road ran alongside the east fork of the Bitterroot River and grass-covered hills rose to the east and west. I passed a group of big horned sheep many of which were calves. The evening light kept me from ending my ride earlier.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHoey-FglOI/AAAAAAAAAck/izp58lRx44w/s1600-h/IMG_2916.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHoey-FglOI/AAAAAAAAAck/izp58lRx44w/s400/IMG_2916.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222520578897908962" /></a>The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-57443003228334221262008-07-10T22:00:00.006-05:002008-07-11T09:41:18.463-05:00Glory Days<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHdsnS8HvEI/AAAAAAAAAbs/dHNNaFwVj0Q/s1600-h/IMG_2860.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHdsnS8HvEI/AAAAAAAAAbs/dHNNaFwVj0Q/s400/IMG_2860.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221761715314080834" /></a><br />Yesterday was a perfect day of riding. I continue to be graced with good weather and this corner of Montana is stunning. I rode through valleys, over mountains, beside lakes and rivers. The color palette was all blues, greens, and browns, with a little white on a few mountaintops. This area is a mecca of fly fishing and I passed many fishermen casting their lines in the middle of the Madison River. It's hard to imagine a more idyllic spot to fish.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHdtF7pjE0I/AAAAAAAAAb0/VljxoC7-G8c/s1600-h/IMG_2864.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHdtF7pjE0I/AAAAAAAAAb0/VljxoC7-G8c/s400/IMG_2864.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221762241638110018" /></a><br />I rode along the shore of Hebgen Lake and then Quake Lake, which was formed in 1959 when an earthquake triggered a landslide that blocked the Madison River. The drowned trees still poke out of the lake.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHdtbw35pkI/AAAAAAAAAb8/t5_CkhnU4tM/s1600-h/IMG_2867.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHdtbw35pkI/AAAAAAAAAb8/t5_CkhnU4tM/s400/IMG_2867.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221762616702641730" /></a><br />Perhaps it was the contrast with the more hectic Yellowstone, but it all seemed serene.<br /><br />My two possible lunch stops were both closed, so I had to ride an extra thirty miles to Cameron, MT, before I could eat. It turned out in my favor because the KBear Cafe, provided the first noteworthy food in some time. Homemade chips and salsa, fresh baked goods, and quality burgers. My meal fueled me through the final leg of my ride, which included my toughest climb in recent weeks – 2000 feet in about eight miles. The climb provided great views of the Madison Valley below.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHdt_zvWLOI/AAAAAAAAAcE/hT02UuXlxYU/s1600-h/IMG_2884.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHdt_zvWLOI/AAAAAAAAAcE/hT02UuXlxYU/s400/IMG_2884.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221763235947359458" /></a><br />After reaching the pass, I coasted into Virginia City, a former mining town that has been well preserved. It was a good day for food, as I had a great dinner at Bandito's, an upscale Mexican fusion restaurant. I ate at the bar and talked with the owner, Scott, about mountain biking, travel, and life in Montana.<br /><br />My ride today was cut short by strong afternoon winds. I passed several eastbound riders that were enjoying their tailwinds. I called it quits in Dillon, MT. As I walked around town looking for a restaurant or cafe, clouds of dust blew through the streets. I took advantage of my early finish by visiting the local theater to see "Hancock."The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-56698559151359031102008-07-08T22:00:00.000-05:002008-07-09T00:47:06.628-05:00Yellowstone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRLAQQ0wNI/AAAAAAAAAbk/Ji_dInhSmnk/s1600-h/IMG_2782.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRLAQQ0wNI/AAAAAAAAAbk/Ji_dInhSmnk/s400/IMG_2782.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220880335766864082" /></a><br />I couldn't bring myself to trade the warmth of my tent for the cold, damp air outside yesterday morning. I finally emerged at 8:30 am. I was staying in a section of the campground reserved for hikers and bikers. As I was packing up, I talked briefly with a motorcyclist from Illinois who was camping a few sites over. After telling him about my cross-country ride, he told me about a friend who bought a bike in Anchorage, threw away the seat and then road all the way to the Midwest standing up. When he got home he joined the Navy Seals and I imagine he's now busy crushing insurgents with his thighs. It seems everyone has a story about someone who has taken on a challenge that can honestly be described as crazy.<br /><br />I entered Yellowstone park yesterday. Though my ride was short, the climbs, including another pass over the Continental Divide, tired me. The damage from the '88 fire still scars the landscape when riding in from the south entrance. Charred, lifeless trees remain with new growth rising around their trunks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRF7avFBWI/AAAAAAAAAa8/eWBR4AOdXh4/s1600-h/IMG_2786.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRF7avFBWI/AAAAAAAAAa8/eWBR4AOdXh4/s400/IMG_2786.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220874755120629090" /></a><br />The roads are narrow and not in the best condition, evidence of inadequate funding the parks have received over the years. As I climbed toward the Continental Divide, a gorge opened up to my right providing gorgeous views and a few minutes of harrowing riding. I stopped to view the falls and lakes along the roadside.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRFgsuehGI/AAAAAAAAAa0/sHfNKxV4mcE/s1600-h/IMG_2778.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRFgsuehGI/AAAAAAAAAa0/sHfNKxV4mcE/s400/IMG_2778.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220874296093475938" /></a><br />Last night I had another campsite in a hiker/biker ghetto, this time at Grant Village. Since hikers and bikers only pay a fraction of the price, Xanterra, the contractor that runs the campgrounds and lodges, puts multiple hikers and bikers at group sites. I was sharing a site with a guy named Jeff, who was spending his summer vacation hitchhiking from Seattle to New Jersey. In the site across from me was a group on a week-long, supported bike tour led by Cycle America. And a few sites down were Ross and Justin, who were riding cross-country east to west on their own route. At breakfast this morning I met yet another rider, Allan, who is biking a modified Transam. He was a fountain of helpful information about my final states.<br /><br />Today I continued my ride through Yellowstone. My route took me through the park's geyser basins, and past one of its star attractions, Old Faithful. I arrived about 45 minute before the next scheduled eruption, so I waited on a bench with throngs of others. A few restless tourists tried unsuccessfully to start the wave. After a few false starts, the geyser exploded.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRG5AmlFMI/AAAAAAAAAbE/iuBxwUm27xI/s1600-h/IMG_2813.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRG5AmlFMI/AAAAAAAAAbE/iuBxwUm27xI/s400/IMG_2813.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220875813257548994" /></a><br />I took a quick tour of the impressive timber lobby at Old Faithful Inn and then continued on, stopping at some of the mineral basins and hot pools found throughout the area.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRHiEFjI6I/AAAAAAAAAbM/I4IMkEZZpTM/s1600-h/IMG_2823.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRHiEFjI6I/AAAAAAAAAbM/I4IMkEZZpTM/s400/IMG_2823.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220876518567388066" /></a><br />Although the section of park that I traveled does not provide prime wildlife-watching, I did see bison, elk, and a nesting bald eagle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRKKnTh7MI/AAAAAAAAAbc/xASaT1WGe7o/s1600-h/IMG_2844.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRKKnTh7MI/AAAAAAAAAbc/xASaT1WGe7o/s400/IMG_2844.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220879414239292610" /></a><br />I read an article last week about a teen who was tossed in the air by an aggravated bison. His family was warned several times that they should stand further back when taking the bison's picture, but they didn't listen. Eventually the bison decided the photo op was over. I thought of this article as I watched a couple of tourists step within a few feet a bison so that they could get nice and close for a picture. I lingered to see if it was the same testy bison.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRKDJFyy7I/AAAAAAAAAbU/hU_chrbw0II/s1600-h/IMG_2839.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHRKDJFyy7I/AAAAAAAAAbU/hU_chrbw0II/s400/IMG_2839.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220879285869530034" /></a><br />I'm glad I had the opportunity to bike through a portion of Yellowstone, but I'm not itching to do it again soon. It was exhausting dealing with the constant flow of traffic on the narrow roads. But it was nice to meet so many people interested in the trip and quick with an encouraging word.<br /><br />I ended the day in a new state: Montana. I'm spending the night in a rustic but historic log hotel in West Yellowstone, MT. While Jackson was touristy and ritzy, West Yellowstone is touristy and kitschy. The adventure cycling group, whom I last saw in Illinois, is here. Before dinner, I ran into Caitlyn, their leader, and caught up on their trip.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-63794164888708310692008-07-06T23:00:00.000-05:002008-07-07T11:42:27.357-05:00Back On Track<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHJEAIboeLI/AAAAAAAAAas/fvZz61uTXYE/s1600-h/IMG_2749.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHJEAIboeLI/AAAAAAAAAas/fvZz61uTXYE/s400/IMG_2749.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220309687129897138" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHJDqwunGEI/AAAAAAAAAak/7srhjEyUo-A/s1600-h/IMG_2698.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SHJDqwunGEI/AAAAAAAAAak/7srhjEyUo-A/s400/IMG_2698.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220309319989794882" /></a><br />What a whirlwind the past week has been. I've spent four days in transit, five days in Puerto Rico with friends and family, several late nights celebrating my cousin's nuptials, and now I'm back in the Grand Tetons National Park at Colter Bay campground. I've gone from sunsets in San Juan back to sunsets in the Tetons. Thanks, Gongui and Rebecca, for your hospitality in San Juan. And congratulations, Kevin and Marita. You throw a great wedding!<br /><br />I landed at the Jackson airport at 2pm today. As I walked onto the tarmac, a light rain was falling and it was in the 50's -- a bit of a shock after a week of 80's and 90's. By 3:30pm I had reclaimed my bike, repacked my panniers and was all geared up. Once again, the weather worked itself out. The rain had stopped, the clouds had lifted and it felt 20 degrees warmer.<br /><br />Getting back on my bike was a lot like reuniting with a good friend that I haven't seen in quite some time. Before seeing each other again I wonder whether we'll be able to recapture the connection we once had. I worry that we may have changed too much and we'll no longer have anything in common, that our conversation will be nothing but awkward small talk. But then we meet and it's like no time has passed. Within minutes, we're laughing at the same jokes and finishing one another's sentences. That's how it felt pedaling my first few miles today. Now I realize I'm writing about steel and rubber, but after several thousands miles you develop a bond with your bike.<br /><br />Today's ride was an easy reintroduction -- 45 miles through beautiful country. For much of the ride I was retracing my path out of Jackson through the Grand Tetons. After pitching my tent at the campground, I headed to the Chuckwagon restaurant at Colter Bay. As I finished dessert, I heard my name. It was Cam and Don, who I last saw in Kentucky. They noticed my bike parked outside and were looking around the restaurant to see if it was mine. We sat and talked, exchanging stories about our rides across Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, and Wyoming.<br /><br />Rain returned as I left the restaurant and I've been listening to the patter of raindrops on my tent throughout the night.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-41383706864686181182008-06-29T22:20:00.004-05:002008-06-29T22:57:13.940-05:00Wedding Break<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhT4Kqg7DI/AAAAAAAAAaM/ZE4O2DHeSHY/s1600-h/IMG_2740.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhT4Kqg7DI/AAAAAAAAAaM/ZE4O2DHeSHY/s400/IMG_2740.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217512392709172274" /></a><br />I've decided to take a break from my ride to attend my cousin Kevin's wedding in Puerto Rico. I'm flying standby so it's not certain that I'll make it. If I do, then I should be back on the Transamerica Trail in about one week. If I don't make it on a flight, then I'll be back sooner. So if you're a regular reader please check back in a few days. Regardless, I will be back to tackle my last three states. One additional benefit of taking this break from the Tetons and Yellowstone over the week of July 4th -- I'm greatly reducing the risk of being flattened by an RV driver distracted by the sight of moose, elk, or grizzlies.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-29275540627731519942008-06-28T16:17:00.012-05:002008-06-29T22:19:07.496-05:00The Grand Tetons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGcDMxkcS0I/AAAAAAAAAZE/W4SiMdKw7HU/s1600-h/IMG_2665.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGcDMxkcS0I/AAAAAAAAAZE/W4SiMdKw7HU/s400/IMG_2665.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217142211331509058" /></a><br />My first view of the Grand Tetons was the most impressive sight of the trip thus far. These mountains are so striking because there are no foothills. They just rise straight up from the valley. A series of lakes at their base provide a beautiful foreground for the peaks.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhLfH9lUfI/AAAAAAAAAZk/Usk28YzbO58/s1600-h/IMG_2673.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhLfH9lUfI/AAAAAAAAAZk/Usk28YzbO58/s400/IMG_2673.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217503166394094066" /></a><br /><br />Before the Grand Tetons came into view yesterday, I had to climb to Togwotee Pass.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhO6FvtbxI/AAAAAAAAAaE/NcNO3GO2-vo/s1600-h/IMG_2651.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhO6FvtbxI/AAAAAAAAAaE/NcNO3GO2-vo/s400/IMG_2651.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217506928190385938" /></a><br />The uphill ride was long but gentle. At 9600 feet, two workers were sholving snow on a side road to clear the way to a fishing lake that was still partially iced over.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhKcdK3KyI/AAAAAAAAAZU/ZGYWWT2iGlc/s1600-h/IMG_2660.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhKcdK3KyI/AAAAAAAAAZU/ZGYWWT2iGlc/s400/IMG_2660.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217502021035698978" /></a><br />At the pass, someone had posted a warning to bike thieves.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhK8Agpz4I/AAAAAAAAAZc/t4Gg35a748s/s1600-h/IMG_2657.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhK8Agpz4I/AAAAAAAAAZc/t4Gg35a748s/s400/IMG_2657.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217502563098283906" /></a><br />After reaching the pass, I had a nineteen mile descent. As I approached the Grand Tetons park entrance, I encountered my second stretch of construction that day. The flagger told me that I would have to be transported through the construction. Complaining that they were depriving me of two and a half miles of my cross-country ride got me nowhere. I'll still claim that I biked coast to coast.<br /><br />Once in the park, I biked to Signal Mountain campground on Jackson Lake. A ranger directed me to one of the last two available sites. I spent the afternoon and evening down by the lake taking in the view and watching the sun set.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhL51Qds4I/AAAAAAAAAZs/grO2cHuqz5E/s1600-h/IMG_2700.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhL51Qds4I/AAAAAAAAAZs/grO2cHuqz5E/s400/IMG_2700.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217503625229480834" /></a><br />Today's thirty mile ride to Jackson, WY could not have been more enjoyable. The winds were light, the road ran downhill, and the views were amazing. I was slowed only by my many stops to take pictures.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhNCw1eeLI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/dY1_pqxrcl0/s1600-h/IMG_2720.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGhNCw1eeLI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/dY1_pqxrcl0/s400/IMG_2720.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217504878172993714" /></a><br />The traffic into Jackson was heavy with a steady flow of RVs. Jackson is the quintessential resort town, full of stores clearly catering to the throngs of tourists. The Snake River Brewery and the people watching made it an enjoyable place to pass the afternoon.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-45733280352449769192008-06-26T20:11:00.008-05:002008-06-28T16:10:55.520-05:00The Valley Of Warm Winds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGRKNdxeNzI/AAAAAAAAAYk/IiOAVSZHziM/s1600-h/IMG_2639.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGRKNdxeNzI/AAAAAAAAAYk/IiOAVSZHziM/s400/IMG_2639.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216375863592761138" /></a><br />When an eastbound and westbound biker cross paths on the Transamerica Trail, one usually always crosses the road to stop and discuss the trip, share information about the upcoming towns and sights, and talk about the highlights. There is usually a shared excitement about meeting someone else on this adventure. Occasionally though, I've encountered some unenthusiastic downers. Today, I met a group of rather sour folks. Of course, everyone is entitled to a bad day. But even bad days out here are pretty damn good. And they had nothing to be down about as they had 25 mile per hour tailwinds blowing them down the road. I figure these folks aren't long for the ride.<br /><br />After my rest day, I was ready to tackle the ride to Dubois. On my day off, I fixed a slow leak in my front tire and bought a new rear tire, as the original was starting to shred. Russ called me last night advising me to start early because he faced strong winds on his ride into Dubois. The map should have been warning enough. I was going to be riding past mountains known as the "Winds" onto the Wind River Reservation through more badlands formed by the wind to Dubois in the "Valley of the Warm Winds." And in Dubois every other motel and store has "wind" in the name.<br /><br />The scenery was a nice distraction from the fact that I was crawling.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGRKmSW5d-I/AAAAAAAAAYs/OCmwxPtskDM/s1600-h/IMG_2631.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGRKmSW5d-I/AAAAAAAAAYs/OCmwxPtskDM/s400/IMG_2631.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216376290025240546" /></a><br />Striated hills and buttes rose on both sides of the road and red hills created a stark contrast with the blue sky.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGRLL4tTBTI/AAAAAAAAAY0/W9OGbHK_-o0/s1600-h/IMG_2623.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGRLL4tTBTI/AAAAAAAAAY0/W9OGbHK_-o0/s400/IMG_2623.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216376935974896946" /></a><br />For the last fifteen miles of the ride, the road followed the winding Wind River. Vegetation by the roadside was prickly and in bloom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGRLtDwS_sI/AAAAAAAAAY8/jbontdasgUk/s1600-h/IMG_2615.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGRLtDwS_sI/AAAAAAAAAY8/jbontdasgUk/s400/IMG_2615.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216377505875951298" /></a><br />In the middle of nowhere I passed a wooden sign for the "Trial Lawyers College." If the side road hadn't led uphill, I would have been tempted to investigate.<br /><br />There was a contingent of westbound riders on the road today. Menno, Wayne, and Dianne arrived in Lander yesterday and were also headed to Dubois, as was Marc, whom I met in Chanute, and his biking partner Dennis. As we arrived one-by-one in Dubois, we gathered at the Cowboy Cafe for dinner.<br /><br />Tomorrow morning starts with a thirty mile climb of 3000 feet and then a long descent into Grand Teton National Park. I'm determined to rise earlier than the wind tomorrow, if that's possible.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-19709630014472777092008-06-24T22:14:00.006-05:002008-06-25T14:49:22.954-05:00Rough Day In Badlands<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKLfucJCrI/AAAAAAAAAX8/6bvtXbH-SuE/s1600-h/IMG_2606.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKLfucJCrI/AAAAAAAAAX8/6bvtXbH-SuE/s400/IMG_2606.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215884695606725298" /></a><br />Yesterday I had my first, and hopefully my last, experience biking on an interstate highway. Given the lack of paved roads out here, Interstate 80 was the only available road heading toward Rawlins for thirteen miles. Fortunately, the shoulders were wide. As I navigated through one shredded tire after another, I contemplated how I would avoid the shrapnel if a passing truck blew one of its tires.<br /><br />I exited the highway and rode through Sinclair, WY, a true company town. It shares its name with the Sinclair Oil Corporation and consists mainly of an oil refinery. A town hall, police station and former hotel, built in the 1920's in the Spanish Colonial style, make up the rest of Sinclair.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKcqfpsRaI/AAAAAAAAAYc/3SDB1isBA9U/s1600-h/IMG_2586.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKcqfpsRaI/AAAAAAAAAYc/3SDB1isBA9U/s400/IMG_2586.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215903572313261474" /></a><br />The hotel, which according to a plaque had once set the standard for luxury in the region, now appeared to be a church mission.<br /><br />After a lunch break in Rawlins, I decided to push on to Muddy Gap, where there was supposedly a gas station and camping. I was barely out of town when the sky darkened and light rain began to fall. Somehow I managed to thread the needle and avoid the storm clouds to the east and west and ride under the brighter skies to the north. In the afternoon, I continued to see many pronghorns grazing.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKNRlpq5xI/AAAAAAAAAYM/O9pPHqnUHhs/s1600-h/IMG_2580.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKNRlpq5xI/AAAAAAAAAYM/O9pPHqnUHhs/s400/IMG_2580.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215886651752638226" /></a><br />When I arrived at Muddy Gap, there were no signs for a campground and the clerk at the store didn't know of any official campsites. She directed me to a residence down the road where she had seen people pitch their tents. I rolled up to the house and rang the bell. The woman who answered said I was welcome to camp on her property. It appeared to be a former RV park. There were still a few numbered posts, electrical outlets and outhouses on the property. The only caveat: "We have rattlers, so watch out." I did, but fortunately, I never saw one.<br /><br />Today, my destination was Lander. The day started off well with light winds during a twenty-two mile stretch into Jeffrey City, where I had breakfast. After not seeing any eastbound cyclists for a week, I passed eight on my way to Jeffrey City, a group of three, a pair of women, and three guys doing solo trips.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKMRBExayI/AAAAAAAAAYE/In2IpfjOywI/s1600-h/IMG_2590.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKMRBExayI/AAAAAAAAAYE/In2IpfjOywI/s400/IMG_2590.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215885542422571810" /></a><br />Jeffrey City was a former uranium mining site, but now had the feel of a ghost town. The cafe in town served a heaping breakfast and a surprisingly good homemade cinnamon roll. But the glass of milk I ordered was terribly sour. After I asked the waitress to check the date on the bottle, she didn't share it with me but quickly whisked away my glass. As I was finishing my meal, a Wyoming health inspector came in to take a tour with the owner. I heard talk of improper temperatures for food storage. As it's over twelve hours since I ate there and my stomach hasn't revolted, I think I'm in the clear.<br /><br />The ride through southern Wyoming takes me back to Kansas and eastern Colorado. Wyoming isn't as flat as Kansas but it often provides wide-open vistas and the desert-like vegetation is similar to Colorado. At one point I crossed over the Oregon Trail and Pony Express route.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKPcolJfDI/AAAAAAAAAYU/okFqx4WJivU/s1600-h/IMG_2597.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SGKPcolJfDI/AAAAAAAAAYU/okFqx4WJivU/s400/IMG_2597.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215889040540793906" /></a><br />Not to be outdone by Kansas, today Wyoming showed me what its wind could do. Thirty miles outside of Lander I was blown off the road for the first time. Luckily, I managed to stay on my bike and the ditch by the side of the road was not too deep or steep. As I continued on, storm clouds began to form to the northwest and the winds became more fierce. Some gusts practically held me in place. I stopped several times because I couldn't stay upright. It was almost humorous until I got my second flat tire of the trip. I hurriedly changed the tube as thunder rumbled and lightning flashed around me. Again I lucked out, because the storm was all bark and no bite. Only a few rain drops fell. After what may qualify as three of the toughest hours of the trip thus far, the route turned due north for the last nine miles to Lander, turning headwinds into sidewinds.<br /><br />Surprisingly, I had a tough time finding a place to stay in Lander on a Tuesday night. I managed to get the last room at the eighth place I tried. From the looks of it, this will be a nice town to spend a rest day.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-32814908557417854202008-06-22T23:00:00.001-05:002008-06-23T08:19:56.847-05:00Roaming Wyoming<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8rBpbn1XI/AAAAAAAAAXs/Z49L6cOR-Ek/s1600-h/IMG_2569.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8rBpbn1XI/AAAAAAAAAXs/Z49L6cOR-Ek/s400/IMG_2569.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214934200819897714" /></a><br />Back in Chicago, as I thought about this ride, it seemed like a monumental undertaking. Many people considered it slightly, if not entirely, crazy. Of course, the ride seems far less "crazy" on the Trail because so many others are doing the same thing. There are also a number of people out here who are on adventures that fall on a completely different scale. One Brit, who I have heard much about but missed meeting when I was off-route in Missouri, has been riding a Penny Farthing around the world for over two years. He uses a riding crop for animal control. And yesterday, as I rested at Muddy Pass, I met a German woman on a motorcycle, who told me about her two-year bicycling adventure from Alaska to Mexico City and many places in between. <br /><br />My trip over the past two days has taken me over the Continental Divide again and into Wyoming. Yesterday's climb to Muddy Pass was gentle, confirming the Rockies' reputation as less strenuous than the Appalachians. The scenery continued to impress. Colorado provided the most striking setting thus far in both its beauty and diversity. From the dry, hot, and brown plains to the snowy, cool, and green mountains.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8mWTI-D5I/AAAAAAAAAXU/kPVwuUDUsuo/s1600-h/IMG_2559.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8mWTI-D5I/AAAAAAAAAXU/kPVwuUDUsuo/s400/IMG_2559.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214929058055196562" /></a><br />But just so I provide a complete and honest picture -- Colorado wasn't perfect. It seems the state may be in need of civil engineers with experience in road building because many roads are plagued by long cracks every fifteen feet. This results in a very annoying bump every five seconds. And so my friends in Missouri don't think that I only pick on Missouri drivers, Colorado drivers rate as the second worst of the trip so far. I think drivers ed in this state skips the lesson on the brake, since few seem to understand its purpose. <br /><br />I spent my last night in Colorado in the Walden town park. Menno, Wayne, and Diane were also camped out there. We had pizzas delivered to the park's gazebo for dinner. The town was blocking off Main Street and holding a dance from 8 pm to midnight, but I wasn't sure how my Chicago-style moves would go over, so I didn't attend.<br /><br />This morning began with a twenty-two mile ride to the Wyoming border. At the border, some dissatisfied visitor had shot a bullet through the head of the cowboy on the Wyoming welcome sign. Looked like he also put a few bullets in the cowboy's horse.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8qGdhjkXI/AAAAAAAAAXk/Olbusinhz9I/s1600-h/IMG_2567.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8qGdhjkXI/AAAAAAAAAXk/Olbusinhz9I/s400/IMG_2567.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214933184011276658" /></a><br />The terrain today was rolling. One of the larger hills that had a fairly straight descent allowed me to reach 44 mph. Mountains still rise on the horizon, though most are smaller in scale than those in Colorado.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8sDxfvkqI/AAAAAAAAAX0/CRIu4S2rdts/s1600-h/IMG_2564.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8sDxfvkqI/AAAAAAAAAX0/CRIu4S2rdts/s400/IMG_2564.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214935336856031906" /></a><br />Rock croppings, like those pictured at the top of the post, dot the landscape. Wyoming is as notorious as Kansas for tough winds, but today the winds were light and for a short time were at my back. I passed several pronghorn antelope running by the side of he road.<br /><br />I planned on a long day to Rawlins, WY, but the waitress at my lunch stop changed my mind. "Rawlins is the armpit of the West," she told me. She said that I should stop at Saratoga, the next town, eighteen miles down the road. The free, hot, sulphur springs in town convinced me.<br /><br />Once again, Menno, Wayne, Dianne, and I ended up in the same town, so we decided to split a two-room suite at a local motel two blocks from the springs, where we all headed after unpacking. At 114 degrees, the water straddled the line between pain and pleasure.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8otbD1WOI/AAAAAAAAAXc/jzxkoq9PYZE/s1600-h/IMG_2576.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SF8otbD1WOI/AAAAAAAAAXc/jzxkoq9PYZE/s400/IMG_2576.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214931654341384418" /></a>The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-67703104949033760182008-06-20T16:21:00.013-05:002008-06-20T21:05:06.641-05:00Hoosier Pass<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwuWCqf99I/AAAAAAAAAWc/zfe3HkIoISI/s1600-h/IMG_2516.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwuWCqf99I/AAAAAAAAAWc/zfe3HkIoISI/s400/IMG_2516.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214093424795318226" /></a><br />Out of pure superstition, I've been hesitant to write too much about the streak of beautiful weather that I've had. I still have a long way to go and the weather could turn at any point. But over the past few weeks, I have enjoyed a significant run of gorgeous days. Yesterday and today were no exceptions. Two weeks ago cyclists were biking through the Rockies in a snow storm. I'm sure that has its charms, but I am glad to be riding in the warmth of the sun.<br /><br />Yesterday began with unfinished business -- climbing the last twelve miles to Hoosier Pass. With a few breaks to catch my breath and take pictures of the stunning surroundings, the climb was not too taxing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwtsDWSGEI/AAAAAAAAAWU/oGDyp8NhHIc/s1600-h/IMG_2515.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwtsDWSGEI/AAAAAAAAAWU/oGDyp8NhHIc/s400/IMG_2515.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214092703424452674" /></a><br />At the pass, I took a hike up a trail to get unimpeded views of the valley below and mountain ranges in the distance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwusuSBLUI/AAAAAAAAAWk/W3nRsayv3zc/s1600-h/IMG_2517.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwusuSBLUI/AAAAAAAAAWk/W3nRsayv3zc/s400/IMG_2517.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214093814460919106" /></a><br />I was just above the tree line and had to cross over patches of melting snow. Later I heard that the rapid snow melt from these mountains was causing flooding back in Canon City.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwvOfcOqjI/AAAAAAAAAWs/jRWaCsCIc3w/s1600-h/IMG_2519.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwvOfcOqjI/AAAAAAAAAWs/jRWaCsCIc3w/s400/IMG_2519.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214094394592766514" /></a><br />The reward of climbing to the pass was the exhilarating ride down the other side. The eleven miles into Breckenridge went considerably faster than the previous twelve. With only fifteen more miles to ride for the day, all on a bike path, I stopped into the Breckenridge Brewery. I had lunch on a deck overlooking the empty slopes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwwt9MaIYI/AAAAAAAAAW0/OtymqByl_RM/s1600-h/IMG_2525.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwwt9MaIYI/AAAAAAAAAW0/OtymqByl_RM/s400/IMG_2525.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214096034667045250" /></a><br />I met up with Menno and another couple, Wayne and Dianne, at a campground on the Dillon Reservoir.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwxM2yGLWI/AAAAAAAAAW8/DIVdqwdbX0A/s1600-h/IMG_2545.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwxM2yGLWI/AAAAAAAAAW8/DIVdqwdbX0A/s400/IMG_2545.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214096565522017634" /></a><br />I pitched my tent at their campsite and, after a bone-chilling dip in the reservoir, I ate dinner with them. Not long after the sun set, I was fast asleep.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwx_LUNtsI/AAAAAAAAAXE/ucVMP-SqQwE/s1600-h/IMG_2533.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwx_LUNtsI/AAAAAAAAAXE/ucVMP-SqQwE/s400/IMG_2533.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214097430027286210" /></a><br />The temperature this morning was in the high thirties or low forties, but it warmed up quickly as the sun rose. I continued to reap the rewards of the past few days of climbing, as my ride today was mostly downhill. Because there are fewer roads out West, they tend to be more heavily trafficked and allow higher speed limits, but for one twelve-mile stretch I was on a road reminiscent of those back in Virginia -- quiet and winding. It took me around the Green Mountain Reservoir and over its dam.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwy2n-bLjI/AAAAAAAAAXM/28xK4KRW8x0/s1600-h/IMG_2549.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFwy2n-bLjI/AAAAAAAAAXM/28xK4KRW8x0/s400/IMG_2549.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214098382613327410" /></a><br />Not ready to tackle a sixty-mile stretch over another pass and without any services, I decided to stop in Kremmling, CO, where I met up with Menno, Wayne and Dianne again. We are all staying at the Eastin Hotel in their "hostel" rooms. The clerk told us that these rooms in the basement, which are simple, but clean, much like those found in a monastery, are where the linens go to die.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-33165961550866078182008-06-19T08:30:00.000-05:002008-06-19T09:39:07.401-05:00Mountain Majesty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFpmqKoSLzI/AAAAAAAAAVs/MBcIDEqMp0w/s1600-h/IMG_2497.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFpmqKoSLzI/AAAAAAAAAVs/MBcIDEqMp0w/s400/IMG_2497.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213592393228627762" /></a><br />Yesterday provided a challenging ride in a beautiful setting. The morning weather could not have been better. Full sun kept me warm as I climbed into cooler air. Unlike riding in the Appalachians, in the Rockies I have a constant view of the mountains around me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFpo87GA5gI/AAAAAAAAAV0/U_MDF43HC6E/s1600-h/IMG_2489.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFpo87GA5gI/AAAAAAAAAV0/U_MDF43HC6E/s400/IMG_2489.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213594914499126786" /></a><br />I left the campground before the camp store opened, counting on a breakfast stop 21 miles up the road in Guffey, CO. On the way, Bill, who was driving down the mountain, stopped to see if I was planning on resting in Guffey. He suggested I eat at Rita's Place. By the time I reached Guffey, I was in need of a break. After repeatedly hearing that climbing the Appalachians is worse than the Rockies, I had underestimated the Rockies.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFpp5Xq0HII/AAAAAAAAAV8/JLfSOsZSKKM/s1600-h/IMG_2492.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFpp5Xq0HII/AAAAAAAAAV8/JLfSOsZSKKM/s400/IMG_2492.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213595952961821826" /></a><br />Rita's Place was a great oasis -- fresh, homemade food, New York bagels, and premium coffee in a relaxing environment. It's interesting that some small towns get little gems like Rita's, while others are stuck with dumps serving mediocre food. I guess it's just luck.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFpq1jQZOqI/AAAAAAAAAWE/WPz6Qn3y2U8/s1600-h/IMG_2493.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFpq1jQZOqI/AAAAAAAAAWE/WPz6Qn3y2U8/s400/IMG_2493.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213596986864384674" /></a><br />A large group of motorcycle riders on an organized tour also streamed through the cafe. I lingered long after finishing my breakfast, not quite ready to return to the climb. <br /><br />Riding through Currant Creek Pass, at 9400 feet, I had a panoramic view of the mountain range with snow-capped peaks across the horizon. The elevation began taking a toll. I was breathing deeper and resting more often. By the afternoon, the weather also made the ride more challenging. A headwind began blowing and clouds rolled in.<br /><br />Twenty-five miles later, I was ready for another meal, so I stopped in the H.O.B. cafe and saloon in Hartsel. It was the antithesis of Rita's. Inside I learned that the acronym stands for "Heartless Old Bitch." The service lived up to the name. Later in the day, another cyclist told me that after he ate there, the waitress wouldn't fill his water bottles. He thought she was joking. She wasn't.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFprlmWbT3I/AAAAAAAAAWM/Kwjddp936pE/s1600-h/IMG_2500.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFprlmWbT3I/AAAAAAAAAWM/Kwjddp936pE/s400/IMG_2500.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213597812328714098" /></a><br />It felt like I earned my miles today. By the end I was counting the miles to the finish line in Fairplay, CO. There are several other westbound cyclists in town. When I checked into the South Park Lodge, I learned that Menno, a cyclist from the Netherlands whom I met back in Pueblo, was also staying here. And at dinner, I met the Barringer family. Russ Barringer is cycling the Transamerica Trail, while his wife, Mandy, and four kids are traveling in a support van. Impressive.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-68539151241530624572008-06-17T20:16:00.014-05:002008-06-18T07:07:19.918-05:00Colorado Is Gorges (Apologies, Ithaca)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFh5fKnMYvI/AAAAAAAAAVE/pUnOObzLAa8/s1600-h/IMG_2436.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFh5fKnMYvI/AAAAAAAAAVE/pUnOObzLAa8/s400/IMG_2436.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213050145012998898" /></a><br />I followed my low-key rest day in Pueblo with an action-packed day today. Several people told me not to expect too much from Pueblo. With a population over 100,000, Pueblo is one of the largest cities, if not the largest, on the Transamerica Trail. Like a lot of cities out West that means a considerable amount of sprawl with strip malls containing just about every restaurant, retail, and motel chain that I could name in five minutes and a few that I couldn't. But it also had a historic downtown, at least one good coffee shop with wifi, and a bike path along the Arkansas River, which provided views like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFiDKT9BVBI/AAAAAAAAAVU/NV6PNbvsYto/s1600-h/IMG_2422.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFiDKT9BVBI/AAAAAAAAAVU/NV6PNbvsYto/s400/IMG_2422.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213060781859492882" /></a><br />I spent the day riding around town and taking care of a few errands, including replacing my worn brake pads. After 2600 miles, I was concerned that those pads might not stop me from careening over a cliffside during a descent in the Rockies. Unfortunately, I failed miserably in my attempt to try Pueblo's Mexican food -- the recommended restaurants were closed, one for the day and the other permanently.<br /><br />Rest days can be somewhat of a mixed blessing. I always look forward to the break, but it does make the next morning more difficult. It's akin to returning to work on Monday morning. But it usually only takes about fifteen minutes back on the bike before I pick up the old rhythm.<br /><br />At the bike shop yesterday, the mechanic suggested that I ignore the Transamerica maps and take a different road to Canon City because the recommended route was circuitous and he had ridden one of the roads and it "spooked" him. I took his suggestion, shaving about 18 miles off my morning ride. The road, a four-lane, divided highway, was busier than the ideal but it had a wide shoulder. As I rode west the Rockies became more distinct and prairie dogs popped their heads out of holes by the roadside and squeaked.<br /><br />I didn't plan to ride too many miles today because I wanted to spend a few hours at the Royal Gorge, which was only four miles off route. So when I saw a sign for the Holy Cross Abbey and Winery in Canon City, I decided it wouldn't hurt to sample a few wines. Not expecting good local wine before I hit Oregon, I was pleasantly surprised by the Abbey's selection.<br /><br />Outside of Canon City, the climbing began anew. Although the plains seemed flat, their gradual grade put me at a higher elevation in Pueblo than at any point in the Appalachians. I started the day at about 4500 feet and ended it at 6200. Over the next few days I'll climb to the highest point on the Transamerica, Hoosiers Pass at 11,500 feet.<br /><br />The four miles to Royal Gorge provided a tough climb as well, but it was worth it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFh-YN_VxfI/AAAAAAAAAVM/jxVBlDb6CJQ/s1600-h/IMG_2446.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFh-YN_VxfI/AAAAAAAAAVM/jxVBlDb6CJQ/s400/IMG_2446.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213055523218638322" /></a><br />The gorge was an impressive natural sight and the man-made features lacked the tacky kitsch that often mars these attractions. An impressive suspension bridge spans the canyon. Despite the loose boards and regular gaps, cars are allowed to cross the bridge, but most people walk.<br /><br />A cable car also takes visitors across the gorge and two railcars take them down to the Arkansas rapids running through the gorge.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFiGbJjDC4I/AAAAAAAAAVc/L-AKaLCgH_8/s1600-h/IMG_2453.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFiGbJjDC4I/AAAAAAAAAVc/L-AKaLCgH_8/s400/IMG_2453.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213064369658858370" /></a><br />Tonight I have a great view from my tent window.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFiPNXkX6ZI/AAAAAAAAAVk/8gi2u9_jppY/s1600-h/IMG_2483.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFiPNXkX6ZI/AAAAAAAAAVk/8gi2u9_jppY/s400/IMG_2483.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213074028508998034" /></a>The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-45395225923251414202008-06-15T16:00:00.000-05:002008-06-15T22:46:05.266-05:00But It's A Dry Heat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFXHuAj8QsI/AAAAAAAAAU0/D8PBCRTzglQ/s1600-h/IMG_2416.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFXHuAj8QsI/AAAAAAAAAU0/D8PBCRTzglQ/s400/IMG_2416.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212291736989876930" /></a><br />Back in Kansas I met an eastbound cyclist on the road who was visibly concerned about the amount I was sweating. I assured him it was perfectly normal. Now that I've spent a few days riding in Colorado, I think he just got used to riding in this dry heat. Being from the humid Midwest, I find it unsettling to ride in 95 degree heat, as I did yesterday, and not sweat. But I guess that's why people are so crazy about this dry heat. Unfortunately, when the heat is dry, so is everything else -- your skin, throat, mouth, and lips.<br /><br />Despite the heat, yesterday was a beautiful and clear day. Two low-hanging white clouds highlighted just how blue the sky was. As I crested a small hill I got my first look at the Rocky Mountains. Seeing the snow-capped Rockies on the horizon made me appreciate just how far I have traveled.<br /><br />My destination for the day was Ordway, CO. In April, a deadly wildfire spread through the area leaving the charred trees pictured above. Just east of town, I passed a sprawling cattle stockyard. Workers drove between the pens checking on the animals. The scene reminded me of black and white photos I've seen of Chicago's stockyards in the era of "The Jungle."<br /><br />When I arrived in Ordway, I headed over to the Ordway Hotel, which I had heard offered clean rooms at hostel rates. I walked into the hotel lobby and rang the bell at the desk. No one appeared from the back office so I took a seat in the air-conditioned lobby, welcoming the rest after my ride. I figured that the manager wouldn't be gone long because you don't just leave your hotel open and unattended. Two hours later I realized that in Ordway maybe you did leave your hotel open and unattended. My only other option for lodging was a rather depressing RV park with no showers or services, so I was really hoping someone would return to claim the hotel.<br /><br />I had learned that in small towns like Ordway, often nothing is open after 8pm, so I left the lobby to get dinner at the local cafe. I placed my order just before the kitchen closed at 7:45 pm. When I returned to the hotel the lobby was still open but there wasn't a guest or a clerk anywhere. I contemplated sleeping on one of the lobby couches, but thought better of it. I pitched my tent in the gloomy RV park just before sunset. As dark settled in, the winds shifted, filling the town with the smell of the stockyards and turning the sky hazy with dust.<br /><br />This morning I was up early and in Pueblo by noon. Between Ordway and Pueblo, I met three eastbound cyclists. Dennis, one of the bikers I met, was traveling with a support van that carried all his gear including a second bike for climbing the hills and mountains.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFXIFwbLizI/AAAAAAAAAU8/_mbAWp8nd4E/s1600-h/IMG_2417.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFXIFwbLizI/AAAAAAAAAU8/_mbAWp8nd4E/s400/IMG_2417.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212292144975022898" /></a><br />We exchanged information about some of the highlights of our respective trips. He talked up some of the craft breweries in the northwest and I told him not to expect much of that for the next 2200 miles, especially in Kentucky. As we talked, a voice came over the two-way radio strapped to his back. His support team was wondering about his ETA in Ordway. <br /><br />One final thought. As a political junkie, I've used this trip as a form of rehab. Nonetheless, when I've stayed at motels on Saturday nights, I've always tried to catch "Meet the Press" the next morning. So I was sad to hear about the death of Tim Russert. Unexpected deaths of public figures like Russert always remind me of the simple truth that tomorrow is promised to no one. It's why experiences like this can't all wait until some future retirement.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-15183380389054335852008-06-14T09:30:00.000-05:002008-06-14T19:44:19.197-05:00Transitions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFPYYHdeIiI/AAAAAAAAAUk/tVIHxvRQAgs/s1600-h/IMG_2413.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFPYYHdeIiI/AAAAAAAAAUk/tVIHxvRQAgs/s400/IMG_2413.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211747102628913698" /></a><br />The landscape changed dramatically over the course of my ride yesterday. As I moved west, farmlands disappeared, green vegetation changed to brown, the grasses turned dry and prickly, and the air lost all humidity. Lakes and rivers marked on my map were nothing but dry beds. By the time I reached Eads, Colorado, the land was all dust and patches of dry grass.<br /><br />Before leaving Scott City, KS, I stopped in the local donut shop and had my first fresh donuts of the trip. Fueled by the raspberry-filled and blueberry cake donuts, I began my trek. Because one sixty-mile stretch ran through tiny towns with no services, I had no choice but to put in a long day.<br /><br />In Western Kansas I rode through Greely County, named after Horace Greely, a champion of agrarianism in the mid-1800's and the Socialist editor of the New York Tribune.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFPXEBwANJI/AAAAAAAAAUc/0hHEELoNuwc/s1600-h/IMG_2403.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFPXEBwANJI/AAAAAAAAAUc/0hHEELoNuwc/s400/IMG_2403.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211745657987019922" /></a><br />Though he had no affiliation with the area, the local residents, named their county and two of their towns (Horace and Tribune) after Greely because of his support for the farmer. I've never read Thomas Frank's book "What's the Matter with Kansas?" but I wonder if he explains how you get from Greely to G.W.<br /><br />By 11:00 am I had entered a new time zone and soon thereafter I entered a new state. I wasn't in Colorado more than two minutes when a tumbleweed blew across the street as if on cue. Forty-two miles later and I was in Eads.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFPZ5XIDvkI/AAAAAAAAAUs/v-2HbPK59uo/s1600-h/IMG_2411.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFPZ5XIDvkI/AAAAAAAAAUs/v-2HbPK59uo/s400/IMG_2411.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211748773281381954" /></a>The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6764497425221689069.post-68409120625557930472008-06-12T18:48:00.001-05:002008-06-12T18:52:40.961-05:00The Irish of Rush Center<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFGtF_8RezI/AAAAAAAAAT8/vQ95cIfGFQQ/s1600-h/IMG_2380.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFGtF_8RezI/AAAAAAAAAT8/vQ95cIfGFQQ/s400/IMG_2380.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211136562419563314" /></a><br />I planned a short ride yesterday because I wanted to stay at a bed and breakfast for cyclists in Bazine, KS. I spent the day taking in the vast landscapes. It's easy to understand how tornadoes build up their force when you travel through these lands. I know Montana is officially big sky country, but there is a lot of sky down here too -- more because no mountains break on the horizon. A regular stream of cattle trucks passed me on the road, each one leaving a wake of stench.<br /><br />I passed a British cyclist heading east. I have now met more Brits biking east on the trail than Americans. Strangely, the guy was being followed and attacked by a swarm of flies, so we didn't talk long.<br /><br />Rush Center was my scheduled lunch stop. Entering the town I saw a sign announcing that it was home of the largest St. Patrick's parade. Curious about whether an influx of Irish immigrants started this tradition, I asked a clerk at the town gas station about the parade and whether there were many Irish in the area. “No, just a lot of drunks,” she said.<br /><br />I arrived in Bazine to find that Tim and Perry had passed me earlier in the day. They were concerned about making it to Denver in time, so they biked over one hundred miles the day before. As they headed on to the next town, I biked over to Elaine's Cyclist B&B.<br /><br />Elaine was shaking ripe mulberries out of a tree when I arrived. When I told Elaine that I grew up in Detroit and now live in Chicago, I added, “I'm a city boy.” I think she took it as an apology because she said, “That's OK, everyone has to be from somewhere.”<br /><br />Elaine and her husband, Dan Johnson, have run this relaxed B&B for about five years. In addition to the B&B, they raise cattle, farm wheat, do contract work cutting alfalfa, and breed golden retrievers. As luck would have it one of their dogs had given birth to a litter of ten puppies seven weeks ago. Elaine said that once people see her puppies they sell themselves. They <span style="font-style:italic;">were</span> irresistible. Rambunctious and playful, the puppies were constantly running, jumping, and falling down. When they tired from play fighting, they would burrow into one another and create a big puppy pile. It was great fun to watch. (I'm submitting that paragraph as my writing sample for K9 Magazine.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFGuPWo2-fI/AAAAAAAAAUE/te9SmsR3Sbk/s1600-h/IMG_2395.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFGuPWo2-fI/AAAAAAAAAUE/te9SmsR3Sbk/s400/IMG_2395.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211137822642600434" /></a> <br />Over dinner, Elaine and Dan told me about the oil prospecting in the area. Oil derricks have dotted the landscape throughout Kansas. It sounded like the mere anticipation of oil money had created tension in this town.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFGvDhXayRI/AAAAAAAAAUM/5GWSvq2q_5o/s1600-h/IMG_2370.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFGvDhXayRI/AAAAAAAAAUM/5GWSvq2q_5o/s400/IMG_2370.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211138718875437330" /></a><br />After Elaine's home cooked meal, I walked outside to watch the last of the sun's color fade from the sky. An old barbed wire fence held together by limestone posts (a substitution required due to the lack of trees) penned in the Johnsons' cattle. A calf ran so playfully among the steers that from afar I thought it was a dog. As usual this week, a storm was rolling in and hail drove me inside.<br /><br />Today was a fast ride. With very light winds from the north and west, I was averaging the highest speeds of my ride thus far. My directions for the next 300 miles are simple -- head west on Highway 96. During the ride, I learned that even buildings in the middle of nowhere don't escape graffiti.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFGxFri2D1I/AAAAAAAAAUU/z1GZjT9V2wI/s1600-h/IMG_2400.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cen3xUHAeCU/SFGxFri2D1I/AAAAAAAAAUU/z1GZjT9V2wI/s400/IMG_2400.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211140954990710610" /></a><br />When I reached Scott City, I had a difficult decision to make: check into the town hostel where I could spend the afternoon relaxing by the pool and hot tub or continue on to take advantage of the beautiful day and easy miles. I opted for the pool and hot tub, and, in all honesty, I guess it wasn't that difficult of a decision.The Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14178498700801299787noreply@blogger.com8