Day 6: Yampa, Colorado to Carbondale, Colorado

July 1, 2010

I had a saddle sore, my first one [and so far only one, as of 2014] ever. I now regretted my years of bragging, to anyone who would listen, of how *I* certainly never had butt problems on the bike.

I eventually roused myself, got everything together, and gingerly got on the bike. Ouch. It was a otherwise a nice, sunny morning, though. After several miles of decent riding (a little too trafficky to be ideal), I turned onto Colorado River Road, which was nicely compacted dirt, and much less busy.

I stopped at the Post Office in tiny Burns, but there was no water available there, so I kept riding as it got hotter. Finally, Colorado River Road ended near I-70. I was desperate for a pop machine now, but the only accessible business, a greenhouse/nursery, didn't have anything, so I rode onto the bike path which parallels the freeway through the canyon.

The bike path through the Glenwood Canyon is amazing. It was always either under or next to I-70, so it was never very peaceful, but as an engineering achievement, the freeway and bike path are impressive.

Several miles into the canyon I rode up to a rest area with vending machines, but I didn't have any bill smaller than a five, which the pop machines would not accept. Fortunately a friendly motorist broke my five and I was able to finally get a cold drink.

The path ended at Glenwood Springs, where I stopped at a bike shop briefly to ask for directions out of town. After getting lost (as usual), I found my way onto the Rio Grande bike trail, which I rode to Carbondale. I grew increasingly morose during this part of the ride. In addition to being lonely, the sore on my ass had become very painful and worrisome. As I am wont to do, I started imagining worst case scenarios involving blood poisoning, surgery, etc. I decided to pull the plug on this little tour a few days early.

I rode around Carbondale, which seemed pleasant enough (although I could not appreciate it in my bad mood), then found a motel, checked in, examined my bloody butt (ugh, how did this happen?) then got cleaned up. I was somewhat revived by a meal at a 50's-themed diner across the street from the motel, then went back to the motel and engaged in more speculation about what sort of painful and lengthy medical treatment I would require to repair the saddle sore.

Joy was supposed to drive from Utah the next morning to pick me up, so I was surprised when my phone rang at six in the morning. I hung up twice before finally understanding that it was Joy calling me from the lobby. She had driven through the night across Utah and Colorado to pick me up early.

The drive back was uneventful. It took a few weeks for the saddle sore to heal, on its own and without medical intervention.