Marriage at Ten Miles Per Hour : jillian

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Relaxing in Portland

Stoker's Log

Vacation Day One

8/18/09

Portland, OR

Now the real vacation begins.

We slept in late this morning, really relishing it, and then headed into town with my parents to take care of the bike. The friendly guys at Bike Gallery helped us tear down and pack up our giant bike in an electric scooter box so that we could send it home via AmTrak. Then we got a custom made box from the post office and filled it with parts, tools, shoes, and other equipment that we didn't want to stuff into our luggage. We enjoyed lunch at a delicious Italian buffet (though they insulted my mother by offering her the senior citizen discount), browsed briefly in REI, and spent the rest of the afternoon on the deck admiring the spectacular view and Kyle's strange tan lines.

We spent the evening out with our wonderful hosts and their son-in-law and daughter, who is also named Jillian. We had dinner at a swanky place downtown and shopped at the Oregon University bookstore (mostly for my brother, who loves the Ducks). Then we walked the streets of Portland a bit, admiring highrises with windmills, a giant mask, and a sign for our frisbee team's beloved P-Funk.

We were also impressed by the sheer volume of cycling traffic. Cyclists were everywhere, and cars had no choice but to respect them and share the road. Once again, Oregon was clearly a bicycle paradise.

Our ultimate destination was, no surprises here, a baseball stadium. The Portland Beavers, the Padres' AAA team, were facing the Iowa Cubs.

Initially down 3-0, the Beavers rallied to pull off a comeback and ended up winning 6-3. It was a great game and I really enjoyed myself. I also enjoyed a gigantic bag of cotton candy.

I did share some with the kid sitting in front of us, but it was still way more sugar that a human being should ever consume in one sitting.

Speaking of dangerous temptations, after the game my mother and I demanded that we stop at the world famous Powell's bookstore. It was wonderfully vast, and even though it was close to closing time I still walked out with a pile of books, including Orlando, Ultramarathon Man, and a few travelogues (which I justified as "research.") If we had had more time I may have needed a wheelbarrow to get out of there.

We got back to find that everyone else was asleep and that the view from the deck was just as impressive at night.

| posted at: 06:25 | permanent link and comments

Monday, August 17, 2009

63: FIN

Stoker's Log

Day Sixty-Three

8/17/09

From Eugene, OR

To Florence, OR

75.3 miles

10.2 avg mph

It was our last day, and we didn't even really know how to feel about it, other than amazed. Back in Wyoming we would have known exactly how to feel: exuberant, relieved, finally free. But then western Oregon gave us some of the best cycling of our lives, making our push to the finish feel a little less desperate. But even though we were in less of a rush to escape the bike, we were still very driven to finish the trip, to know that we had done it, to have the accomplishment firmly in our grip. As our miles-remaining count got lower and lower this week, I felt a growing sense of relief and confidence, because I knew that even if the bike broke down or one of us got injured we could find some way to make it work for the last few miles. And when we woke up this morning I was overwhelmed by the realization: we were actually going to make it across the country.

The trip still had a few surprises left for us on the final day. Two of my dad's favorite pastimes are watching minor league baseball and talking to new people, so I wasn't surprised to hear that he'd made friends with a local at a Eugene Emeralds game and told him all about our adventure. I was surprised when we heard that the guy had talked to his friends at a local news station, who would be sending a reporter to interview us this morning. The ready and raring one-man crew showed up at the hotel while we were packing up after breakfast.

He had some trouble keeping track of our wedding, start, and home locations, but otherwise it went well. We answered questions about the trip and rode slowly around the parking lot a few times for the B-roll. It was a fun time, and since no one we know will see the final product it wasn't even stressful.

After our fifteen minutes of local fame, we rode all of five miles (four if we hadn't gotten lost) to the Wandering Goat Coffee Shop, where we grabbed a morning pick-me-up and hung out with our new friends Aaron and Laura.

We had suspected that they were our kind of people when we saw that they were riding their tandem to the geographic center of every state, but it was nice to confirm it in person. They were fantastic and we had a great time swapping bike stories and repair tips, and we also asked them all about Eugene, because we're already falling in love with it enough to consider moving here. The job market is tough, of course, but they both managed to land perfect jobs for them: Laura teaches music and Aaron works for Burley, a company that makes bike trailers and other equipment. Best of all, they can both bike to work on Eugene's vast network of bike paths.

Soon Aaron had to do just that, so we all climbed on our bikes and saw more of delightful Eugene before parting ways. It was sad to say goodbye to our new friends and their amazing town, but we were very motivated by the signs leading to our final destination, Florence.

I started to feel sick in the strangely named town of Noti, but a break at a convenience store helped somewhat and we continued on down the small highway, passing through swampland followed by forests of very tall trees.

We happened on Morning Glory Farm, where Kyle enjoyed a smoothie and I consumed an entire container of blueberries.

They were delicious.

And have I mentioned that I love riding in forest shade?

It was lovely. Unfortunately the landscape started to look a lot more orange and yellow as we entered a construction zone and the traffic volume picked up. The lines of cones and pylons looked endless, and the flag people were not nearly as friendly or competent as our friends in Wyoming. But Oregon still demonstrated its care for cyclists with a bike warning light in one of the tighter tunnels.

We finally turned off of the road with the heaviest construction onto one with inactive work zones, and we also took the opportunity to stop at a small coffee shop with a great name: Caffeination Station. The decor was cheery, the owner was friendly, and Kyle's new friend was thirsty.

We got back on the road reinvigorated, talking about our plans to move to Eugene someday and singing our Bicycle Fantasy song at the top of our lungs. (Or was that last one just me?) We also wondered whether anyone still lived in the little house on top of the moving bridge.

My stomach was still bothering me, but it ceased to matter as we got closer and closer to Florence and we got more and more excited. My parents were already there, looking for a place where we could conveniently get the bike to the beach. (They discovered that our original endpoint was actually a cliff overlooking the water, which wouldn't have been the same.) We started a gleeful countdown at each new road sign.

My parents found a good place for us to finish, and they insisted on guiding us there themselves, driving ahead and jumping out of the car to direct us at every turn. They may have been more excited than we were. Finally we reached a "Staging Area" along the Oregon Dunes and followed them into the parking lot. A mountain of sand and brush stood between us and the not-yet-visible ocean.

We shouldered the bike together and followed my mom up the dune. We struggled forward, whipped by the winds and constantly stumbling. It was a fitting final challenge, really.

It was probably also fitting that it was unbelievably cold, just like the morning we set out on this crazy journey. As we crested the dune, however, we were glad that it had worked out this way. It was so much more dramatic to suddenly see the ocean spread out in front of us.

We stumbled down the slope like giddy kids and carried the bike to the ocean that we'd been seeking for so long.

Unfortunately it was much, much too cold for us to go rushing into the water the way I'd imagined it a hundred times. Instead we dipped the wheel in and ran back as quickly as we could.

I actually ran away a bit too quickly and left Kyle stranded for a moment. Ooops.

It wasn't quite sunset, so we waited on the beach, shivering together, taking photos, collecting stones and shells, and calling family and friends, though it was hard to communicate with them over the raging wind. If only it had been a little warmer so that we could have enjoyed the beautiful beach and fun dunes.

My wonderful parents stuck it out with us, and my father even braved the water so that he could put his hand in the Pacific Ocean.

We also talked to a vacationing French family, the only other people crazy enough to be at the beach in this weather. Finally the sun was low enough for my mom to take our victory photo, which made us indescribably happy then and every time we've looked at it since.

After the nice riding in western Oregon we had no desire to throw the bike into the ocean (back in Kansas it was a different story) so we lugged it back over the dune and packed it into the car. Then it was off to Portland, where our relatives John and Trish will be hosting all of us for a few days. I had trouble adjusting to riding in a car for an extended period of time; it felt too fast and abrupt after two months of living at ten miles per hour. So I was glad to take a break for dinner at the Steelhead Brewery back in Eugene.

It was fantastic, and I felt much better as we headed into Portland and up the twisting and turning hill road to our friends' home. They were asleep, but they had left a charming celebratory gift for us in the kitchen.

We went to bed feeling very welcome, very exhausted, and very triumphant. We actually did it; we rode from coast to coast. I just can't get over it all.

WE MADE IT!

| posted at: 06:23 | permanent link and comments

Sunday, August 16, 2009

62: My Bicycling Fantasy

Stoker's Log

Day Sixty-Two

8/16/09

From Redmund, OR

To Eugene, OR

122.4 miles

12.1 avg mph

The morning was cold, Kyle wasn't feeling well, and we were gearing up for a 120 mile day, but nothing could ruin our good moods: we were beginning our second-to-last day of the trip, and the Three Sisters mountains made for breathtaking scenery.

Plus my parents had made it to Oregon. We met up with them in the town of Sisters, which was pretty but very touristy and crowded. We stopped in at a bakery for muffins, cheesebread, danishes, and all manner of delicious goods.

While we were gaining weight, our bike was losing it: we put the trailer in my parents' car and made plans to meet up with them later in the ride. Now I know how all of those cyclists who go on supported tours feel: fast and awesome. We flew through the forests... And then we hit the mountain passes, whose steepness and switchbacks make the roads impassable by larger vehicles.

But you know what? It was a fairly pleasant climb. A fun climb, even. Yes, it was strenous at times, and yes, I would have appreciated a wider shoulder. But it was shaded and scenic and I felt like we were riding really well. (And not just because we didn't have the trailer... though that helped.) Even when my feet felt like they were on fire, I managed to enjoy the climb. And then we stumbled upon a gigantic point of interest that we never expected: an expansive lava field.

Our goal was to beat my parents to the summit (granted, they had taken a few touristy detours, but they still had a car) and we were victorious!

And at the summit was another surprise: the Dee Wright Observatory castle. It was built from the lava rock and includes viewing windows framing different Cascade peaks.

And soon my parents were there as well, bearing Subway subs and Powerade (they know us so well).

We wandered around for a bit and then made our way to what promised to be an exhilirating downhill. Unfortunately one of our brakes was sticking, again. Kyle was not about to be robbed of the best downhill we've seen all trip, so we pulled over and he wrenched it open and we went on our merry but slightly dangerous way.

It was an insane and intense descent; Kyle was having the time of his life navigating the switchbacks. We didn't have to worry about cars because we were going just as fast as they were. It would have been terrifying if I had needed to stear or if I wasn't already used to Kyle's daring descents, but I just pretended that I was on a controlled roller coaster and enjoyed every minute of it.

Our parents were waiting for us at the bottom, chatting with a pair of motorcyclists. They were all overly relieved to see us arrive safely; apparently an ambulance had charged up the hill a few minutes before, sirens blazing, and after seeing the switchbacks they were terrified that it was coming for us. We reassured them, said goodbye for now, and rode on.

We rode along, pretending to be pirates (you know, the usual) and felt great when we passed two other cyclists. We pulled into a general store to get icecream and spent a few minutes talking to a cyclist who appeared to be eating tuna from a can. We also tried to call Aaron and Laura, fellow Hase Pino riders that we met online who are gradually riding to the geographic center of every state. They seem really cool and they happen to live in Eugene, so we're really hoping to meet up with them today or tomorrow.

You might remember my hit song "The Magic of Kansas," which chronicled all of the ways in which Kansas was horrible to an almost miraculous extent (except for the people, who were legitimately magical). Today I wrote a new state song: "Oregon: You're My Bicycle Fantasy"

Or-e-gon, You're My Bicycle fantasy

Or-e-gon, you're my bicycle dream

Slight downhill, regular bathrooms, and scenery

Shoulder space, dolphin riding, and shade from trees

And so on... It's true though. The road was amazing, the perfect cycling route with shade, a wide shoulder, and a slight slope (in our favor for once). It was also along the water, which meant a nice view, cute riverfront homes, and regular bathrooms at all of the boat ramps. At the one where we stopped there were two adorable girls picking blackberries and poking a dead salmon with a stick (until their mother realized what they'd discovered). And the dolphin riding? For some reason I decided that this attractions sign heralded not only fishing and picnicking, but shark riding and dolphin riding. (I guess you had to be there.)

Once again we were racing against the setting sun, but for once it felt exhilirating to be zooming along as fast and free as possible. My parents caught up to us at sunset, but they kindly offered to keep the trailer and drive into town to find us a hotel since we hadn't heard back from Aaron and Laura yet. We still hated riding in the dark for miles and miles, but it wasn't overly cold and knowing that a hotel room would be waiting for us was a major relief. We rode and rode and raced a townie on a bicycle and rode and rode and crossed a few bridges and rode and rode and finally got to the hotel, where our parents gave us the trailer and the enthusiastic Motel 6 people gave us cookies and a room key.

It was then that Aaron called us back; it was too late to stay with them, but we made a coffee date for tomorrow morning, which should be a great way to start our LAST DAY. (Yes, we're very excited.) Our last task of the day was to rustle up some dinner, so we headed to the empty pizza place across the street and enjoyed a gigantic table all to ourselves while we waited for our food to arrive.

Here's to being almost finished!!!

| posted at: 06:21 | permanent link and comments

Saturday, August 15, 2009

61: Fierce Plums and Friendly Riders

Stoker's Log

Day Sixty-One

8/15/09

From Mitchell, OR

To Redmund, OR

76.8 miles

9.0 avg mph

It was a wonderful morning at the Oregon Hotel in Mitchell (especially when we came downstairs to find giant homemade muffins waiting for all the guests).

We packed our chocolate muffins up for later and headed down the main street, by which I mean the only street. Everything was very wooden and Western; it was Dodge City or Dubois without the tourism, and we liked it quite a bit.

We saw signs for a public boarding school, which seemed strange until we realized that the towns around here are so small and people live so far apart that bussing students to normal day schools is not an option.

A few doors down from the hotel was a saloon/cafe, where we went for breakfast. The walls were decorated with old newspaper articles about a flood, including photos of cops in bowties and the story of a man who successfully rode his house down the river for miles. We ate a great breakfast, bought frozen snickers bars for later, and got on the road.

After a slightly chilly descent into the valley, we started a long climb in the heat. We were tempted to take a break on a gigantic rocking chair, but decided we were already doing enough climbing.

At least the scenery was interesting.

Plus we got to see a parade of classic cars, twice, as they took a Sunday drive up and down the winding road.

On our way up to the Ochoco Pass Summit, we ran into Steve again, who was impressed that we'd made it to Mitchell after all. And soon after we met another cyclist named Ben. He was from England, a recent grad about to enter the business world, and he had decided to spend his last free summer seeing America for the first time. We had a great chat with him about bikes and traveling while we sat on a tree stump eating the delicious chocolate muffins from the hotel and the (still unmelted!) Snickers from the saloon. We eventually got back on the road, happy to be sharing it with other cycling tourists.

Steve and Ben were both faster than us, but Ben started getting flat tires so we ended up leap-frogging each other most of the way. And we were having our own problems; Kyle was sure that something was dragging or catching to reduce our downhill speed, which is always frustrating. But for the most part we enjoyed the ride and the mixed scenery.

We rode along Ochoko Lake, stopping at a small store with an energetic sign man and an equally friendly owner.

For the first time in a long time we had cell service, so I called my parents while we drank our cold sodas. They're flying to Portland to stay with friends and see us to the finish line, and hopefully we can meet up with them even earlier (especially since they could carry the trailer for us!). We also realized that from the store we had exactly 200 miles left to the coast, so we departed the store in an especially energized mood.

We rode through Prineville, Oregon's oldest city. Kyle kept talking about the name in a weird, shrill voice; I was a little confused, but it was nice to be in a goofy mood again. We decided to take the long way round to Redmund instead of the busy and steep highway. It was an excellent decision, and we found ourselves riding through picturesque farmland and rolling hills. I felt so liberated and energized, utterly content to be on the bicycle. It was one of those beautiful moments that have been far too rare on this chaotic trip.

And then it got even better. We spotted a cyclist coming up behind us, and realized it was Ben. He caught up and this time we rode together instead of passing each other back and forth. We talked about the different regions we'd ridden through, and the various dogs, strangers, and cultural quirks we'd encountered on the way. We also traded stats and were mutually impressed; today was an especially long day for Ben, who tackled two mountain passes and over 100 miles. It just felt really great to have a friendly riding companion alongside us. We're not sure why the only people who seem to ride with us are Brits -- maybe no one told them about the prevailing winds either -- but we aren't complaining.

We eventually caught up to Steve, who had already set up his campsite for the night. He seemed impressed that we were once again making our slow but stubborn way to our planned destination. Ben continued on with us until we were just outside Redmund, where he found a good spot to stealth camp, and we continued into town to hunt for a motel with laundry, which we finally founded at a Motel 6. We also found a very fierce plum.

Told you.

We then capped off the evening with a very nice Mexican dinner. We figured we deserved it after so many granola bar dinners, and we were also in a mood to celebrate. It had been a good ride, and we only have two days left. TWO! We were happy enough to hula hoop.

| posted at: 06:15 | permanent link and comments

Friday, August 14, 2009

60: Here There Be Cougars, Cows, and Shoe Trees, But No Dinosaurs

Stoker's Log

Day Sixty

8/14/09

From John Day, OR

To Mitchell, OR

79.5 miles

8.6 avg mph

Even though yesterday destroyed us, we couldn't afford to take a full rest day, but we did let ourselves sleep in and enjoy a large and leisurely breakfast at the restaurant across the street. The carb overload was welcome, though we were a little disturbed when the cinnamon roll with icing came with a side of butter. We didn't get going until around 11, continuing the vicious cycle of late mornings leading to late nights leading to late mornings.

A few miles into the ride, I started to feel really dizzy, and it got bad enough that we had to stop at a park to rest. We noticed a poster on the message board warning about cougar sightings in the area and explaining what to do in the event of an encounter (look as intimidating as impossible, prepare to fight back if necessary, and never, ever, ever give into the logical urge to RUN). It was at this point that Kyle decided to tell me about the cougar the night before. I quietly flipped out over the fact that it had happened, and then over the fact that he had kept it from me, but soon I got over it and we got back on the road.

We stopped at the gas station that marked the end of town, then headed into farm and ranch country. It was a pleasant, scenic, and largely downhill ride that would have been perfect if not for the lack of bathrooms for over 3 hours. We finally made it to a park where we found bathrooms and a cyclist named Steve, a middle school math teacher also on his way West. It was still early afternoon, but he was done riding for the day, planning to spend the night at a nearby church that regularly hosted cyclists and even had showers. He suggested that we stay there too, saying that there was no way we'd make it to Mitchell. He was a nice guy, but we were really getting tired of people telling us that our plans are impossible. We couldn't justify giving up half a day of riding time at this point, so we said goodbye to him and rode on.

We were riding the Oregon Scenic Byway, which billed itself as a "Journey Through Time." The rock structures lining the road were certainly impressive.

We couldn't stop to take in the sights, however, because we really wanted to reach the Fossil Beds National Monument and Museum before it closed at 4:00. Our already fast riding transitioned into a frantic sprint with our eye on the clock as we got closer to the museum and the deadline. We went all out; I pushed harder than I ever had, with the possible exception of the time we outran storms in Kansas. With 2 miles and 5 minutes left I finally broke down, convinced that there was no way we could make it and that I was killing myself for nothing. Kyle convinced me to push it out, mostly by yelling, and we sprinted into the parking lot right at 4:00... only to find out that the museum was open until 5:30. I wanted to scream at Kyle but I didn't have the strength; I just collapsed on a bench, exhausted and mildly hysterical.

After a few minutes I pulled myself together and we went inside to see the fossils. We were very sad to discover that they dated from the Cenozoic Age, which meant there would be no dinosaurs.

Still, there were bones from a host of interesting animals, including a giraffe-horse and the "Easter bunny" (I kid you not). Their intimidating predators included a bear-dog, a giant bore,

and whatever this hungry looking guy was.

It was essentially a one-room museum, but they did well with the space they had, giving life to the bone displays with murals and sound effects.

Out in the lobby area was a glass wall that looked into the lab where the staff worked with newly discovered fossils. I was excited to see a lab tech wielding a small brush, and wondered what creature's bones she was about to dust off, but it turns out she was just reapplying her make-up. Maybe a transparent work environment isn't always a good thing.

Back outside, we checked our cell phone service -- still no bars -- and talked about whether we'd be able to find something for dinner that wasn't granola bars. A couple interrupted our forlorn conversation and asked us about our bike and our trip, and as always it was nice to be reminded that we were accomplishing something pretty amazing... assuming we pulled it off.

We got back on the road, now freer to enjoy the scenery around us (though I still took all of the photos while in motion).

We initially felt optimistic about the time, but our hope of minimizing our night-riding dwindled as we saw the climbs in front of us. We quickly realized that our last 40 miles would take us a long time and probably bring us into town well after dark. It was getting cold again too, and we still didn't have any cell service if something went wrong.

But we tried to stay optimistic, and when we stopped for a break on one of the uphills, we were greeted by an unexpected surprise. A car pulled off the road in front of us, and out jumped the couple we had met earlier at the fossil museum.

"We overheard you talking about dinner and granola bars, so we got some and came to find you," they explained as they handed us a bag of bottled water and granola bars. We had actually been complaining that we wanted anything to eat except granola bars, but it was such an amazing gesture that we accepted them wholeheartedly (and actually quite enjoyed them later). Once again, the hardest riding days introduced us to the best people.

We were also treated to two bizarre sights:

A tree covered with shoes (and remember that we're in the middle of nowhere here):

And a cow hanging out in the brush on the side of the road:

It looked slightly demonic in the twilight, and we were legitimately afraid that it would charge us, but it just glared us down as we passed by, giving it a wide berth.

At least the dogs we passed were cute and friendly.

And then, as it started to get dark, we saw another cougar. Well, Kyle saw it. Once again I literally and figuratively kept in the dark about it until the next day, and once again this may have been a good thing. With or without creatures, the night was terrifying. Our main light, at the front of the bike, was completely dead, and our headlamps were weakening. We were riding in eerie near-darkness, in the middle of nowhere, and it was cold again, a cold that slowly seeped into our bones and then blasted us unbearably on the downhills. I couldn't feel my feet, but I could feel the vibrations from Kyle's shivering behind me. How had this happened again, when today was supposed to be an "easy" day, less than 80 miles? We started wondering if we should hitch a ride, but few vehicles passed us and most may not even have realized we were there. We were beyond miserable and desperate to make it to the elusive Mitchell, but we couldn't ride any faster because of the dark and the cold. The miles stretched on and on...

We finally entered the small town and saw the illuminated Lodging sign. I yelled "It's so beautiful!" as we rolled into the silent town. We were a bit worried about whether our room would be accessible, however; without cell service we hadn't been able to call the owners to let them know that we'd be very late. We had managed to get a text through to my mom asking her to call on our behalf, but we had no idea whether it had worked until we walked in and saw a note and a key waiting for us at the otherwise empty front desk.

We fell in love with the vintage look of the place... until we realized that our room had a clawfoot bathtub, but no showerhead. We decided that drawing a bath wasn't worth it, especially since we would have to wear dirty clothing the next morning anyway, so we ate our granola bars and crawled into bed, dirty, exhausted, and relieved.

| posted at: 06:10 | permanent link and comments

Thursday, August 13, 2009

59: Delirium in the Desert & Danger in the Dark

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-Nine

8/13/09

From Vale, OR

To John Day, OR

126 miles

7.7 avg mph

I've decided that Malheur is an excellent name for this area. Today was miserable for many reasons, but let's start with those statistics to the right. We rode 126 miles at an astoundingly slow 7.7 average miles per hour. For those of you without a calculator, that means we were pedaling for 16 hours. And that's just time on the bike; we were on the road for much longer.

We left before dawn, watching the sun rise from a gas station where we stopped to buy supplies before leaving civilization. I don't know why I was so excited to enter Oregon yesterday: the Eastern half is a barren wilderness, much like Kansas or Wyoming, with nothing for miles and miles and miles and miles. At least in Kansas we had a tailwind twice, which helped us escape the state with our sanity intact. Today it was the opposite, with a strong headwind slowing our speed to a mind-numbing crawl. A few hours into the ride we already knew we'd be riding into John Day in the dark, if we made it at all. It was still so far away that our brains started screaming whenever we thought about it. And it was the same old story: unchanging views that were nice...for the first few hours we were stuck staring at them.

Finally we caught a break, or so it seemed: a town appeared before we were expecting one, and we could see a cafe with a sombrero on its roof. We were incredibly excited until we discovered that it wasn't due to open for another 45 minutes. We seriously considered waiting, but we really didn't have the time to spare. I was still determined to find a bathroom, however, so I jogged to the school across the street and did a little celebration dance when I found an unlocked door. The building was deserted except for a secretary in the main office; she was a complete sweetheart and was happy to let me use the tiny toilets and strange communal sinks in the girl's bathroom. Willowcreek Elementary School, you were officially the best part of my day.

We rode on, trying to break the monotony with songs and conversation, but the cloud of misery never really left us. Sometimes we saw farm animals, and since we didn't have anything better to do we started talking to them, sometimes in their language and sometimes in ours. We saw a number of dogs too, and fortunately only one of them was angry. The rest were busy herding goats or sleeping beside them.

Unfortunately there could be nearly an hour between one mildly interesting sight -- like a sheepdog or a group of men raising a barn -- and the next. Most of the time we were left alone in the high desert with our thoughts, and none of those thoughts were very happy. Even when we finally reached a general store it was bittersweet: we desperately needed the rest, the cold drinks, and the bathroom, but we knew that once we left it there would be nothing, no structure of any kind, for 40 miles.

So we took our sweet time there, even though we really couldn't afford the delay. We chatted to the cashier and admired the quirks of the store, like the pool hall in the backroom, the stuffed deer and mountain lion on the wall, and the rattlesnake contest:

I especially like the reminder not to bring the entire snake. So far the snake-hating owner had collected 73 total; the longest rattle was a foot long and the most collected by one person was 23.

To our surprise, we also met another cyclist there; he was on a recumbent going the other way. He was nice enough, but like too many of the cyclists we've met he was too pessimistic for our tastes, insisting that there was no way we would ever make it to John Day today. Thanks buddy.

We finally left the store, even more reluctantly than usual, and started on what promised to be over 5 hours without seeing another person or building, unless you count this empty post office, which looked like it had been closed for a decade.

It was just us and the desert, and it was getting sunnier and hotter by the minute. Then, as if the headwind wasn't detrimental enough, we also had to climb a series of hills. Add my usual desperate need for a bathroom and you've got some miserable hours of riding.

Eventually we entered an area that called itself a town, but it didn't seem to have any public buildings, just a collection of spread out houses and farms. The steep miles that lay ahead looked completely open and unprotected, so I really wanted to avoid going to the bathroom out there. Remembering the kindness of people who lived in the middle of nowhere in Kansas and Idaho, I decided to throw myself on the mercy of the last house we passed. No one answered the doorbell, but as I walked back up the path a truck pulled into the driveway, so I explained our situation to the driver and asked if I could possibly use her bathroom. She just glared at me as if I must be clinically insane, so I backpedaled.

"Sorry, I know it may sound weird, it's just --"

"Yes, it does sound weird, actually. You don't squat in the woods?"

"Um, not usually..." I was met by steely silence again, so I continued: "But I guess that's my plan now."

When she didn't say anything else I walked away and got on the bike, quietly fuming. Clearly people like Joann and Jon dangerously raised my expectations of Western hospitality. I do understand people not wanting to open their home to a stranger, but let's be serious: I couldn't seem threatening if I tried. Maybe as a rugged, rural woman she was just ashamed of my lack of outdoor skills. Or maybe she was a misanthropic bitch who lives in the middle of nowhere for a reason. Who knows, but I needed a plan B. A ditch with weeds almost tall enough presented itself, so I jumped down into it and attempted to use the Pee Pouch we'd bought at an outdoors store earlier. It was a complete disaster, and I climbed out of the ditch cursing the inhospitable lady, my lack of camping experience, and the uncanny ability of this day to get progressively worse.

We started the second of our four major climbs of the day, a long one with a series of switchbacks. We had to stop halfway up to eat something, but we eventually made it up and over. We started to see trees, which under the circumstances made us incredibly excited, but after a few miles we were back to desert and nothing to see. The most excitement we had was crossing into Pacific Time.

More miserable hours passed and we eventually reached the town of Unity. When the first buildings we saw -- a restaurant and visitor's center -- were closed, I was ready to kill someone, but luckily we spotted a convenience store further down the road. The camo-clad cashier also ran the campground next door, and asked if we wanted a spot for the night. We thanked her but said we were still going to try to make it to John Day. What a colossal mistake.

Our third long climb took us into the National Forest, and we were certainly glad to see trees. Unfortunately we wouldn't benefit from their shade for long: the sun was already setting, and we were still far from our destination.

Soon enough it was dark, and it also got cold. When we stopped to use a campground bathroom, we were almost tempted to sleep there. It would not have been a pleasant night, but it might have worked: it was handicap-sized (thank you Eagle Scout who built it as a final project) and the air-freshener hanging from the ceiling was a nice touch. Instead, we rode on and started our fourth and longest climb. I'm not talking about a hill; this was a long, mountain pass that seemed to stretch on and up forever. And downhills weren't rests; they were torture in the cold and the wind. I put on every layer we had, including some of Kyle's, and I was still shivering and miserable in my wind-break position up front.

As we rode on I felt increasingly uneasy. We were in the middle of the wilderness in the dark without cell service. The one time we stopped I suddenly found myself clinging to Kyle, haunted by vague apprehension and a child's fear of the dark. Stars kept shooting over our heads, and every time I wished fervently that we would be safe. And I didn't even know about the cougar.

Kyle spotted its eyes through the trees: glowing, close together, and just the right height for the cougars that frequent this area. They followed us for a few slinking steps, not scared but also not hunting...yet. It was just stalking us lazily, trying to figure out what we were. Instead of telling me about it, Kyle started singing and pedaling faster, and I joined in assuming it was just a motivational technique. Fortunately the combination of our noise, our speed, and our lights convinced the creature to leave us alone and it let us pass into the night.

Somewhere along the climb we discovered a miracle: a porta-potty on the side of the road, part of a small construction project. We pulled over and I went to use it, but as I got to the door the structure clanged and shook. I took a few startled steps back, and Kyle asked what I was doing just standing there.

"I think there's someone or something in there," I whispered, realizing how crazy it sounded. Kyle refused to believe me -- maybe he thought I had started to imagine boogeymen everywhere -- so I told him that he could use it first. As he walked up, however, a man emerged from the porta-potty, looking as confused to see us on the side of the road near midnight as we were to see him. It turns out he was a construction worker paid to camp there overnight to keep an eye on the signals. He offered us a Coke and wished us luck on our crazy journey.

We eventually made it to Prairie Home, which seemed cute but was all closed. Then it was a long, cold downhill into John Day, which we reached just shy of 2:00 AM. And we weren't done yet: when we rang the doorbell for the (locked) front office, no one came. We rang it again, and again... still nothing. We called the phone number and listened to it ring behind the glass, but no one came to pick it up. While we were waiting, I tried to get a soda out of the vending machine, but it just ate my money instead. There wasn't even a good place to sit down outside. Finally, almost half an hour later, someone came out and gave us our key. We couldn't decide whether to hug her or punch her, so we just took the key and collapsed into the room without worrying about anything but sleep.

So, to summarize: We rode from sunrise to 2AM, covering 126 miles of nothing much, very rarely encountering bathrooms or other people. We traveled through stifling heat, freezing cold, and a headwind that demolished our speed. We climbed four serious inclines and were briefly stalked by a cougar. When we finished all of that, we still had to wait outside for half an hour to get a place to sleep. Yeah, I'd say we're more than ready to be finished with this trip.

| posted at: 06:08 | permanent link and comments

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

58: Vale or Bust on the Oregon Trail

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-Eight

8/12/09

From Nampa, ID

To Vale, OR

61.9 miles

10 avg mph

My sentiments exactly. Eager to start the day that would take us into Oregon, we quickly packed up, ate breakfast, and laughed as we walked by what apparently passed for the hotel gym.

Just as we were about to leave, however, we noticed that the trailer tire was flat; I guess when we made the front tire impervious the problems just moved along the bike. The annoying hotel manager chattered unhelpful advice at us while we tried to fix it and look up bike shops, but eventually we escaped and headed down the road to the coolest coffee house ever: The Flying M Coffee Garage.

They drowned my granola in milk, but everything else was delicious and the space and atmosphere couldn't be beaten. It gave me an irrational urge to move to western Idaho.

Our next stop was a Walmart so that we could return the unused tubes that were the wrong size. As usual I waited outside, and as usual the crazies found me. This man was primarily concerned about the weather, so the conversation was almost normal...until he abruptly walked away in the middle of it with no explanation.

We rode through the usual Idaho scenery for a while, at one point following trucks packed so high with onions that they lost half a dozen every time they turned or hit a bump. We were half tempted to grab a bag and collect the castaways. Eventually we reached the town of Parma, home of a delightful little restaurant named Apple Lucy's. We talked with the owner and the other customers, admired the shelves full of teapots, and enjoyed a hamburger and a ham and cheese sandwich. We finished off the meal with grasshopper milkshakes, which were really just giant cups of ice cream. Delicious.

We rode along the river and crossed it and the border at the same time. We had FINALLY made our way into Oregon! I rushed to the first sign I could find to herald the occasion, even though it was technically for a cross-state bike ride.

Then less than a mile down the road we found the actual Welcome to Oregon sign, and of course I insisted on stopping again.

Can you tell I'm really excited to be here?

Oregon welcomed us with road and bridge construction, but it wasn't bad at all and we got to ride through mini tunnels into Nyssa, which announced itself as the Thunderegg Capital of the World. Curious, we stopped into Thunderegg Coffee Co. for an explanation, a break, and a cold drink.

The family who owned the place explained that thundereggs are just round rocks with geodes inside, and gifted us with a small one to take along. They also gained cool points by having xkcd comics in the bathroom and telling us stories from the Burning Man Festival.

We thanked them for the sodas, the thunderegg, and the stories and got on the road again. We took in the rural views:

We also tried to puzzle out some mysteries, like the shack structures dotting all of the farm fields -- we guessed hale bale storage, but couldn't be sure -- and the fact that we were heading into Malheur County; I knew "malheur" meant "bad times" or "misfortune" in French, which didn't seem like a very promising county name. I learned later that it took its name from the Malheur River, christened by traders who were upset that their cache of furs hidden along its banks had been stolen. (They always blame the water ways...) There is also a Malheur Butte, which we could see from the overlook where we stopped briefly to rest.

We made it into Vale before sunset, which felt like a miracle. We toured the town, which was full of historical wall murals celebrating its place on the Oregon Trail.

She Could Stare Down Dysentary

Then we had dinner at the Starlite Cafe, a diner featuring delicious home cooking, ranch themed decorations, a friendly but hyper waitress, and a cook who periodically wandered out of the kitchen looking very confused.

Then it was back to our lodging for the night: the Bates Motel. Yup.

I have no idea whether it predates Psycho, but we did enjoy watching people pull in, take a photo of the sign, and peel out in a hurry. The motel itself didn't make us fear serial killers, even though there was a hole in the window that could have been bullet hole, but we certainly felt visually assaulted by the decor.

It was kind of amazing, really.

We tried to get to bed early since we have an exceptionally long day tomorrow: 126 miles with long stretches of nothing in between towns. But hey, who cares; we're finally in Oregon and less than a week from finishing!!!

| posted at: 06:03 | permanent link and comments

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

57: Lost as a Pirate in the Desert

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-Seven

8/11/09

From Hammett, ID

To Nampa, ID

97.7 miles

10 avg mph

Joann sent us off with a delicious pancake and fruit breakfast and a cantaloupe for the road. We reluctantly said goodbye and headed towards Mountain Home. We were haunted by the heat and an irritating cloud of gnats; we figured out that we needed to exceed 12 mph to outrun these pests, which was fine until we faced a long climb and had to let them catch up. Finally we were back at Tony's Bike Shop.

While there we decided on a solid rubber tube for the front tire; it would slow us down but it wouldn't flat, which seemed worth it at this point. Then we headed out of town and back into farmland.

After a while the farmland turned back into desert. Then the frontage road we were on abruptly ended next to a trailer home with three angry guard dogs. We could just see the highway, but it was too far for us to cut across the sand and sagebrush to get there. We had no choice but to turn around, making our way in stops and starts as the dogs started to chase us. Riding extra miles is always frustrating, but doing it in the desert on a hot summer day is even worse. I was less than pleased.

We finally made it back to a bridge that linked us with a network of back roads, and we entered one of the most bizarre neighborhoods we'd ever seen. A neighborhood in the middle of the desert is going to be unconventional regardless, since the lots are much larger, no one has a lawn, and in the summer no one spends much time outside. But these people had a sense of humor, giving their streets funny names like "Desert Duck" and ironic ones like "Ocean View" and "Sea Breeze." One aspiring pirate took the ocean theme even farther:

But the entertaining sights weren't enough to distract us from the fact that it took a long, long, long, long time to reenter civilization in the form of a large and very welcome rest stop. We almost cried when we saw its sign towering over the highway.

We planned to take a long rest there, so we bought an outrageous amount of liquid: a bottle of rootbeer, a cup of fruit punch, and giant containers of Powerade and water. We also slurped up the cantaloupe from Joann, which was without a doubt the best one I have ever tasted.

When we felt relatively rested and hydrated, we reluctantly got on the road again, riding one exit on the interstate and another 30 miles on backroads before we reached the town of Kuna. It was bizarre to go from the nothingness of open desert to a neighborhood of perfectly irrigated lawns; I appreciated the rare sight of grass but it seemed outrageously wasteful out here. Mini Quizno sandwiches fortified us for the rest of the ride; in frustration I told Kyle that Nampa had better be less than 15 miles away, and I had to laugh when it turned out to be exactly 15. We weren't finished yet though: the street signs didn't match the Garmin map, so we tallied a few extra miles before we finally found the hotel and ended our 97-desert-mile day.

| posted at: 06:01 | permanent link and comments

Monday, August 10, 2009

56: Marzipan and Saint Joann

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-Six

8/9/09

From Bliss, ID

To Hammett, ID

33.3 miles

10.1 avg mph

We had an exceptionally slow morning. For perhaps the fifth time in our lives, Kyle slept in longer than I did. Even after we got up and moving, it took us forever to leave town. First we went over to the 24 hour cafe and convenience store that made us so happy last night: Ziggy's!

We grabbed breakfast there, and I made the very poor choice of getting an overpriced latte, some fig newtons, and animal crackers with icing: it was way too much sugar for the morning. We also spotted an article about a cyclist who had been killed by a car the day before, which didn't make us eager to start either. Eventually we headed down the road to the Post Office, where we mailed home over four pounds of stuff, and wandered down to the overlook to see the river twisting through the canyon. In might be the view that gave Bliss its name.

We finally left Bliss, and for a while we had a very pleasant ride in warm but not unbearable weather. We passed the time talking about college classes and taking in the views.

And then we got a flat tire.

We eventually made it into a small town with a small grocery store. I was overly excited to discover a bag of Marzipan, a name I only knew from Homestarrunner.com.

They also had a fun wagon wheel bench outside.

I sat down on the bench and eagerly bit into my first round of marzipan...and nearly gagged. It was a crumbly, sugary mess that was completely unappealing, especially after my breakfast. I threw the bag away -- after trying one more round, which was just as bad -- and we continued on.

We rode a few more miles past the highway and abundant sagebrush until we got another flat tire. We fixed it and rode on, until it happened again. And again. And again. We had four flats in less than four miles, caused by a combination of crappy Walmart patch kits and these little buggers:

Goathead Thorns, the bane of any cyclist's existence.

Already out of tubes, at this point we were patching patches, which was doing us no good, and eventually we ran out of them too and had to give up. By this point the sun was blazing, so we wheeled the bike back to the only shade for miles: an underpass beneath the highway. The closest we could get to seating was the uncomfortably slanted wall, which was coated with bird shit. Kyle decided to see if there was anything up the road while I made dozens of fruitless calls. AAA has bike service in Idaho, but refused to pick us up because my membership was from out of state. None of the local taxi services had vehicles large enough to carry our bike, and neither did any of the rental companies. The mobile bike shop I called wanted to help but was too far away. My best lead of the afternoon was a bike shop one town over whose owner was willing to pick us up...after closing up the store at 6:00. It was currently just past 3:00.

Kyle wandered back through the haze. There was nothing of note close by, and no way that we could walk much further: the road was so hot that the tar had started to stick to his shoes. I climbed up a small hill to see if anything was visible down the highway, but it looked equally barren. We had no choice but to wait, cuddling awkwardly on the dirty concrete.

There was no way to get comfortable, and no way to escape the heat. Kyle tried to sleep. I read our book and wondered how long it would be before I'd have to clamber over the railing and go to the bathroom in the ditch. Every once in a while a vehicle passed us, but none of them even slowed down and few were large enough to be helpful anyway.

One of the cars that passed by was a beautiful old black BMW. And then, to our surprise, it turned around and the driver asked if we needed help. We thanked her for stopping and explained the situation but we weren't really sure how she could help with that car. But she said she lived less than a mile away and offered to let us wait for the bike shop people at her house instead of beneath the overpass. "I mean come on; you're sitting in shit." We couldn't really say no to that argument. We hadn't seen a house anywhere near by, but we followed her down a side road, wheeling the bike along, and ended up at a house completely hidden by trees. We set up a bike repair spot on the shady back porch, and I can't tell you how happy we were to have cold drinks, air conditioning, and a bathroom.

Our saviour, Joann, did much more than give us a shady spot where we could wait. Since she was already heading into Mountain Home to grocery shop, she took us along and dropped us off at the bike shop so that we could buy new tubes and tires. When she picked us up, she convinced us to stay the night instead of riding on. (We didn't take much convincing.) She also insisted on helping us play tourist, which we certainly don't get to do enough on this trip.

She showed us the scenery, from the winding river to the beautiful buttes.

Then she drove us to the famous Bruneau sand dunes. At almost 500 feet, they are the tallest single-structured sand dune in North America, and they also shift around throughout the year depending on the winds.

We watched a few kids attempting to body surf down the hills, and then cavorted around a bit ourselves.

Our next stop was a large organic farm owned by Joann's friend. Even though he wasn't around, Joann insisted that he wouldn't mind if we took some fruit out of the cooler truck, so we helped ourselves to cantaloupes and a watermelon.

Joann was raised by farmers and chefs, and it showed when she whipped up an absolutely amazing dinner for us. The drinks and conversation flowed for hours; Joann is pretty amazing, and not just because she saved us today. She's an outspoken, experienced, intelligent, and liberal woman making a great life for herself in the middle of conservative rural Idaho, and you better believe she has good stories.

Perhaps even more amazing is Joann's mother, who visited from her home just down the road. When she was a young teenager in Germany, she survived the Dresden bombings and walked alone for days to reunite with her family. She's still snappy and full of life now despite her health problems, and we even got her to climb onto our German bicycle.

Things finally wound down and we went to bed in Joann's lovely guest room, relaxed, happy, and most of all grateful. Today was probably the best evening of the entire trip, especially after our horrendous morning. The views and potatoes in Idaho are nice enough, but now we have a real reason to visit Idaho again.

WE LOVE YOU JOANN!

| posted at: 06:01 | permanent link and comments

Sunday, August 09, 2009

55: Lacking Karma and Desperately Seeking Bliss

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-Five

8/8/09

From Burley, ID

To Bliss, ID

82.9 miles

11.6 avg mph

We decided on yet another route change this morning based on a positive motel review and the hope that Bliss, Idaho would live up to its name. While he waited for me to get ready, Kyle decided to live large, eating a second breakfast and getting in some over-sized reading.

We spent much of the morning riding in the open under a blazing sun. We alternated between the frontage roads and the Interstate -- cyclists can ride it in Idaho and Wyoming because the traffic is light and there are very few alternatives. A few hours into our ride we got on an off ramp in search of bathrooms and food. We saw a dead cat, which seemed strange since we were in the middle of nowhere, and also rode by a woman standing outside of her car looking confused. Both were explained in a few minutes when we made our way to a Mexican mini-mart. It was home to at least one resident cat, who looked me over suspiciously.

The bathrooms were confusing and just this side of sanitary, but I was highly entertained by their graffiti ( "When I was in Oregon I wish I'd fucked John") and signage ("BUY before drinking. You know who you are!").

When I got outside I saw the woman from the off-ramp, who was attempting to change what was now a very flat tire. We offered help, which it turns out she desperately needed: she didn't know much about the truck, which was her husband's, and she had two fidgety kids in the back. Kyle worked his magic -- a slow and labor-intensive kind of magic -- to find the jack points, lift the truck, and get most of the bolts off. When the last one got stuck, he borrowed better tools from a guy who had pulled in to deal with his son's diarrhea; this parking lot seemed to be the pit stop for major travel issues.

Finally Kyle got the spare on and we sent the thankful but shy woman on her way and got on the road ourselves. We were back in farm country, which was picturesque but extremely buggy.

After miles and miles and miles of open fields and blaring sunlight we were relieved to arrive at Anderson Camp and take a rest inside their lunch room. Continuing my strange food combinations, I ordered a salad and tater tots. While we waited, we discovered that Mexican Coca-cola, which is made with a different kind of sugar, is DELICIOUS and lacks the normal Coke aftertaste, and that books by Ben Goode are really, really bad.

The title may be funny, but I assure you that the book is not. We've seen tons of Ben Goode titles in diners and rest stops along the way, but we never had occassion or time to read them until today. I'm now incredibly angry that this Ben Goode guy/conglomerate is making so much money. I think I need another Mexican Coke to cool down.

We had hoped that helping the stranded mother with her truck would award us tire karma, but we had no such luck. We were on the highway about a quarter mile before our exit when our front tire flatted, so we had to walk the bike up the off-ramp to a Wendy's to change it. Inside, I enjoyed my Frosticino and the surprising fact that the men's bathroom had a long line. We were in the town of Jerome, which of course made me think about Jude Law in a wheelchair and three men in a boat, to say nothing of the dog. (Anyone else?) We planned to visit the police station to make sure that Interstate riding was legal throughout the state, but the building was closed. Fortunately we spotted a sheriff at the gas station who was very friendly and cleared us to ride on the Interstate.

We rode through town towards the next exit, but Kyle noticed that the tires didn't feel right. We pulled over yet again to investigate and discovered that the other tire had gotten so worn out that it was lumpy. I could see the black clouds forming above Kyle's head as he slammed the tire to the ground and wondered aloud where the hell our tire karma had gone.

We used the GPS to find stores that sold bikes and parts and called around but no one had the exact size tire and tubes we needed, of course. Our best bet seemed to be Walmart, so we rode there, 3 miles out of our way. Kyle went inside to find something that would work while I guarded the bike outside. An older man who wandered over to see the bike claimed to be friends with the guy who invented the recumbent bicycle, which led to a discussion about his own windmill designs which have been patented but aren't selling even though they're vastly superior to the current models thanks to the engineering expertise he gained through years of working at Boeing before he got laid off, though he's hoping to get funding from a Native American friend who is currently involved in a water rights dispute. When he had finished this story he abruptly walked away without any small talk to close the conversation. You meet the most interesting people outside of Wal-Marts...

When Kyle finally emerged from the Wal-Mart he had a tire that wasn't quite the right size, but would work. We got back on the interstate since we had essentially ridden back to our original exit. Kyle was still incredibly frustrated, I was starting to feel sick, and we were both depressed by the realization that we would be getting to the hotel well after dark, yet again. It was not a pleasant ride.

Our moods started to improve when we got going at a steady 18-20 mph clip, but darkened once again when the exit we expected after 11 miles didn't show up until almost 30. It was also getting dark and we were low on light power, so much so that when it got truly dark we had to dig out our tiny flashlight so I could hold it up to illuminate the road for our last 7 miles.

We made it into the town of Bliss without incident, thank goodness, and discovered that the recommended Amber Inn Motel was indeed an excellent find. The room was large and clean and had a window seat, and just next door was a 24 hour cafe. I forget what I ordered for my entree, but I remember inhaling delicious mashed potatoes and glass after glass of lemonade. When I stopped zoning and eating enough to really look around, I realized that every patron near us had some kind of handicap or disfigurement. It was rather surreal, and we still don't have much of an explanation for it. The waiters and waitresses were unscarred, but perhaps not for long: we couldn't help overhearing a loud backroom battle among the waitstaff, all of whom looked either rage-filled or lifeless when they emerged to serve and clear food.

We still consider the cafe one of our favorite dining places, though, because we never expected to get a warm, delicious dinner that late at night. It almost made up for our opposite experience in Dubois...almost. We walked back to the motel and sank into our comfortable bed, looking forward to going to sleep and waking up in Bliss.

| posted at: 05:07 | permanent link and comments

Saturday, August 08, 2009

54: I Think You Need More Than 10 People for a Massacre, and Other Stories from the Oregon Trail

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-Four

8/8/09

From Pocatello, ID

To Burley, ID

90.5 miles

9.5 avg mph

After breakfast and my leftover cookie, we headed out into the very cold morning. We passed a thermometer sign that read 47 degrees, and it felt even colder with the on and off rain.

When we got out of town, we felt like we were riding through the apocalypse; thorny, black plants creeped on the side of the nearly empty road.

Luckily there were signs of brightness and happiness ahead.

Now where is my MarioKart?

True to Idaho's reputation, we passed several potato fields.

We had beautiful views of expansive farms set against the mountains.

And we finally saw some of the larger wildlife I'd been anticipating, though they weren't exactly wild.

The random elk resort was interesting, but I was way more interested in riding on the OREGON TRAIL! Fording the river, hunting rabbits, trying not to die of dysentery... childhood dreams realized. Ok, we didn't actually do any of those things (well, I guess technically we did avoid dying of dysentery, but moving on) but we did ride on the old trails, which had a nice view and a bloody history.

I love that when the misused indigenous population kills a whopping 10 pioneers it can be called a MASSACRE, but I digress. I did like the other displays.

We also wanted to see Register Rock, a boulder that hundreds of pioneers etched their names into on their way west. Unfortunately it was in the middle of a gazebo in the middle of a park where a crowd of guests was in the middle of a party, so we did an awkward bike-by photo and moved on.

We rode through a great deal of nothing much, passed another ghost town, changed a flat tire, and then bushwacked our way to a reststop. We spotted it from the road, but there were prickly bushes and a barbed wire fence between it and us. Undeterred, we walked back and forth along the fence until we found a spot where the wires had been bent enough for us to sneak through them, being careful not to cut up our clothes and skin. Clearly I'll do a lot for a bathroom. On the way back I was actually happy for the fence, since it kept us safe from three energetic dogs and allowed us to get on our way.

We rode into the great wide open, the great nothingness.

I never thought I would say this, but it was worse than Kansas. Kansas at least had cows, trucks, and the very occasional tree, but this road was utterly vacant of cars, animals, and even telephone poles. There was no motion, no signs of life or growth for mile after mile. A random stack of haybales and a low fence were the only evidence that humanity had set foot there at all.

Like so much of our travels, it was enough to make a person crazy. Desperate for distraction, I asked Kyle to give one of his lectures from class. He traced the history of computer programming languages from Fortran through PHP, describing their characteristics and creators in detail and answering all of my questions about them. When he was finished, the view still hadn't changed.

But there is beauty in barrenness.

That photograph of an empty crossroad is one of my favorites from the trip, though I was certainly tired of the view at the time. I think everyone should experience the simultaneous vulnerability and liberation of a truly wide open space at least once in their lifetime. There is something about being in such a deserted place that changes you, that cracks you open and exposes you to life.

We made our way through the vast nothingness, riding for Rupert. Not our delightful British friend, who is somewhere ahead of us on his way to California right now, but Rupert, Idaho, the next town on our route. Unfortunately the outskirts were populated by unfenced and unchained dogs. We convinced two dogs not to chase us, and then had to give everything we had to outrun a very large and very fast mutt. A little later several horses ran alongside us, which was much more enjoyable. It also spawned a bizarre brainstorming conversation about raising attack ponies, but I doubt the genius of our plans would make sense to anyone else.

Between complete barrenness and the outskirts of civilization came another of my favorite photographs of the trip: a pair of animals in stark contrast against the vastness.

We followed the main road into Rupert but barely spent five minutes in town before getting back on the road. After more tiring miles -- which always seem longer when the sun is setting -- we could finally see the florescent lights of Heyburn and Burley in the distance. After riding in a circle (thanks Garmin) we had to decide between alternate routes; Kyle was adamant about taking the back roads, and he eventually talked me into it even though I was tired of bushwacking and backcountrying, especially at night.

It turned into a miserable ride, and not much of a shortcut after all. I was jumpy and kept flinching and letting out little shrieks whenever a dog barked, expecting a beast with gleaming teeth to lunge at us out of the blackness. We rode under a spray of water and I started coughing and gagging as we realized it was actually pesticide. When we reached a crossroad, we started to fight over whether to take it back to the highway, and nothing improved to make our anger dissipate. Night rides are rarely enjoyable, and this was turning into one of our worst.

We finally made it to the Super 8 and started searching for dinner. We weren't impressed by the convenience store's offerings, so we ordered pizza. It tasted like cheesy cardboard, so I made a sad dinner out of breadsticks and went to bed, glad that today was finally over.

| posted at: 05:07 | permanent link and comments

Friday, August 07, 2009

53: What We Need Is Another Winning Lottery Ticket...and Cookies

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-Three

8/7/09

From Idaho Falls, ID

To Pocatello, ID

93 miles

11.6 avg mph

And now you've seen the Idaho Falls. Not quite Niagra, and surrounded by the commercial district, but I guess still nice enough to name a town after...

Since we had to make up miles, we got going early without breakfast; I ate the rest of the bread loaf on the way and Kyle planned to wait until we got to the gas station. Unfortunately, what we thought would be 14 miles was closer to 20, which meant a 40 mile round trip before we even started our new miles. With the heat, the construction, and the unexpected distance, we were pretty miserable, even though the ride offered some very interesting sights.

I've always said that the classiest (and most carnivorous) threads involve a raptor:

Other mascots were not nearly as effective. I'm not really sure what message this auto detailing company was trying to convey (child labor, pedophilia, and the Coppertone girl's brother come to mind), but it disturbed me.

And I couldn't get a good picture of it, but I swear this store says "Midget Market."

Distractions aside, we were incredibly relieved to FINALLY reach our new favorite gas station.

We needed a good rest there before starting the second leg. We chatted with some ladies as we ate our food: Kyle went super healthy with juice and Nutrigrain bars, but I decided that cream soda, pretzels, and Nutter Butters made a much better second breakfast. (It was a hard morning.) We also bought another lottery ticket and won $5, making it three in a row. Apparently I need to play the lottery whenever I'm having a hard day. (Note to self: I should probably rethink this idea.) Our fourth ticket lost and finally broke the streak, so we decided it was time to go. It felt good to be heading west again, and even better when we crossed over into new territory. The interesting advertising continued, including Martha, the fantastic giant drag-queen waitress.

We eventually reached Blackfoot, "The Potato Capital of the World!" (Bet you thought that was in Ireland, but no.) They even had a museum, which we sadly didn't have time to visit.

We actually thought about staying there for the night (the town, not the potato museum), but thanks to a dance competition and Native American festival every hotel was booked. We had to get back on the road -- and fast -- because a storm was on the way. We raced out of Blackfoot and towards Pocatello, 25 miles away. Terrified that Pocatello wouldn't have any hotel rooms either, I called my mom from the road and tried to explain the situation while sprinting through the wind and the rain. We eventually figured things out and she managed to book a hotel room for us, which was a huge weight off our mind. If only the storm would go away.

We passed the Shoshone-Bannock Festival that I desperately wanted to visit, especially to see the traditional ball sports, but the storm and the setting sun drove us ever onward into Pocatello. Fortunately, we had a pleasant surprise waiting for us there: my mom happened to choose a hotel where they bake cookies every night for their guests. That's right: the friendliest hotel staff I've ever met made us fresh. baked. cookies. We enjoyed them when they came out of the oven, after our delicious dinner at the restaurant next door, and for breakfast the next day. We love you Rodeway Inn!

| posted at: 05:02 | permanent link and comments

Thursday, August 06, 2009

52: Part One: Felons Give the Best Directions
Part Two: Only Winning the Lottery Could Make this Day Better

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-Two

8/6/09

From Jackson, WY

To Idaho Falls, ID

98.7 miles

11.9 avg mph

We didn't start our day with an expresso or a jackalope ride, but we did mail two pounds of excess baggage home and shop in Albertson's large and luxurious grocery store, so it was a good morning nonetheless. As I waited outside for Kyle to buy his yogurt, fruit, and donuts, a guy came up to me to talk about local bike routes and the riding he used back when he had his bike. Then Kyle traded off with me and got the rest of the story: turns out his bicycle was taken away from him by the police when he was picked up on outstanding warrants on his way to a case worker in Helena. When he found out about our journey, he suggested an alternate route along the Snake River. We called my mom to look it up on googlemaps -- I like to double-check directions from former felons, even if they're nice -- and it did actually look better, so we decided to take his advice. I also got breakfast, of course: I was looking at some impressive gourmet muffins until I realized that a giant loaf of fresh French bread cost the same price. One of the best parts of this trip is that I can eat half a loaf of bread for breakfast and not feel guilty...or even all that full.

For a path through the Rockies, our route had a blessed number of downhills and flats, which was fortunate since I felt run down all day. It was beautiful as well, even though we missed the bike path at the beginning.

Downhills or no, we were significantly tired and sundazed when we saw the sign for the Kahuna Lunch Counter, so we were excited about sitting down for an air-conditioned lunch. Unfortunately the only thing there was a bench, a bathroom, and an overlook, where we watched kayakers and rookie white water rafters for a few minutes before getting on our way again.

We eventually entered Idaho and had a lovely ride past a lake whose name I don't remember.

And then something incredibly depressing happened. I spotted what I thought was a dead fawn on the side of the road -- which would have been disheartening enough, even though we see a great deal of roadkill -- but as we rode by, it lifted up its head. I made Kyle circle back, which is when I saw that one of its front legs had been severed. It stared at me and shook weakly, its chest rising and falling sporadically with terrified, shallow breaths. I couldn't look away and I couldn't do anything to save it. We couldn't even end its pain, not when all we had was a pocket knife without the experience or the stomachs to really use it. The best we could do was get to town and find the number for the sheriff's department, who would send someone out to find it. My heart broke as we left, and the image of the shuddering fawn pushed us over the hills even faster than the storm building behind us could. In a cruel twist of fate, a Forestry Services truck passed us on the road but we couldn't get its attention, so we kept riding to town as quickly as we could as it started to rain.

After several wet and morose miles we reached The Dam Store. Yup.

We told the owner about the fawn and she called the sheriff's department and gave them the mile marker. We sat in the store for a while, drinking coffee, watching the rain, hoping that the fawn situation would end as best it could. I found temporary diversion is trying to photograph a hummingbird outside.

Then the rain finally broke and we got going again. We were really in need of a liberating downhill, but instead we crawled uphill for mile after barren mile. The only diversion was watching farmboys use four-wheelers to herd their cattle and horses.

Otherwise it was like Kansas on a slope. We eventually reached a rest stop, which as usual made us incredibly happy. Behind it was a scenic overlook with a spectacular view of the Snake River we'd been following all day but hadn't been able to see since we entered farm country.

When we headed inside, I started to worry that the building was haunted: a moaning and wailing started just outside the bathroom door. When I wandered outside again I saw why: a ridiculous wind had blown up out of nowhere. We hid back inside for a few minutes, but the surprise wind was apparently there to stay. We weren't too far from our destination, but making it there was no longer going to be easy.

We got back on the road with difficulty, and the wind cutting across it only got worse. Headwinds are exhausting, but crosswinds are downright dangerous. Kyle struggled to keep our behemoth bike on the road, and I had to time the strength of my pedaling based on whether we were riding straight, veering dangerously, or fighting to right the bike. A couple pulled over to offer us help, but they were driving a Subaru that would never fit our bike. "Thanks, but it's only wind; we'll be fine," we told them. And we were right...for about ten minutes.

The winds got even more intense, determined to drive us off the road. Kyle managed to save us from falling again and again, but then the shoulder turned into gravel and a gust of wind threw us into a skidding wipeout. We survived the fall with just light brushburns and a bloody lip, but it was the end of our riding for the day. Through the windblown dust we could see a gas station up ahead, so we decided to walk the bike the rest of the way and take shelter there. We made the difficult walk there only to realize that anywhere we tried to prop the bike it was bound to fall over. Fortunately, the owner of the Sinclair station let us keep it inside, and better yet, her cousin offered to go get his SUV, which was large enough to fit our bike and us, and drive us into town. Once again we were going to be saved by a compassionate stranger. I like Idahoians already (and I hope I'm calling them by the right name).

While we waited for him to return with the SUV, we decided to buy a lottery ticket. We went with Scrabble, one of our favorite games...

And we won $15! We spent some of the winnings on another ticket, but by that time our savior and his son had shown up with our ride to the city, so we packed up and headed into town as the sun set. We checked into the hotel, said goodnight to our heroes, grabbed dinner at Subway, and scratched off our second lottery ticket... to discover that we'd won another $10! Either Sinclair has an amazing collection of lottery tickets, or the universe decided to make up for our depressing and dangerous evening. Either way, we're definitely going to buy more tickets tomorrow when we ride back and forth to make up the miles. (Yes, we're still doing that.) Here's to a better tomorrow.

| posted at: 05:02 | permanent link and comments

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

51: Riding a Jackalope and the Rockies

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty-One

8/5/09

From Dubois, WY

To Jackson, WY

80.5 miles

10.4 avg mph

If only all of my mornings could begin with a latte and a jackalope ride.

No one was manning the Branding Iron Inn office when we got up, so we headed across the street to Kathy's Koffee at Bear Square.

The guy behind the counter not only made us delicious drinks, he also told us stories about his own cross-country bicycle trip from Seattle to New York. As we ate our breakfast -- ham and egg on a bagel for Kyle, a croissant for me, and a giant blueberry muffin to split between us -- I had an overwhelming desire to spend the entire day there, which led to an even stronger desire to be finished with the trip and back to reading and drinking coffee in my normal life. Sigh.

Of course, we eventually had to leave, pack up, check out, and get going. But there was something I needed to ride before the bike.

That's right,

They actually ran out of these tickets, which saddened me, so I had to take a photo of their display. I was cheered right up, though, when I heard a group of women becoming increasingly confused as they perused the museum of Jackalope information and artifacts.

"Wait, jackalopes aren't real, right? I mean I thought it was a joke but they have all of this information and even fossils..."

The museum, which was actually just one section of an enterprising Exxon convenience store, had another giant jackalope out front.

I resisted the urge to ride it and we climbed on the bike instead. We rode out of Dubois, waving fondly at the laundromat that fed us last night and at its intimidating competition.

We had a rather pleasant morning ride. Kyle asked me what I would put on my syllabus if I ever landed that elusive teaching job, which led to a great conversation about literature, teaching, and the pieces of stories that were still stuck in our memories from middle school.

We had been warned in person and through travel blogs about a massive construction project in the area that was impassable by bike, and we discovered it before too long. We were able to ride through the initial sections without any trouble, but when we were nearly at the top of one of the hills we were told it was time to climb into the pilot truck and be carried through the worst of it, and we would have to do the same a little later in the day. For once we wouldn't be able to make up the exact miles that we'd been driven, but the truck took us more downhill than up, and watching how difficult and dangerous the road was for motorcyclists, we couldn't really complain. Plus the construction project was one we enthusiastically supported: widening the shoulder for bike and car safety on the twisting and turning mountain road. We came to enjoy the brief respites; during our first ride I sat up front and chatted with the driver, who pointed out the "Indian snow" (a patch-e here, a patch-e there) and checked on the weather report for us. The other time I rode with the bike so that I could take pictures of the colorful trees; somewhere along the way I realized that despite growing up near farm country, it was the probably the first time I'd ridden in the back of a pickup.

The rest of the time we were on our own to climb the Rockies. It was an intimidating prospect. The steep uphills reared up in front of us, and one of the rare stores we passed reminded us about the dangers of exertion at high altitudes.

So we climbed, and climbed, and climbed, and soared downhill for a while, and then climbed, and climbed, and climbed... But as we pushed our way uphill through the infamous Rockies, we realized something strange and encouraging: the Appalachians were much, much harder. It was hotter back then, and we were still getting in shape and getting used to the bike. And the Appalachians, while not as long or as high, tend to be steeper than the Rockies, and have fewer helpful passes. Compared to most of our trip, the Rockies are tiring climbs, but compared to the Appalachians, they really aren't so bad. We still have more of the Rockies to climb tomorrow, but so far they seem, while tiring, certainly doable.

Outside one of the rest stops (which offered showers at an interesting rate of $1 per 2 minutes 40 seconds) we saw three touring bicycles. The complex was big enough that we didn't locate their owners before they left, but we caught up to them on the next uphill and chatted as we passed by. They were an eclectic group of friends who were riding across the country in sections over the period of three summers; this was the final leg of their trip that would end in San Francisco.

And then we discovered why so many cyclists and motorcyclists were braving the construction to ride this pass: ahead of us were the beautiful Tetons and a seven mile downhill. They were both magnificent.

We rode alongside the Tetons for many scenic miles, really enjoying the view and the comparatively flat ride.

We had planned to ride part of the Yellowstone route, but then we looked at the prices. It was $12 for cyclists, so unless we convinced them to charge us per bicycle we would be paying $24 for just a few miles in the Park, which didn't seem worth it. So we stayed on the road that led to a place called Moose and advertised all kinds of wildlife.

Despite the warnings, all we saw were antelopes from very far away. We might not have even noticed them, but a number of tourists had parked their cars by the side of the road and wandered into a field to try to get pictures of them.

We kept right on going, enjoying the ride and excited to be making great time (for us, anyway; we were passed by another cyclist at one point). Unfortunately, it took us longer to reach Moose than anticipated, so by the time we got there I was irritated and Kyle was bonking (cyclists' term for a serious energy crash). We perked up somewhat after slushies, however, and we rode on towards our destination for the day: Jackson Hole, paradise for elk (there's a refuge there) and rich tourists. The town is most well-known for skiing, but the tourist population and the prices are also quite high during the summer. The cheapest lodging option was still well over $100... for a Motel 6. It made us want to cry a little, but when we got to our room we discovered that someone had replaced the usual Motel 6 room with a clean and cheery Ikea display.

Jackson Hole was nice, if excessively touristy. We especially enjoyed the antler arches.

It took us forever to find a restaurant that was somewhere in between fast food and freaking expensive, but we eventually settled on a place called Sidewinders where I inhaled chicken pot pie (baked, not boiled like in PA, but good nonetheless) and a fantastic salad.

We thought we would return to the hotel in plenty of time to do laundry, but it turned out that everyone else had the same idea; the lines for the two machines were so long that I ended up having to handwash, which sucked as usual. Still, it was a good day overall, and I feel like tomorrow we'll be ready for more of the Rockies and Wyoming.

Yee-hah.

| posted at: 04:25 | permanent link and comments

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

50: No Food For You

Stoker's Log

Day Fifty

8/4/09

From Lander, WY

To Dubois, WY

82 miles

8.5 avg mph

We greeted the morning sun along with the pronghorn and got on the road. We enjoyed our ride through Lander quite a bit; the downtown was charming and just outside it were a series of interesting sites, including an intrepid pioneer woman with a series of teepees.

Then we rode by a home with what we were sure were decorative deer in the front yard.

And then they moved. They didn't run away, however; they just kept chilling out in the front yard, watching us and chomping on weeds, apparently unaware that they were in a neighborhood beside a road. Neither did they seem afraid of the giant dragons that apparently frequent these parts.

Remember Chief Washakie, whose trail we've been following? Today we reached the outskirts of his fort, which according to signs is also the location of Sacajawea's grave site.

It was time for a break and a snack, so we stopped at the local grocery store where Kyle and his donuts made a new friend.

We road on through the beautiful western landscape (which would have been more beautiful if we weren't against a headwind and getting crazier by the minute).

But then we were stopped by a serious construction project and had to wait with a line of cars for a pilot vehicle to lead us through. We made our way to the front and started chatting with the flagger, who told us about the Crow Heart Butte visible in the distance.

He explained that the Butte got its name when our old friend Chief Washakie defeated a tribe of Crow Indians on top of it and marked the victory by cutting out the conquered chief's heart and carrying it around on his spear. The historical signs we've been following never indicated that level of Temple of Doom badassery.

We finally got moving again, doing our best to keep up with the line; pilot cars drive slowly, but still not as slowly as we do, and eventually we were on our own again. When we approached the active part of the work zone they saw us and were kind enough not to run us over with their equipment, but they didn't wait until we were past them to start work again, so I got a healthy spray of tar on my face, arm, and shirt as we rode past. That's going to take a while to wash out...of my skin.

We also passed a troublingly incomplete sign:

That sounds great, Mr. Sign, in fact I was planning on not breaking any windshields, but do you think you could, you know, offer some more specific instructions about HOW I'M SUPPOSED TO AVOID IT? We don't have a windshield, of course, but since my face occupies that space I would like to know more about these mysterious threats.

Once again the headwind made the day longer than it should have been, but for once we were finished before it was completely dark out. Dubois (pronounced like dew-boys, because once again no one understands European pronunciation out here) looks like a Western town built for tourists, but it's actually a legit Wild West town (that has now been converted for tourists). Many of the original buildings are still standing, including the bar and general store frequented by Butch Cassidy, who spent summmers on a nearby ranch.

We also got to stay over in our own little log cabin, which was cute.

The town was still hopping around 8:30 when we rode down main street, so we figured we had time for quick showers before we ate. We emerged clean, refreshed, in normal clothing, and excited to have a sit down dinner for once. We were doubly excited because our friend Staph (who sometimes pretends to be named Paul, and who led a hiking group in the area recently) highly recommended the Cowboy Cafe. We walked through their doors, inhaling the aroma of perfectly cooked hamburgers, only to be turned away because the kitchen had just closed. Disheartened, we walked down the street to check out the other restaurants, all of which had the same disheartening news: while they were still technically open, and in most cases packed with customers, they weren't serving anyone new. We even ducked into the local bar to see if we could grab wings or a pizza, or maybe just some peanuts, but all they had were drinks. At this point I was getting extremely depressed and frustrated, and when we walked to the edge of town only to discover that even the gas station was closed, I was ready to burst into tears. I had been expecting and deeply craving cold drinks and food that was warm and flavorful, and if we had to go back to the hotel room and make a dinner of tepid water and the last of our bagels I might not be able to handle it. Then I spotted it, the holy grail of my drastically lowered dinner expectations:

The vending machine was in the back corner of an empty laundromat. According to the hours posted on the door it was supposed to be closed, so I sprinted into the building before an employee could materialize to lock us out. We pulled out all of the dollar bills we had, which was enough for a soda for each of us and a bag of Cheez-its for me. (Kyle, for some reason I couldn't understand, was okay with eating more bagels back in the room.) It was a far, far cry from the dinner I had been imagining, but at least it was something with flavor.

Afterwards we crawled into bed, and I struggled to fall asleep with irritating bug bites and a growling stomach. Wyoming is going to be a very, very difficult state...

| posted at: 04:09 | permanent link and comments

Monday, August 03, 2009

49: History, Various Hooved Animals, and a Distinct Lack of Pie

Stoker's Log

Day Forty Nine

8/3/09

From Rawlins, WY

To Lander, WY

136.3 miles

11.6 avg mph

With so many miles to cover, we should have started before daybreak, but we decided to wait for the hotel to put out a delicious breakfast before we got on the road (of course). Once again the view was stunning but largely unchanging.

For a while the weather was fairly pleasant, but the heat and the headwinds gradually increased to sanity-destroying levels. We brought back our most depressing game from Kansas: choosing one of the few landmarks in the distance and trying to guess how far away it was. Then we started to worry that we were seeing mirages:

Fortunately we weren't alone on the road. Since we're back on the official ACA route, we got to meet other cyclists today, though as usual they were all headed the opposite direction. First we met Michael, a teacher who was making very impressive time. He warned us against the food at Grandma's Cafe, which depressed us; the Grandma in question is famous in the cross-country cycling world for her welcoming nature and her homemade pies, and we were really looking forward to having a late breakfast there. So we held out hope as we rolled up to the gradually deteriorating cafe.

Unfortunately, Michael was right. Our English muffins were pretty good, but our lemonades had debris floating in them and the lady we assumed to be "Grandma" was tired, grumpy, and all out of homemade pies. Of course we have to welcome anything close to an oasis out here, but we still left rather disappointed.

An hour or so after Michael, we met some self-proclaimed "turtles": two Swedish retirees taking their sweet time across the country. They were absolutely delightful, and I can only hope that Kyle and I spend our later years the way they are doing (though I highly doubt I'll be more willing to camp as a senior citizen than I am now, so we'll have to ride slowly across somewhere more populated).

I was also thrilled to finally meet antelopes willing to stay still long enough for me to take pictures.

And then, a little while later, I got to see another family of them crossing the salt flats.

We spent the the day criss-crossing the Continental Divide several times and following several historical routes: the Oregon and California Trails and the paths taken by Mormon pioneers, Chief Washakie's tribe, and the Pony Express. We were able to see the same landmarks they used, such as Split Rock:

And in Muddy Gap we visited a combination Mormon Remembrance Site and gas station that used its walls as a giant guest book. (We signed with our frisbee nicknames.)

About 2 hours later, we reached the next sign of civilization, though it wasn't much of one. Jeffrey City was once a uraniam mining boomtown, but when those opportunities dried up it became a ghost town, a line of empty businesses and silent neighborhoods.

The only open business was the bar, and we made up 2/3 of the patrons. We admired the bird-friendly exterior, chatted with the woman behind the bar, watched Bonanza, used the bathrooms, and downed two deliciously cold sodas before reluctantly returning to the road.

We also checked out the hodgepodge art shop across the street, which we remembered hearing about as a place for cyclists to camp.

Nothing seemed to be stirring over there, however, so we moved on. We rode and rode and rode and you know the drill until we reached a rest area in Sweetwater. By then the winds were so intense that we decided to drag the bicycle inside so that it wouldn't blow over. We laid down on the benches, content to munch on granola bars in silence, but a chatty gentleman from Iowa came over to us and we had a long conversation about everything from marathons to gay marriage (in which I learned that Iowa is surprisingly and refreshingly progressive). We ventured out of the building when the weather seemed to have calmed down, but it was a temporary reprieve. Soon ominous storm clouds appeared on the horizon and haunted us for the rest of the afternoon and evening. We would outrun one storm only to spot another, adding an element of stress and danger to a ride that was already guarenteed to be exhausting.

Finally the storm clouds dispersed and we found ourselves on a beautiful descent as the sun set and the moon rose over the hills. A moment of pure happiness and exhiliration broke through our frustrated moods and left us grinning all the way down. As we zoomed past a campground we startled a trotting horse, its hooves kicking up sparks on the asphalt. We felt buoyed, even invincible.

It didn't last long.

We stopped to turn on the bike lights, and in those brief seconds that we were no longer moving, we were attacked by an angry swarm of biting insects. We leapt back onto the bike and took off as fast as our fatigued legs could stand, but I still felt like needles were stabbing me for miles. I thought it might be my imagination, or the aftermath of earlier bites; there was no way bugs could be biting me through the seat and my clothing, right? I tried to tell Kyle but his attention suddenly needed to be elsewhere: a lightning strike had just appeared to our right, much too close for comfort. We now had two very good reasons to ride as quickly as possible -- three if you count how late it was already -- but it still seemed to take forever to get to town.

When we finally made it, our problems weren't over. To our surprise, the hotels were all booked; we assume it was because of the Mormon tourists whose vans filled their parking lots. Fortunately, we snagged the last room available at the the Pronghorn Lodge; unfortunately, it was a suite so it cost us $110, but beggars can't be choosers. Outside we met an energetic woman named Polly who was vacationing with her mother, and they insisted that we let them take our picture in front of the hotel's impressive pronghorn.

The photo forced us to smile, and the women's excitement about our trip was surprisingly energizing, which is exactly what we needed. We walked over to McDonald's a little less depressed than before, and even though the milkshake was not gourmet this time I was incredibly happy to have a filling meal in me. I was hopelessly distracted by the itchy bug bites, however, and when I finally looked at my back and below in a mirror I almost screamed: those buggers had been biting me through the seat and my clothing during the ride; I was so covered with bites that I looked diseased. I stopped counting somewhere around 80, slathered myself in Cortizone cream, and collapsed on the bed wanting to cry.

I'm not sure how to express how utterly sick I am of the trip and these wide open spaces right now. If we had started this trip in Oregon, I'm convinced that Wyoming would have broken me, and I would have decided to quit and catch the first flight home. (Assuming Wyoming even has any airports.) I can't quit now, of course, since we're so close to the end, but OH do I want to be finished with this whole batshit crazy endevor. I just want to be done, finished, off the bike and home. I want to stay inside for days, and never ride at night again. I want it all to be over. I want to collapse on the beach and just barely keep myself from throwing the bike into the ocean.

| posted at: 04:02 | permanent link and comments

Sunday, August 02, 2009

48: Expresso and a Rodeo

Stoker's Log

Day Forty Eight

8/2/09

Rest Day

Rawlins, WY

We've been trying to push across this part of the country as quickly as possible, partly because we have to cover great distances in order to reach a town each night, and partly because, due to Kyle's work schedule, our time is running out. But eventually all of the long days, night rides, and late bedtimes were bound to catch up with us. We desperately needed a day off, and Rawlins -- a cute town located in the midst of a string of 100+ mile days -- seemed like a great place to take a break. Our depressing hotel, however, did not, especially after we ate stale bread products out of tupperware containers for breakfast. We decided to switch accomodations, and my parents were nice enough to get us another Hampton room with their rewards points. I do love those cloud pillows.

We spent the morning at one of our favorite places: a coffee shop with free internet and cheerful decor.

Initially we had to sit outside and wait for it to open, but that meant we got to meet another fellow adventurer, in this case a hiker traveling the Continental Divide Trail. We talked for a while about our respective journeys, lives, and stumbling blocks: turns out he was currently dealing with torn shoes. Lo and behold, when he asked a local about where he could get them fixed, she offered to take them back to the super sewing machine at her house and fix them up for him right then for free. I really love meeting so many good samaritans across the country (and I'm glad that this time we didn't have to be stranded to do it!).

After spending some time in the coffee shop and finally handing the computer over to Kyle, I decided to go wandering and check out the art downtown.

I also checked out the train station.

And they are either are not fans of birds on their windowsills, or they have some very strange decorating ideas.

When we were ready to leave the coffee shop for good, I dragged Kyle back to the train depot to pose with the most amusing and interactive mural art:

We have especially stunning hats in both of them, if I do say so myself.

Speaking of being Wanted, next we visited the historic prison.

Unfortunately we didn't see the inside because we weren't willing to wait almost an hour for the next tour to start. Plus we had a more exciting tourist plan in store: a rodeo. I've really wanted to see one ever since we got out West, and tonight we finally got our chance.

It was both a large and intimate affair; near the arena there was row after row of trucks and small RVs -- clearly a crowd had traveled to stay for rodeo week -- but the rodeo audience tonight was fairly small and everyone seemed to know each other. We sat just above a delightful crowd of cowboys who certainly knew the competitors well and did an excellent job of heckling them.

In the part of the rodeo we watched, teams of four competed to laso a calf, drag it out of the pen, and pretend to brand it, then chase down two cows running free in the arena and lead them into a trailer.

I love a good cattle chase and laso display, but I also felt really bad for the young, terrified calves that were dragged around by their back legs. It became hard to watch for an animal-loving suburb/city girl; I appreciate the rancher culture out here, but I'm clearly not ready to be part of it. Eventually we were ready to leave for dinner -- one that did not involve red meat -- so we headed down the road to Penny's Diner.

The diner was charming, though it did lose some of its appeal when we realized it was a chain. After dinner (spaghetti and a salad for me, french toast for Kyle) we headed back to our cloud bed to watch home buying shows and plummet into sleep. Our days off always go by too quickly, especially since tomorrow we plan to ride over 120 miles. I'm groaning already...

| posted at: 04:02 | permanent link and comments

Saturday, August 01, 2009

47: I Saw the Signs

Stoker's Log

Day Forty Seven

8/1/09

From Larime, WY

To Rawlins, WY

111.5 miles

9.4 avg mph

The Ramada had the most impressive breakfast we've encountered so far, so impressive that even people who weren't guests of the hotel came and paid to eat it. It didn't make a major difference in my day since I'm not a breakfast person, but Kyle was in heaven with all of the hot food options, including made-to-order omlettes. After stuffing ourselves, we packed up and rode down to the local bike shop to buy spare tires and tubes. They didn't have any in the right size, but we were at least able to purchase another patch kit. At the mini market down the street, I decided on a rather unconventional pair of snacks -- pumpkin seeds and pink wafer cookies -- and chatted with a young couple even more infected with wanderlust than we are: they've been touring the country in their RV for going on two years now.

We finally left town for another very open road. Based on our maps, we didn't expect to see much of anything before we reached the Sinclair station miles and miles away; unfortunately, we also didn't expect the Sinclair station to be closed down. Luckily for me, in the field next to it was a porta-potty beside some tents. They belonged to construction workers who lived far enough away from the worksite that sleeping over in a campsite made more sense than commuting or paying for a motel; this is what happens when wide open spaces meet a bad economy. The workers were about to climb into their trucks and drive off to get lunch -- where they had to go for food I can't imagine -- but they were kind enough to unlock the porta-potty for me and the van full of children that pulled up after us.

We then did a good deal of boring highway riding that you don't want to hear about. Along the way we were waved down by the delightful Officer Troy, who explained that due to a major bridge repair project, the state had closed down the highway and diverted traffic to a temporary road next to it. He said that we were welcome to ride on the closed highway, however, and gave us his business card so that construction workers and other officers would let us pass through. That's right, we suddenly had an entire highway to ourselves.

The empty road was incredibly liberating and cut our stress in half. It also had the benefit of all construction sites: regular porta-potties. In this case, they were extra portable:

Their wheels are really amusing -- almost as amusing as the name Honeywagon -- until you're using one during a wind gust and start to worry that it will head down the road. Which reminds me, I should add that we faced an awful head wind all day long. Sigh. It was so exhausting and infuriating, though we can't say they didn't warn us.

This sign is one of many like it along the highway; they say "Next 5 Miles" because that's about how often the signs occur. I would have changed "Possible" to "Inevitable," but that's just me. Some of the signs even had small wind socks to drive home the point.

Other interesting signage included an adjustable (and freaking fast) speed limit sign:

And strangely positioned mile markers. (Was it really that hard to move the sign a little ways down the road so that it could say 275.5 or an even 276? Am I the alone one who finds marking .37 strange?)

At this point you may be wondering why I'm showing you a series of road signs instead of more interesting pictures, but I promise there wasn't anything else to see. The area we rode through today was certainly beautiful...

...but it had even less variety than Kansas. The only significant outdoor sight of the day was the army of windmills stretching across the distant hills like Don Quixote's greatest nightmare.

Especially as a cyclist and an ultimate frisbee player, I will never understand how people living out here deal with the constant wind, but I was very glad to see that they put it to work. We got more information about the windmills and the lifestyle from the owners of a campground general store (that was blessedly OPEN) and their amusing FAQ answer board.

As I sat at their only table contentedly eating my pretzels and chocolate bars, I flipped through Hauler Magazine, a publication devoted entirely to tow vehicles and the drivers who use and love them. The best part was the (apparently long-running) American Towman comic. What will they think of next?

Then at the rest stop (which appeared after a long and blurry series of miles) I discovered a comic almost as amazing: The Zone Ranger. After a young man made the lethal mistake of driving in a truck's blindspot, he and his car came back as a sort of Transformer ghost superhero dedicated to teaching people about the "No Zone" around trucks. I couldn't make that story up if I tried:

The rest stop also included an informational sign about the Wyoming environment. Unfortunately, it ended with a boldfaced lie.

Even though it balances the ecosystem and produces power, I refuse to consider the Wyoming wind our friend right now. But at least by the late afternoon we started to hit downhills that lessened its effect. We also got to see a few families of antelopes, which was an exciting break in the monotony even though they always refused to stay still for a photograph. We made a quick stop at a Conoco station, and as we left the sun was setting and we weren't even close to finishing our 100+ mile day. Once again, we would be riding for hours in the dark. Great.

It turns out we would also be riding on a road that was in the midst of being resurfaced and therefore horribly uneven and unpleasant. It also passed by businesses that were all, you guessed it, closed. It's a sad day when you see more closed gas stations than open ones. I was seriously wondering whether anyone used gasoline in Wyoming when we finally saw the lights of the Sinclair refinery and an accompanying gas station and truck stop. After a few long minutes we reached it, and when it was my turn to guard the bike, I let the camera play with the beautifully eerie lights.

I desperately wanted to get food in Sinclair, but we were less than 10 miles from Rawlins, our destination for the night, so we carried on. Our only food option in Rawlins turned out to be McDonalds, and we were almost unable to eat there; only the drive-thru was still open, but fortunately they let me walk through it. It was a McDonalds like none I've ever seen: a machine grabbed and filled the soda cup all by itself while an employee made me a milkshake that was much too gourmet for a McDonald's.

Unfortunately, since I'm mildly allergic to strawberries, I couldn't drink all of it out of fear that they'd actually switched to natural ingredients, but I was impressed all the same.

We were much less impressed by the hotel. Checking in took FOREVER because the clerk had some sort of problem with the computer and no backup plan. I felt especially bad for the other family attempting to check in, because they didn't speak English very well and thought it was a problem with their card. We helped as best we could and finally got a room, which turned out to be decorated in the cinder block prison style. I suppose it was the perfect setting for us to listlessly eat our limp fries and decide that there was absolutely no way we could ride the next day.

| posted at: 03:31 | permanent link and comments

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