There was some type of animal which raced across the road in front of us. Oddly, they always waited at the edge of the shoulder, like a sprinter at the starting line, until seconds before a car (or bicycle) went past. Then they would zip across to the other side, narrowly being crushed by a wheel. Jerry called them “suicide dogs.” I never learned what they were, but I think they were some type of prairie dog, or maybe chipmunks.

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Jerry had some friends in Pampa (pop 21,396), the Cunninghams, and upon entering town we stopped at the first store we saw to ask for directions to the address we had for them.

I was pretty exhausted by the end of the day, and Jerry was even more so.  After getting the directions Jerry, the perennial conversationalist, asked the cashier, 

“You married?” 

He responded with a slow, 

“Yep.” 

Jerry was so tired at that point that his brain just wasn’t able to engage the conversational gears. His eyes were glazed over with fatigue as he followed with, 

“Got a wife?”

We stayed at the Cunninghams for a couple of nights, resting up, mostly by sleeping a lot, eating like we were starving refugees, and doing some maintenance on the bikes.