Day 89: Guffey, CO to Breckenridge, CO

July 10, 2011

A peacock crows as I push the bike down a hill, past a row of bathtubs, in front of a couple of full-size horse skeletons, and between a pair of rusted 1950s-era sedans. Even though I bundle up in a long-sleeved shirt, a rain jacket, and gloves, the cold morning still freezes me on the mile-and-a-half descent from Guffey back to the TransAm.

It doesn't take long to thaw out because I start climbing immediately. But unlike the roller coaster hills of the Appalachians or the long, steep climbs I battled on the Blue Ridge Parkway, the subtle grades of the highway make for easy riding. Prairie dogs poke their upper halves out of holes along the edge of the road and watch me roll past, their heads moving quickly from side to side, and their skinny little front legs pulled close to their chest with the paws hanging down toward the ground. I also take half a dozen rabbits by surprise and send them scurrying into the dry yellow grass just off the shoulder. Farther on I round a corner and find a herd of deer standing in the middle of the road. I approach quietly at first, but eventually my bags or chain or pedals give out a squeak and all of the animals bolt—half jumping over the four-foot-tall barbed wire fence on the left side of the highway and half over the fence on the right. And then I see cows. There are always cows. It wouldn't be a ride across America without them.

When I crest Currant Creek Pass I finally see the Rocky Mountains laid out in front me in the way I always imagined them: dark blue and covered with green trees at the base, before giving way to jagged peaks topped with huge patches of pure white snow, all set against a light blue background and stretching in a line across the horizon as far as I can see.

I focus half my attention on the beautiful hills and mountains ahead of me, and half on my mirror to keep track of what's behind, because Coloradans don't seem to like waiting for anyone or anything. Even on a Sunday morning, in the middle of almost nothing, everyone's hauling ass and passing at close range. The stress makes me nostalgic for the quiet, lane-and-a-half-wide country roads of Virginia and Kentucky. Now I'm in the part of America where there's only one paved stretch between towns, and that road is a highway. It puts me in the same place as every car and truck and motorhome, every impatient driver, and every drunk. It's a big, noisy, fast-moving party and it all comes together on the same narrow strip of blacktop.

Fairplay greets me with an ugly scene: a Harley-Davidson motorcycle pinned under the front bumper of a Jeep that pulled out onto the highway without looking to the left one last time. Everyone walks away unharmed, but I pedal past the wreckage feeling even worse about the madness of Colorado's roads and drivers. The rest of the town is clean and quiet and appeals to tourists with coffee shops, art galleries, and other businesses with mountain-themed names. The more I look, the more I notice that the South Park name is attached to everything in town, from the high school and the library to real estate offices and mini-marts. That's when I realize that Fairplay is the "piss-ant, white-bread mountain town" on which the animated TV show South Park is based.

I planned to stop for the day in Fairplay, but with strong legs and a lot of daylight left I set my sights on something much bigger: conquering Hoosier Pass. At 11,500 feet it's the highest point on both the TransAm and my coast-to-coast ride, and it's one of my trip's biggest milestones. I know that huge thunderstorms are possible on any afternoon, but when I look to the north and see mostly blue skies I decide to take my chances and make a run for the pass.

The country's worst bike path brings me six miles up the road to Alma, the highest town in North America at 10,500 feet. It's a place that doesn't take itself too seriously, with a general store called Al-Mart, a liquor store named Hairy Situations, and one bar, appropriately called Alma's Only Bar. It's also probably the only 200-person town in America with a medical marijuana dispensary. A quick look at the slow pace of the locals makes me think it's the most successful business in Park County.

I sit in front of Al-Mart, drink milk and peanut butter sandwich crackers, and try to decide on my favorite part of the town. At that very moment, the answer walks right toward me. An old, haggard-looking woman in her late 50s heads down the sidewalk toward the store. She wears black jeans with leather chaps, black cowboy boots, a leather tank top with long strands of fringe on both the front and back, and red-rimmed sunglasses with very dark shades. Her hair is a mess and her top row of teeth don't quite line up. She half dances, half walks, and sings loudly to herself in a semi-drunk-sounding voice as she walks her dog—an ancient Golden Retriever with cataracts, shaggy fur, and a limp. He looks like he's five minutes away from dropping dead on his leash. I stare, dumbstruck, and then flash a quick smile as she struts past, because I can't muster any other response. The woman and her dog draw me deeper into the weirdness of Alma, and I almost decide to pack it in and spend the rest of the day seeing what other ridiculous stuff I can uncover.

But I don't. I'm on a mission.

Four miles from the pass the gentle grades of the day give way to a steeper, constant climb. The dark clouds I worried about stay behind me, which gives me the chance to experience the push to the top in sunshine, while looking out on some of the most dramatic, remarkable scenery I've ever witnessed. Sweat pours off my chin and soaks through my shirt, and I can feel my lungs struggling in the thin mountain air, but I press on slowly and steadily. I get a boost of strength when passing drivers give me a wave or a thumbs-up in support.

My heart pounds, my head aches, and I start to see stars as I push up and around the final corner and spot the sign I've been waiting more than four years to see:

It feels so rewarding to reach the top of Hoosier Pass. I keep glancing back at the sign—over and over again I look at the elevation, read the impressive term "Continental Divide," think about how hard I worked to get here, and try to process the fact that I've ridden two-thirds of the way across an entire continent on a bicycle, using only my own power and a pallet's worth of honey buns. I can't stop smiling.

The ride down the other side is straight from heaven. It serves up a delicious set of six or seven switchbacks, followed by more subtly curving sections that give me the huge speed I've been dreaming about for a month. My body simultaneously shivers and tingles, cold from the descent but excited almost beyond words. I look up at the mountains around me in awe, amazed that I'm riding at 10,000 feet and yet they still tower over me.

Ten miles of effortless downhill drop me into the town of Breckenridge, where I grab the last bunk in a small hostel. Wide bands of grass snake down the mountains that overlook the town, and it takes me a moment to realize that they're ski runs without the snow. Main Street offers a thousand ways to spend money, from jewelry and fine art and watches to t-shirts, snowboards, sunglasses, beers, burgers, crepes, Swedish massage, and million-dollar mansions. It's an overload of chain stores, distracted tourists, fancy dog breeds, polo shirts, and BMWs. It's the sort of place where the police department's most tense situation of the day involves an illegally parked car. I'm stunned that such a bubble of wealth exists less than a day's ride from modest mountain towns like Guffey and Hartsel and Alma.

I lay on the top bunk in a four-person room, sunburned and warm because I managed to forget to put on sunscreen. I've spent nearly three months on the road and I've learned absolutely nothing. I look forward to spending tomorrow night in the tent, camped by myself in a park or in the woods. It's something I haven't done in almost two weeks and I head to sleep excited at the thought.

Today's ride: 69 miles (111 km)
Total: 4,374 miles (7,039 km)

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