Rock Island Line, a big ol chunk of Missouri.

"Down the Rock Island Line, is a mighty good road

The Rock Island Line, it's the road to ride"

~ Lead Belly 

I am not a good uncle. I'm not even an average uncle. I'm not a "creepy" uncle, which is a euphemism for a perverted uncle, so, I got that going for me. Which is nice.

I say all this because as I slid into the booth at a Perkins to have breakfast with my sister and two nieces I had to admit to my sister that I had no idea it was my youngest niece's birthday. Furthermore, I had to admit that I didn't know the eldest niece's birthday either. I sheepishly wrote the dates down in my little note book, and proceeded to attempt my best attentive cool uncle/brother act. 

I am a rarely seen spectre in their lives. I've been told by Boomers who don't know me well that I've lived my adulthood in the manner of a Bruce Springsteen song; turned eighteen, hit the door running, and never looked back. Which is true to a certain degree. Except that the impression I get from the handful of Bruce's songs that I've listened to is that eventually everyone reconciles, has a no place like home moment, and everyone continues life guilt free and in perfect harmony. That is not how I've lived my life.

Guilt gnaws at me over the abandonment of my younger sisters. Our parents divorced and we all were assigned to our mother, a task she never wanted but was willing to bear because of the lucrative child support checks my father was told to pay her. Except he didn't, which is neither here nor there really because I doubt very highly that the money would have reached us kids anyway. My mother is not a believer in trickle down economics, there is no trickle, the money is just her's and us kids could fuck off.

My sister and I both had jobs in high school. Our mother charged rent, eventually the taxation vexed me and I became more and more combustible. Eventually I was kicked out, and my life as it was/is began this course.

I would occasionally flit back into my siblings lives, but the stranger that manifested himself before them was confusing and at times ill received. One meeting with my middle sister devolved into an argument about our family and she yelled at me "you don't know what it was like for us when you abandoned us with Mom, you don't know what we went through. You were supposed to be our big brother, you were supposed to protect us, and you didn't."

I can quote those words to you because they cut so so very deep and seared themselves on my memory. Guilt. Guilt. What was I doing in those ensuing years? Living the stupid life of a Midwestern 20 something, trying to get laid, smoking to many cigarettes, drinking to much liquor. I should have been helping my siblings, I should have been there. But I wasn't, and now, I feel like an interloper.

I finished up my breakfast with my first sibling, gave her a hug, high-fived my young nieces, and threw a leg over my touring bike to sit on the bike alone with just my thoughts as company for the day. Thus, this long soliloquy about family and my role in that family. It's a long road to get back to normal with my sisters, and God willing, I pray that I'm able to. 

I rolled south, got caught in some sort of tar and gravel road spraying thing...

A sign at the other end of the road I just rode through.

coated the down tube of my bicycle in flecks of tar that should be super fun to get off when this tour is through, and finally found the trailhead for the Rock Island Trail.

Or the MOPAC Trail depending on what signage you see first.

Wow, so nice! It's quiet and sunny, a very meditative and peaceful path. Physically it's an old rail line with ties ripped up and tossed aside like a giant came through and used them as toothpicks.

The wind was obnoxious with gusts up to 30mph, and an average wind of 18. But if you didn't have that wind you'd hear the babbling of this picturesque stream:

or hear whatever this snake was trying to say as he flicked his head at me while I pulled my phone out to take his picture, I suspect it was something along the lines of "no photos jerk!"

For the record, not a huge snake fan, but he seemed cool enough.

I came across deer, countless cardinals and bluejays, and a few far off scurrying things that looked snuggly, but ran off into the brush before I could give them a hug. 

Somewhere around, well, nowhere really, I came across a fellow walking his bike. I stopped and asked him his troubles and he said he popped a tube and didn't have a spare. I told him that I didn't have his size tube but if he had a patch kit I could patch it and inflate it. He said he didn't. I thought about all the times I have heard a bike shop sales guy tell a customer they really need a saddle bag, spare tube, patch kit, tire levers, and inflation device to go with their new bike. Then I reflect on the customer who says no and mumble something about "always trying to upsell me." Suddenly I felt less bad for this fellow. Word has it he's still wandering that trail lamenting his poor planning.

After my interaction with the encumbered hiker it was just a matter of 

#partypace -ing

the ride. With about 20 miles until I got to my Dad's house in Windsor the suck started, bad.

That part of the world had gotten rain the day before and the red clay base of the trail was soft and spongy. Every pedal stroke was a lot of push, and the result was not much momentum. I ticked over to the power meter screen and gasped at the readings. 225-275 watts for 13-17mph depending on the monster wind. My heart rate was 165-180. I was cooking myself and fast. 

I've trained this year and I know that my low threshold is 195 watts. Not the best in the business but not slouching. Hovering around 250 I watched as my grams of fat burned versus my grams of carbs burning, inverted. I was blazing through sugar, the threat of a bonk was real. I set an alarm for every ten minutes to remember to hydrate another every 45 to eat. It's just 20 miles. 

"I AM NOT PUSHING MY BIKE DOWN THIS DAMN TRAIL LIKE THAT WEIRDO WHO DIDN'T HAVE A TUBE!" I screamed at myself. 

Which was really distressing to the cows in the pasture beside me. They spooked and shuffled off insulted by my volume.

I trudged through the mud. Pedal, eat, drink, pedal, eat, drink. By the time I reached the end of the line I never thought I'd be so happy to see wind swept Windsor, Missouri. 

Imagine if you will the proverbial one stop town, then imagine you're waiting at the intersection for the horse drawn carriage to clear. No joke, that is Windsor. A strong presence of Mennonites and Ozarkans. It's cool, I'm down with it.

I got to my hotel, checked in, and surveyed the ache. Legs were pretty beat up, but I'll survive. The kit looked like the rim of a margarita.

The Rock Island Line was a mighty fine road to ride. It was hard but beautiful. If you get the chance to scoot on out here, I'd recommend it. I'm tired now. Normally I'd have some clever ending but we're getting to the brass tacks time folks. The flourish is being replaced by the practical. I'm going to give you just the facts ma'am and try to be witty as much as possible. I might fail in the writing department but it's because I'm giving my all to the riding department. Send good vibes. 

Till next time...

Emporia

Emporia Kansas, my best friend lives here. He has been by my side either physically or spiritually through every facet of human emotion that I have lived through thus far and when a quiet refuge is what is needed to recharge my battery I know that his front door is always open, in this little windswept town on the edge of rolling plains.

It has been funny to me to chat with the cycling sophisticants back in Colorado about Emporia. They speak of it in semi-flabergasted tones, somehow failing to believe and accept that an agrarian/college town in Eastern Central Kansas has so much unique culture, zest, and friendliness. Perhaps it is because they are in Colorado or more likely recent transplants to Colorado who adopt the standoffish demeanor of the "Native" Coloradans. Some Coloradans, not all of course. I would never want to paint the residents of Colorado with the broad brush that they seem to have painted the great people of Emporia with.

My first day in town I had a sneaking suspicion that the fully loaded touring bike would wear out it's chain cassette a heck of a lot faster than my little old racing bicycle wears out it's chain and cassette. I popped in to one of three local bike shops, this one was called Gravel City Adventure. I chatted with the owner Aaron and asked if he would be willing to let an experienced bike mechanic visiting from Colorado purchase parts and install them himself. Aaron said that would be fine and we engaged in the standard industry talk as I replaced my completely cooked chain and cassette. Eventually we exchanged contact info because the town is annually over run in the summer by racers for the DK bicycle race and a good mechanic can be useful when the tourists show up and blow their bicycle apart on the unforgiving flint hills around Lyons county.  If all goes to plan I'll be swinging through Emporia to wrench at one of the biggest gravel races in the world. Not to shabby for my first day in town.

Over the course of several days I became quite familiar with the local coffee shop Gravel City Roasters. It took a little fiddling along the edges but by the end of my stay in Emporia we came to a wonderful conclusion in our experiment on the non-dairy cortado coffee. I was so happy with the quality of the beans that they roasted that I now have a pound of coffee being carried with me for the duration of this journey.

My last day in town I popped into another bike shop closer to the Granada coffee shop. Eclectic Bikes has a really cool vibe. A really fun mix of old school Schwinn's and zippy modern race machines. Loraina introduced me to her handsome and snuggly horse sized dog and let me tinker on my bicycle a touch more. She was kind enough to give me a screaming deal on some honey stingers for the back end of my trip. Loaded up with bike gear, coffee, and sugar I feel really confident about this next leg.

I would say more about hanging out with my friend, his wife, and their beautiful fur baby family, but those moments will be my moments. I'm going to take them and hold them close to my heart. One of the nice things about having really good friends is that they treat you like family. I am grateful for the hospitality and generosity that I received during my stay in their home and their town.

It's now time again to ramble on down the road. I'm in the state of my birth, the great state of Missouri. It is a beautiful state with rich black soil, tall strong trees vibrant in their Fall foliage, and generally speaking some of the most cantankerous and aggressive pickup truck drivers in the Midwest. To combat the last phenomena Missouri has spearheaded a relatively thorough rail to trail program that crisscrosses the entire state. For those skittish bicycle tourists who are intimidated riding the paved shoulders of rural two lane highways it is totally possible to ride one's bicycle on paths meant for cyclists, walkers, and equestrians from Kansas City to Saint Louis without ever getting passed to close by a car. 

Though I am as brave, silly, and ignorant as the driver of the too close pickup trucks that pass me I'm going to take advantage of this wonderful crushed kitty litter-sized gravel that Missouri has scattered all across the state.

Send me Good vibes and pray for there to be nothing but tailwinds as a severe cold front is sweeping down from the northern territories and threatens snow and sleet next Monday and Tuesday. I could be further along in this trip and thus further south avoiding the cold snap that the Midwest is about to endure, however that would have meant cutting short my time in the fantastic metropolis that is Emporia Kansas and in the warm familial embrace of good friends in that tiny Paris of the plains. I'll keep that jewel of a memory in my mind's eye for warmth as I pedal down to the boot heel. 

Till next time, Dear Readers.

A souvenir from the Jon Leach household of Emporia. This spoon has vastly improved my bike tour spoon game. That compostable plastic one was getting all crumbly.

The Great Nothingness

I'm sorry to have fallen off the map. Sadly I had nothing move me in the stretch of distance between Tribune Kansas and McPherson Kansas.

The people in Dighton, Scott City, and Great Bend were scowly, short in conversation, and generally just none to happy to see me.

Those of you who have ridden with me know that I am a waver. I'll wave at any car coming my way, unless I'm really dying on the ride. But during this whole stretch I just gave up on it. No one returned my salutations, no one even smiled. I felt very very much alone during this stretch of the tour. The clerk's at the stores I stopped in for food were uncommunicative. The flat green land turned into the brown harvested fields, or further down the road pasture land with oil wells.

Lyons was pretty cool. They had a good coffee shop. The roads were to narrow and semi trucks blared at me while close passing, but the coffee was the best I had in Kansas so far.

All in all, the Transamerica route through this part of Kansas could use an update. Maybe swing it north to the Flint Hills Trail, or further south near Wichita were those nice folks who showered me with Gatorade live. But as for this section, utterly forgettable.

I'm taking the weekend off, hanging out with an old college buddy. Then I'll set out for Kansas City and long lost relatives. It is good that there is another chapter to be written about this journey. I'd hate to end it on such a flat note. May the rolling hills of Missouri hold more charm than the putting green of Central Kansas.

Till next time Dear Readers...

Only thing of note from Tribune to McPherson is the tremendous amount of ditch weed growing just off the highway. Being from Colorado I'd never partake of such low quality bud but for this part of the world it seems a perfect fit the locals.

Day 5 Kit Carson to Tribune, KS

Let's get down to brass tacks. The first southbound 20 miles were a dream, beautiful tailwind, super high speed, feeling great.

Then came the turn east. Not a brutal headwind, just a steady consistent strain against my efforts.

I came across a dead fox and as they are my favorite animals, I was very sad and prayer over the little guy. 

Then I came to the Sand Creek Massacre memorial. What a travesty. Tent poles from the massacre still stand on the site, in permanent testament to the ugliness man can dish out for his fellow man. 

It wasn't all dead foxes and massacres in this day. I saw some of the human kindness that we can share as well. Just before the Kansas state line a fellow stopped and flagged me down. He offered me tons of Gatorade and snacks. He told me he wanted to show me that there are people on the highway who care about me. Such a sweet fella.

I crossed into Kansas and the roads immediately improved.

The State Line of Colorado and Kansas

Beautiful black asphalt with a tamped rock shoulder 

I rolled in and hit Tribune, KS. Such a quaint little town. I spoke to a sheriff who encouraged me to camp at the fairgrounds and use the locker room at the swimming pool for cleaning up. If you're traveling via bicycle, this town is a must stop for the rough camping tourist.

I'm pooped so no flowery this and that. Love ya guys! Goodnight.

Day 4 Limon to Kit Carson

Why do we call it a lump in our throats? Surely there is a word in German for that sensation of fighting back tears so as not to look a crazy person in public. I don't know why I was emotional, but it hit me as I set my bicycle in front of the Kit Carson museum, I'd done it, I'd exercised the demons of one of my most embarrassing cycling failures. At that moment I felt like crying, as I type this tears well up in my eyes. To think about being so defeated on the first day of my first attempt at a cross country tour two years ago, and to be now standing where I had been laying in agony felt immense and emotional.

Two years ago I had ridden to Kit Carson and blown out my knee. A little before that I had tweaked my knee, but I thought myself healed and ready to roll. More than likely I would have been but I got a fit from a fella who wasn't really on top of his game at the time and what resulted was a severe strain of the MCL and months off the bike. I was genuinely heartbroken. Much had been hyped about this tour. I was raising money for a kids charity in Florida, had hyped it up on social media, and then, poof, all over.

All of this was on my mind this morning as I dusted off my windblown bicycle from yesterday's tempest. Annoyingly my legs were quite stiff and moaney. This had the effect of making me hyper paranoid and so I spent two hours foam rolling and stretching before I even left my hotel.

The first hour or so out of Limon was spent soft pedaling and applying embrocation to my legs. When I arrived in Hugo I was just starting to ease up on the warm up routine.

Hey! It's Hugo.

I wanted to grab a coffee and assess the situation with my legs. As I wandered around town I pulled out my phone to find a coffee shop. As I did a white SUV backed up and into my path. I narrowly avoided getting knocked over and we both exchanged relieved sentiments that I got off with only a light scuff to my pannier. Having a captive audience I asked the driver where she recommended for a coffee and she mentioned an antique store that served coffee just around the corner. We parted ways and I went to find my cup of joe.

I was impressed by the amount of... stuff this shop held. Floor to ceiling stuffed full of... stuff. I gave my coffee order to the lady behind the counter and sauntered off to use the restroom. What I found in there, was interesting.

Jane Fonda ain't welcome 'round these parts.

I like Jane Fonda. She's been habitually getting arrested recently badgering members of Congress to do something about the Climate Crisis. She's a rich lady trying to do right by future generations. To still be pissing on her face for some young mistakes protesting what we now know was in fact an unjustified, inhumane, and frivolous war in Vietnam seems really dumb. What could I possibly have in common with this old biddy behind the counter?

I emerged from the bathroom and used my most fake polite smile. The old lady asked me if I was the young man riding in from Limon. I said I was, and she replied that she was impressed with my bravery. She then asked where I was headed and I said Georgia by way of Kit Carson. Her face showed astonishment.

"I don't even feel safe driving that highway to Kit Carson," she said, "you must have a lot of guardian angels."

I smiled and said that I did indeed, and a fair amount of friends and family praying for my safe travels. She smiled at that and said, "I think that's a good idea." Reaching out she placed her hand on my shoulder and bowed her head to pray, I followed suit.

"Holy Father, watch over this young man and protect him on his travels across this great land you've given us. Let him see the beauty of the small little towns like ours and let the people he comes across offer him courtesy and sanctuary as needed. Amen," she prayed.

She took her hand away and said "hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," I said, "I solicit prayers from anyone who's willing to give them."

I picked up my coffee and told the old lady to have a blessed day.

What a fool I can be sometimes. A stupid sticker in a urinal and I was ready to write this woman off. These differences between us are manufactured. In the end what we all want is to get home safe and have the folks we meet in the day to day get home safe to their people as well. What we bicker over is meant to divide us so we fail to recognize the divine that each individual carries. When we get past that and really connect we can see the beauty of the heart in each person. 

Sorry, I thought I was back in Boulder for second. Where was I? Oh, right east of Hugo now.

Well, if you can ignore the constant fly bys of semi trucks you can fool yourself into thinking your the only person out there. You will see the following signs of modern man:

and

and

Eventually, you might see some adorable antelope:

and inexplicably:

Sure, why not? It seems an odd place to remind us of balance, but... Well, no, actually it is a really weird place to spray paint this. I mean, I must have been the only person to have noticed this in two years.

Eventually you'll get to Wild Horse, CO and as you look around you'll find yourself thinking who, what, and why. The where is answered, it's Wild Horse, but everything else, is a mystery.

As I stood in town here, taking this photo a strange moan like whistle noise thing was going off. It kind of freaked me out so I hopped on the bike and started out. As I continued towards Kit Carson the noise grew louder and it was then I realized that the wind was picking up and making a road sign on the edge of Wild Horse vibrate oddly in the wind. If you roll through here, don't worry it's not haunted, just windy.

A few more rollers and suddenly I was in to Kit Carson. I traveled back in time to two years ago. I passed the diner where I bought my Aunt lunch for rescuing me. There was the Inn I stayed at the night before my Aunt got to town. There's the museum where I laid down and wept because I knew the tour was done. 

But I came back. This time unbroken. I stopped in front of the museum, hopped the curb, and steadied my bike for a victory photo.

The End, for today.

Day 3 Agate to Deer Trail to Agate to Limon

To say that Matt Harmon was not feeling well is a bit of an understatement. Day two Strasburg to agate had left him in a state of terrible agony. The exhausted desperation that crept into his face when the frat boy reject security guard told us to vacate the school premises immediately, was palpable and difficult to ignore.

It's important when engaging in proper cycling to be able to ignore the suffering of yourself and others in your riding party. When riding a bike one is transforming himself into the motor of a vehicle, a machine. And machines do not feel pain. But they do break down.

This morning as I listened to Matt Harmon cough with the vigor of an 80-year-old man who had been a coal miner his entire adult life, and then wretch and vomit what  appeared to be yellow bile, well that is a suffering that simply cannot be ignored.

"I'm calling it," Harmon said without even looking at me.

Relieved that I wouldn't have to insist his abandonment of this tour, I asked where his rescue party would pick him up. He told me that his suffering had been so great overnight that he had already reached out to family members and determined that he would meet them in Deer Trail, a roughly 11 mile backtrack.

We packed up our campsite and nosed our bikes up and out of the ditch that had been our home for the night . Making our way back West we had the sun at our backs and unlike yesterday the wind that had been against us was now for us and we got to Deer Trail in a satisfactory time of just over 30 minutes.

For some reason Matt Harmon felt bad about abandoning the tour, he kept making apologies and explanations, none of which were necessary. To say that Matthew Harmon carries his nerves in his stomach would be doing the topic an injustice. The man has more nervous tendencies in his gut than an entire herd of Hanoverian warm blood horses. Unlike the horses  Matt Harmon cannot outrun his nervous stomach and this touring endeavor at the ripe age of 41 was causing him much unease and consternation.

What we were discovering on this bicycle tour in the first three days is that what the body is capable of doing at the age of 31 is quite different from what the body can do at the age of 41. Too many ho-hum fast food lunches, or late nights with friends and family alike, or any of the countless other health maladies that we Western civilized folk suffer from. They cause us such a rapid decline that it hardly seems fair that we have another 30 years to go, on average, before that sweet release and embrace of the Holy.

When Matt Harmon's sister arrived he smiled the first smile that I had seen him wear in about a day and a half. As I have stated here in this blog, bicycle touring is supposed to be fun. It's not proper cycling. The moment that it ceases to be fun and becomes a sufferfest one should immediately stop, wherever they may be. Sit down even if it's on the side of the road and wait for the fun to catch back up with you. I would encourage my competitive road cyclist friends to embrace this philosophy once in a while also, unless money, prizes, or Glory are on the line. If you are competing for all three then by all means break yourself in half and bathe in the trifecta of awesomeness.

With Matt safely tucked into his sister's pickup truck and headed west back to Denver, I turned around and headed to the east back towards Agate.

I try not to hold too big of a grudge against an entire town or city based on the discourtesy that one citizen paid me. So on my way back through agate I waved in a friendly manner to local church parishioners leaving their service, smiled at the barking dogs, and ducked behind the US postal facility where I made use of their unlocked water spigot to fill four bottles and a camelbak. Freshly off the appropriation of some tasty well water from the good people of Agate Colorado I had a much higher opinion of the windswept 75 person village.

After Agate the road turn to dust

and I found myself climbing a steady diet of rollers as the antelope began to outnumber the people. I saw several majestic and beautiful whitetail deer. And even more friendly fuzzy looking cows. Around 1:00 I broke for lunch and called my wife. We chatted pleasantly for roughly 30 minutes when all of the sudden a tremendous gust of wind viciously attacked me from the Northwest and attempted to knock my bike over.

Rolling prairie 

Sensing danger I quickly said I love yous to my wife and threw a leg over the bike to finish the last 15 miles of the days journey to Limon. 

The wind did not slowly ramp up, it just was, and as I looked my left and saw a wall of invisibility sweeping down upon me I pulled my bandana face mask up and prepared for the battle.

Obviously I survived, I'm writing this post event. Research done as I safely sit in a lovely hotel room would reveal that the winds reached up to 46 mph. When I was peddling with the gusts I traveled over 30 mph. When I pedaled against it I barely got up to five miles per hour. In the unfortunate and terrifying event that I was being attacked by crosswinds I was still able to travel at a respectable 12 to 17 miles per hour. The terror lay in the realization that to pedal in the crosswinds I would have to lean into the wind and trust that it would not suddenly die off and leave me off balance. 

Thankfully? It never did let up. The front tire of my bicycle began to have a tan coloration to the black rubber on the non-drive side nubs, the drive side nubs were still black. This is on account of all the leaning into the wind, which feels pretty crazy.

I tucked in for the night at a respectable but modestly priced hotel just off of i-70. I reflected on the events of the day. My sense of triumph over the wind was mixed equally with sadness over losing Matt Harmon, as well as relief that he did not have to go into the wind feeling terrible. 

From here on out I will be traveling on the roadway by myself, but I won't truly be alone. I won't be alone because I have you, dear reader, and as long as my pedals are still turning and this journey is still going forward then I will still be writing and riding for you.

The Haze cometh

Yikes! Safely inside.

The view West, it's almost like a curtain forbidding my return. 

Day 2 Strasburg to Agate

The time was just slightly after 1am. The ever-present hum of traffic from Interstate 70 was suddenly broken by the lazy gush of air fleeing the camp pad that was beneath me. This, was becoming a long night.

The KOA of Strasburg seemed a lovely place for Matt and I to post up on our first night of bike touring, but as dusk turned to night that illusion was slowly shattered. The constant whine of car tires flying past, the sound of some bar back throwing out seemingly tons of glass, and the occasional east bound train all conspired to trigger my restless sleeper syndrome.

In the best scenarios I use an eye covering and ear plugs to not jump awake at every single thing that goes bump in the night. It's a hangover from my colorful upbringing in South Kansas City, a part of town that the local paper once described as "having a serious and quickly growing homicide issue." I can quote that to you because it's a phrase my middle school aged mind fixed on. I reacted in a characteristically irrational fashion. Lots of double and triple checking window latches, a sudden interest in sticks and knives, and most importantly my self appointed charge as household night watchman.

My adolescent paranoia has died down now, but sadly my brain's encoding for night watch duty has not. I jump at the smallest noise, never really sleeping, and so it was tonight.

The KOA conspired against me and gave me a vast quantity of things to start at, and after every instance I determined we were not being eaten by bears and would flip over onto another barely comfortable side of my air camp pad. Finally, something I was wearing snagged the release valve and deflated the whole thing. Not just the pad I mean, my mood as well.

I lay there, feeling the cold, hard, earth sucking the warmth from me. I would not yield, if this is how this campground wanted to play, then so be it. I'd just lay there and take the best that this site has to offer and ask for more!

Which was a terrible mistake come sunrise. I ached and was very grumpy. Food was shoveled into my face, coffee slurped down, and legs thrown over bikes. Good riddance to this one horse town, I do not recommend.

My mood improved as I got miles underneath my belt. I began to appreciate the cool morning air. Heading in to the sun I quickly passed through Byers. About halfway in between Byers and Deer Trail I came upon a peculiar sight. On the south side of the road I noticed a massive sign that read "Oath Keepers Firebase 123 Medical Evacuation Station."

The complex is huge. Bulldozed berms make a firing range that is easily three football fields long, which stands to reason because the effective range of most civilian deer rifles is best at 300 yards. Various shacks on the property are most likely the medical aid stations for casualties of the coming civil war that for so long lived in these people heads, but thanks to their hard work and perseverance appears to becoming reality. If you build it they will come, as the saying goes.

I noticed distance human shaped specks looking at me as I looked at them and their property. Best to get a move on, I was only 150 yards away, well within sniping range.

I rolled down to some open space trail head just outside Deer Trail and awaited my compatriot Matt Harmon. He was quiet this morning, but he's a man of few words in general, so I thought nothing of it. When he arrived I began to think more seriously.

Harmon was flush from exertion. His two water bottles, completely drained. He had the look of a man in serious pain.

"I'm cracking," was all Matt said as he rolled up to the public tables, "Need a minute."

The words I said we're something along the lines of yeah, sure, whatever you need. But my thoughts were along the lines of "whoa, whoa, uh, whoa, this guy doesn't look good."

Harmon is the type of friend you want with you when you're staring down another fella in a dingy bar somewhere, bar stools already scooted back, hands tightening into fists. Harmon can usually diffuse the blossoming conflict, but if unsuccessful in that will quickly and with great conviction follow your lead in to a fist fight. I feared that in the fist fight of this bike ride, Matt Harmon is taking a pummeling.

The wind had been steady. A consistent 15-20 miles and hour, brutally out of the east. Exactly where we're headed. Evaluating his capacity, I recommended we call this day in Agate and make the long shot for Limon tomorrow. Harmon agrees and unsteadily throws a leg back over his bicycle.

We reached Agate and Matt collapses on the green grass of a school yard. I began to setup camp noting that he is already asleep.

We were approached by a man wearing basketball shorts, a gray shirt two sizes to big for his tall lanky frame, and flip flops with the strapping frayed for fashion not from usage, barbed wire and tribal tattoos peaked from under his shirt sleeves, and the buzz cut hair style told me everything I needed to know. This fella, was in charge around these parts.

"What the fuck are you two doing?" the stranger demanded.

Pleasantries already dispensed with I explained just the facts:

1. On a bicycle tour

2. Friends exhausted

3. Camping here cuz it's safe, soft, and quiet.

"Well, I'm the security officer here and that's not gonna work. I can't have two out of towners spreading COVID to our teachers and children," he replied.

I assessed the situation, we were clearly being told to move on. As I began to pick up my sleeping pad I said the only thing that came to mind.

"Oh don't worry about Covid, I hear it's a hoax. Some orange guy on the TV told me."

Barney Fife was not amused, clearly his mail in ballot was going orange this November. Sarcastic comment made I finished reattaching my panniers and rolled out with an extremely distressed looking Matt Harmon.

Harmon essentially picked the first grassy ditch out of town and out of eye sight and nosed his bike to sleep there. 

As he lay sleeping I wondered what had cracked him so bad, wondered how much further he had in him, and whether tonight's sleep would be better than the last.

I'm grimacing because Agate sucks, not because the bike ride was hard.

Day 1

I awoke just before 5am, my heart pounding and my sinuses packed with mucus. 

"Oh no," I thought, "I caught The Covid the night before the tour. I'm probably gonna die from it mid pedal stroke."

Then I remembered that I was sleeping in the presence of two adorable cats and my hypochondria subsided.

A quick cocktail of Zyrtec, Flonase, and a puff of albuterol opened the airway and got me back to sleep.

I awoke next just after 8 am. A respectable time for a man who imprinted his circadian rhythm while working his way through college at dinner only restaurants. Not A type approved but respectable to their lackies. We rolled out a bit after 9.

My companion on this trip is Matt Harmon, long time presence at Campus Cycles, and a stalwart in the bicycle commuter demographic. This will be his first Proper Tour.

Matt Harmon, bicycle tourist.

And it showed. Within minutes of entering the South Platte River trail he was towing a broken front pannier, it was decided that a coffee break was needed to ensure proper function of bike and rider. A detour was made to a little place just off of Brighton called Zeppelin Station. There we assessed the situation.

The coffee was fresh and delicious, the bike repairable, and my fellow rider was scared but capable. We discussed preferred routes to our first campsite of the evening in Strasburg. Nerves could be soothed in Matt if we could just stick to non-motorized paths until we were out of Denver. Our new route would see us take the South Platte, to Sand Creek, and eventually out to old 36 highway, aka Colfax avenue.

We weaved through the various hobo encampments on the aforementioned paths eventually spitting out on the Sand Creek trailhead at Star K Ranch. Then it was just a slow tedious headwind burn to our lunch stop, Lulu's in Watkins.

We arrived at Lulu's very parched, neither of us had remembered sunscreen, our bottles difficult to reach on the rutted bombed out roads frequented by the oil and gas industry tankers east of C470. We were in need of sanctuary. The hostess told us to wheel our rigs around back. We were not disappointed. A great oasis with tables nestled under pine trees and junipers. A game of horse show could be had, if one were so inclined. We were not so inclined.

Lulu's of Watkins: A resting place for travelers and metal steeds alike.

We had BLTs and a Chicken dinner, cold Coors, and pitchers of ice water. We had another 16 miles to go. My compatriot looked weathered, but valiantly threw a leg over his bike when we were done eating.

"It's just riding a bike," one of us said and was met with a polite and knowing chuckle. It's hard pushing these bikes. They're heavy by nature and when fully loaded for a cross country trip they're slow moving tanks. Stopping them is hard, balancing them in cross winds is hard, and muscling up even the slightest hill is hardest of all. It would be fun, to me there is no doubt, but it's the fun that is yours to enjoy after the suffering is done.

Rolling hills yielded to a gentle down hill run into Bennett, and eventually Strasburg. We pedaled into the KOA a little after 5 pm, dust covered road warriors looking every bit as out of place amongst the glampers as we felt.

Our sleeping quarters for the night.

"Think nothing of it," I thought, "these well kept chunky humans in their chunky campers haven't seen the things I've seen today."

And that is true. I saw countless plans approach and land in DIA, I saw a fox who misjudged the pace of our modern go go lifestyle, and saw countless people fly past me in their autos barely aware of my existence. 

I'm aware of me though. I see the path ahead and know the challenges that await. I have earned a good night's sleep. And so it was.

A drop in the Ocean

So, here I am. Sat in the Atlanta airport, awaiting a platter of chicken fingers and pancakes, a true breakfast of champions. Let A type weirdos munch robotically on heaping bowls of Wheaties in the morning. Those of us who've been up all hours of the night need stacks of flapjacks covered with deep fried protein and syrup. Only something that weird can fuel the adventure I'm about to get in to.

Perhaps it is said adventure that kept me up last night. It is no small feat to leave the warm wooden nest my bride had built for us in the mountains of northern Georgia. Yet the call of the road is strong and I bought this touring bicycle with a monster semi cross country ride in mind, I'd be a fool to pass the opportunity up. Right?

The A type would say,"Right!"

"You idiot, you have a pleasant, safe, and incalculably less stressful life then you've ever had all next to the woman you purportedly love more than anything else in the world. But here you are midflight attempting to Swype text a sentence or two into existence about your hair brained scheme to sleep on the ground and drink water from windmill pumped cattle troughs in the middle of nowhere Kansas," the A type would continue saying between shoveled mouthfuls of now soggy bran flakes. 

First, let me point out to you, A type, usage of "But" to begin a sentence is strictly forbidden in the AP style book. John Lofflin would fail you immediately. But, since this is my personal blog and not a periodical of note, I'll allow it.

Secondly, that is exactly why I must do this thing that I hope to do. Aren't there enough of you? Aren't there enough people faking to be you? I saw them all on the highway to the airport this morning. The A types behind the wheel of their SUVs barking orders  into their bluetooth equipped Bose handsfree audio auto entertainment systems at some assistant secretary.

Who is also behind the wheel of their car half asleep mashing the pedal of a compact fuel efficient japanese made car, because they hold their value well, jacked on caffeine and taurine, trying to process how their life got to where it is. Exhausted, financially underwater, and at the mercy of the petty tyrant on the other end of said phone call.

Takers and Fakers, A types and the people who wish they could be A types. Like individual droplets of rain they hurdle towards the sea extolling the virtues of their practices only to be folded into the anonymity of dark and endless waves.

We'll all get there in the end. I've no illusions that making this journey will somehow keep me from joining the anonymity of the wave. But, if I am to be a rain drop let me be the drop that falls on the peak of a vast and towering mountain range. Let my journey lead through and past the seldom visited canyons and valleys, let me be slurped up by a thirsty elk, mixed with the unprocessed vitamins of a stomach full of sweet grass, pissed out on to a log the next valley over, run down into a new stream, and eventually over the course of much This and That I can join the epic ocean. 

The A type is welcome to his path of least resistance, I don't begrudge him his store bought experiences.  And I am allowed to be as befuddled by he as he is by me. In truth we are not all that dissimilar. I too enjoy the warm embrace of family and home at the end of a journey. I just want my journey to have a few more twists and turns in it, that's all.

Just two guys, breathing on each other real good during a global pandemic. This is already a groovy adventure. 😷😷😷#frontierairlinessocialdistancing