Day 90: Breckenridge, CO to near Hot Sulphur Springs, CO

July 11, 2011

When I walk out the door to head to the store I'm met with crisp, cool air and a view filled with thousands of dark green trees and a series of mountains all topped with bright white snow. It couldn't be more different from the western half of Kansas and I couldn't be happier about that.

After jostling my nuts on the awful bike trail into Alma yesterday, I'm rewarded with one of the greatest series of trails in America. It starts in Breckenridge and winds its way down to Frisco and Silverthorne, where it runs separated from the road for 15 miles through wooded areas, past rushing streams that churn green and white, and in the shadow of rocky peaks that tower so high above they can almost touch the clouds. Even though the trail is filled with bikers and walkers, the smooth surface and yellow lane marker that runs down the middle help me dodge the pylons and fly to the north with no trouble at all.

Heading down a hill near Frisco I hear a guy's voice call out, "Hey Jeff!" I whip my head around at the group of bikes that just passed and see Al riding the other way. When I turn back I see Keith about a hundred feet up ahead. I throw out my left and and we high-five as we pass. It's remarkable—I started this trip knowing no one between Key West, Florida and Washington State, and now I'm high-fiving new-found friends in the middle of a bike trail at 9,500 feet in the mountains of Colorado. Farther on the trail takes me along the grassy shore of a reservoir, past a park where kids play in a Little League game, and overlooks water dotted with boats and kayaks. The view out across the lake is incredible—giant mountains with soft, rolling contours loom over everything, making the people and cars and rows of vacation condos look like they were built in miniature.

A dozen switchbacks on the steepest section of trail I've ever seen drop me into a mess of outlet malls in the town of Silverthorne. Like Breckenridge, it's a huge departure from the rural America I've come to know and love. For example: the woman in front of me in the line at the burrito place. She's in her 50s, tanned almost to a crisp, skinny in a seriously unhealthy way, has two giant reservoirs of collagen where her lips should be, and shows off a pair of giant and oddly-shaped fake books that stick out from her chest like a weird, fleshy shelf. Outside on the patio, the housewife sitting at the table behind me literally screams with joy as she talks about what she bought at The Container Store, and then spends the next 20 minutes discussing laundry strategy with her friend. I don't expect to run into either kind of person as I head to the north and the west, through places like Sinclair, Wyoming and Libby, Montana.

I say goodbye to the awesome bike trails when I continue on toward Kremmling. I ride in a deep, wide valley along a surging river, surrounded by hills lined with ranches and million-dollar estates. With jaw-dropping scenery spread out all around me, I cash in on the near-constant climbing I've been doing since Kansas and speed over mile after mile of subtly descending road that makes riding an absolute joy.

Almost as soon as I write that last sentence the joy is taken away. First I pick up rolling hills along the edge of Green Mountain Reservoir. Then 30-plus mile per hour headwinds blast down from the north as thunderstorms form and roll through the area. It's been awhile since my last roadside freakout, so I let loose from deep within my huge reserve of swearing. It's some of my most creative work of the trip. It makes me feel ashamed of myself, but not enough to make me stop. When the dark clouds start to dump rain I take shelter in the bathroom of a Forest Service campground where the pit toilet hasn't been cleaned in at least a month. In the span of half an hour I fall from the top of the world to the depths of Shit City.

After the rain passes I pick up my steady downhill again, fly to Kremmling and then continue on to the northeast. The snow-capped mountains of the past two days disappear, giving up the stage to smaller and less dramatic hills with thinner lines of trees that bump against river valleys covered with tall grass and sagebrush. In return I'm given a strong tailwind. It's almost a fair trade.

The elevation changes out West are proving less dramatic than what I fought through in the East. When I ride down the highway I see miles and miles of road laid out before me. The distance between towns continues to increase. The weather is milder and I can ride all day. My legs and ass and shoulders and arms are strong and tough from more than 4,000 miles of pedaling. Taken together, all of this is letting me churn out bigger numbers of miles, which means that the distance between me and Neah Bay, Washington is shrinking faster than ever. For the first time I start to think about my final push toward the West Coast and the people I love more than anything. I don't know quite what to make of it yet, or if it's going to change how I feel over the next five or six weeks, but home is in my head and that's something I can't undo.

With the sun a half hour from setting I pull off the highway and set up camp three miles short of Hot Sulphur Springs. Mosquitoes immediately descend by the dozens, dive bombing me and trying their hardest to bite my legs and arms and neck and head. Every 20 seconds I have to stop whatever I'm doing and run my hands all over my body to stop the little bastards from drawing blood. When I said I wanted to get back to the outdoors I should have been more specific.

From the safety of a bug-proof tent I stretch out on my air mattress and soon feel the heat of the day being sucked away and replaced by mountain cool. I hear the occasional car pass on the highway, but mostly my ears fill with the sweet sound of the Colorado River as it rushes by less than 50 feet away.

Today's ride: 78 miles (126 km)
Total: 4,452 miles (7,165 km)

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