All right crew, we rejoin this little adventure in the town of Leoti, site of a horrendous dust storm that kept your narrator cowering in his motel room.
I woke up at the crack of noon and packed my bags. Just before I left the room, a young woman from housekeeping let herself in. I was fully packed and fully dressed, standing by my bike. From the look on her face when she saw me in my bike shorts, I could tell she thought I was doing something pornographic, or at least extremely personal. She actually gasped -- GASPED -- when her eyes dropped to my shorts, then yelled her apologies multiples times as she beat a hasty retreat. I briefly considered hanging out in the room longer, since I was fairly certain that she wouldn't be returning any time soon, but eventually I decided to roll out.
Wind sucks a lot. 22 mph winds suck like 22 times as much. I began crawling west while the wind blew straight into my face. I was managing 8 mph on perfectly flat ground. I briefly considered dismounting and dragging myself along by my tongue, which would have been a lot faster. As I made my way to Tribune inch by windy inch, I began to wish for a radio to break up the tedium -- even though Kansas doesn't offer the most robust selection of radio stations (will that be country, Christian, or Christian country?).
So I hop on the phone for some pep talks. Allie checks the weather and gives me exact data on the wind, which is always strangely comforting. I don't know why, but knowing the wind is 22 mph gives you a perverse sense of satisfaction. She also mentioned that the wind would only be 8 mph on Friday -- just 24 hours away. This, my faithful readers, is when I began to formulate a plan to get off of the bike.
Then I called Ted -- Ted, my good friend, my confidante, my former editor and general guy friend. He comments that the wind is so loud that he can barely hear me, then hangs up. What a pal. I call back and he cans me again. Ted is a class act. He is also, it turns out, unable to work a speakerphone, which is why he keeps dropping me. Twice is my limit on begging for conversation, so I put the phone away and forge onward.
My plan is shaping up nicely -- Tribune has no camping, but it has a motel. I went further than I had planned yesterday, and damn if I don't deserve a break, right? Just before I hit Tribune, I ran into two lucky cyclists. Charlie and Max (pictured below) aren't just lucky because they have a 22 MPH headwinds (assmasters), they're lucky they even ran into me during my oh-so-brief appearance on the bike (total mileage for the day: about 24 miles).
These guys started in San Diego, then headed off route in New Mexico and picked up the TransAm. It takes a slightly more adventurous spirit to go off route -- not knowing what services the next town will offer, or where you can camp -- but these guys are solidly into it. Max said the transition ride across New Mexico was no biggie, so more power to 'em. They did have to commando camp the night before, however, when the weather turned really ugly (I assume this was related to the dust storms that hit Leoti).
Oh, yeah. Max was like, 9 feet tall. My bad on the picture, I should have noticed that his head is completely obscured. I rock.
I checked into a motel in Tribune, watched some television, and slept all day. Turns out I needed some time off.
WARNING: The next day's journal has a lot of pictures, and may take a long time to load. I get some complaints about this from my many, many readers. Here's a tip for you guys: Just relax. Go get yourself some more donuts, you lazy bastards. The page'll be ready when you get back. Oh, and have another Yoohoo.