Just before leaving I noticed my belt odometer belt drive was on the wrong loop. This high-tech equipment has to be carefully inspected and maintained!

The wind is harsh and the scenery is barren as I continue southeast. Unlike the tree-filled verdant regions where I’ve always lived, here you can see the dust blowing all the way to the horizon. It’s a lonely sight and, just having left the company of close friends, the landscape lent itself to contemplation. The wind whistling past my ears seemed to ask, “Who are you?” At that moment, riding alone in eastern Colorado, I had a soundless answer… “Nobody, really….  just a guy on a bike.” And that was enough.

After 50 miles I stopped in Limon (pop 1,805) for a drink and a chocolate sundae, decided to continue on to Hugo (pop 776), then picked up breakfast at the 7/11 in case there wasn’t anything available later. 

The headwind was unbelievably fierce. It's a force of nature that will blow over a bike regardless of what it’s leaning against. The continuous howl in your ears is such that you have to raise your voice almost to a yell to be heard. The gusts almost knock you over when you’re walking. 

Such is the strength of the wind I battled. I say “battled” because it was literally that…a battle. Who’s going to win?   Your will to continue, or the wind that eventually wears you down. Wind is particularly demoralizing because, unlike when you go up a mountain and get to coast down the other side, you DON'T get to turn around and go in the opposite direction on a bike tour.  It’s relentless. After a certain point, even your skin becomes hypersensitive, and you know it’s 

JUST. 

GOING. 

TO. 

KEEP. 

BLOWING. 

IT isn’t going to stop, so the only other option if you want it to go away and not drive you mad is for YOU to stop. 

It is a battle, and I continue fighting. 

I had hit 60 miles by the time I slogged into Hugo (pop 776) and needed some kind of respite from the wind. I was exhausted. I selected one of the few homes in town and decided to ask if I could pitch my tent on the leeward side of their house, but no one answered my knock. Since none of the other houses had a configuration that would serve my purpose of blocking the wind I started pedaling again.

After two more miles I saw an animal shelter about a hundred yards off the road and rolled my bike to it. Half of the roof had caved in, and there were only three of the four walls remaining. I found a spot in the corner out of the wind where I squatted for about ten minutes as I warmed up and regained my strength. The 10-by-10-foot dirt floor was littered with all kinds of items ranging from straight up trash (empty bottles and cans) to rusting farm tools to pieces of corrugated sheet metal to a couple of discarded doors. Once I felt able to move again I checked the floor for snakes (I was reminded of the snake I saw earlier today that scared the bejeezus out of me when I almost ran over it), scorpions (do they live in this part of the country?), insects, sharp objects, and small animals. When I was satisfied I was mostly alone I moved some things around inside my new domain. 

First, I transferred the two wooden doors to the windward side of the building to block more wind. Then I dragged an old car seat, the bench style which I would later use for a pillow, into an area out of the wind. Finally, after clearing a small section where I could lay down, I pulled out my ground cloth and draped it across the dung-littered floor, pulled out my sleeping bag, and climbed inside at 6:15, more than two hours before sunset. The wind continued to howl, an unforgiving undertaker who buried thought. I was asleep within ten minutes.

Some of you might be wondering, “How could ANYone even ENTER such a filthy, potentially infectious, bug-infested area, much less fall asleep?!?”   If you’re asking, then I don’t think you realize the extent of my exhaustion, both physical and mental. There comes a point when fatigue causes a mental dimness, an inability to think beyond the basic needs of warmth, food, and sleep. That’s where I was… mostly zombie, but continuing the basic motor functions. 

I’ve done a lot of camping over the years, and I remember very few specific locations. There are a couple on this trip, and several others here and there. This “campsite” is one that is forever etched in my brain, the details still as clear as when I was there so many years ago. It’s also one of the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had.

I woke up at 6:00 to a slight drizzle, a soft shushing which barely reached my consciousness as I was nestled in my bag, then fell back asleep until 7:50. 

Although I rarely remember my dreams, I recall riding my bike with 20 other cyclists, including Scott and Jerry, through a secret underground path. 

By the time I left at 9:00 the wind was restarting its assault. I ate some fruit and pie from Hugo, then continued on to Wild Horse and arrived around 11:00 after 40ish miles. About ten miles before I reached Kit Carson, the wind just died. 

I ate lunch in Kit Carson, after which I chatted with a man named Clement Schmitt from Wichita. He has three children. His name and progeny are all I remember about him, and my notes don’t detail any additional information. I went to the Kit Carson Museum and laid down on a picnic table until I was finally able to gather enough strength to leave around 3:00. 

Along the way today I “saved” four turtles by removing them from the road, although it’s certainly possible they just strolled right back onto the tarmac to hang out near the pretty yellow stripe.

Although the wind had stopped, it was a temporary pardon, a mocking hiatus. It restarted an hour later and, just like yesterday, it blew away any motivation to climb onto a bike. 

Still, I rode….

At one point, late in the day, exhausted from the pounding wind, I asked myself whether I’d accept a ride if someone were to offer one. The answer was a resounding NO. 

Now I was riding in defiance. 

Over the next 20 miles to Eads I averaged just over 5 mph. I was running dangerously low on water so I started rationing it….  just a sip here and there. I had an inch left with 15 miles remaining, and ran completely out with 8 miles left. By the time I saw the town limit sign I was feeling dizzy and exhausted, and had to stop every 200 yards to rest. I could see the town right in front of me, but it took forever to get there.

I stopped at the first cafe I encountered in Eads and asked about a place to camp and shower. After ordering some dinner I went to the bathroom to clean up. 

In 1998 I was briefly hospitalized for severe bronchitis. While I was there my IV infiltrated (the vessel burst and the fluid started leaking into the non-vein area). I was asleep when it occurred, and when I woke up I saw an arm that was attached to my body, but it was an arm that didn’t belong to me. It was huge. By 1998 I’d had that arm for forty years, and I was pretty familiar with what it looked like. This swollen appendage wasn’t mine…  I didn’t recognize it. 

The only other time I’ve felt that way was when I looked into the mirror in that tiny restroom. It was like one of those horror movies where a person turns around and there’s a different person’s reflection in the mirror. The shrunken eye sockets, the sallow face, the salt deposits caked onto my temples and forehead…  I was literally unrecognizable to myself and did a double take. I wondered what the waitress had thought when she saw me. 

I cleaned up, ate, drank a ridiculous amount of water, then rode to the Texaco station where I spent a few quarters making some phone calls from the pay phone. When I let everyone know where I was and that I was doing great, I went to the City Park where I pitched my tent and talked with some other campers, Dennis and Annie Jones in one location, and Daniel and Benjamin in another. 

I tallied 62 miles yesterday and 77 miles today, all but a paltry 3-4 miles of it against a malignant wind. 

It WAS a battle, and when I went to sleep that night I felt victorious. 

Heart

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