It’s the fourth of June, and time for me to head back out on my bike again. I’m rested and ready, and don’t want to overstay my welcome. Just before I left, Ms. Beitel gave me a down jacket and a stuff sack that would become a great pillow, a cushion, and (less often) a jacket. 

Darla drove me out of Englewood’s congested roads to Franktown, where she started crying just before I left. As were a number of people, she was worried about the Dangers Of The Road and was afraid she’d never see me again. Sadly, I HAVEN’T seen her since, but don’t worry… you’ll be glad to know it’s not because I died or anything. At least, not until Kentucky. I hope that wasn’t a spoiler for the rest of the trip.  (I’ve tried finding her, but she appears to have fallen off the world)

Or, perhaps she was crying because she had some prescient knowledge that the next two days would be the most difficult riding days of my entire bicycling career, one which spans more than fifty years. That includes a 138-mile day, one in which I sutured my own ankle, and one that involved me sprinting away from my campsite, leaving my tent and all my gear behind, because I was sure if I stayed I would be severely harmed by some dangerous people.  

When I started riding this morning I certainly had no idea about what the day would bring.