I rose late, ate lunch, and headed out without enough water. I'd had a few beers the night before, and I hadn't fully rehydrated. Temperatures hit 96 degrees as I baked in the sun, and the first steep grade hit me harder than I had expected. I guess I lost my climbing legs during my flat ride across Kansas. All in all, the climbs were mild, but I still got nailed by headwinds.
Headwinds and hills combined to sap my speed and energy, and my water supply ran rather low. As I struggled up to Wetmore, motorcycle gangs roared by, on their way to Pueblo's upcoming bike rally. Most of the bikers waved, even though my puny bike looks pathetic on the open road, and I dutifully waved back and tried to look stronger than I felt.
I don't know why, but this part of the country sports an impressive number of LMBBs -- little men, big bikes. It's really awkward to see a 130-pound guy roar by on a Harley, because you really have to struggle not to laugh. To top it off, these guys tend to prefer bikes with ape-hanger handlebars, which only accentuates the fact that their just puny. Of course, I politely waved to all of them, wishing each Jack Sprat luck in finding a hefty wife, all the while climbing into the mountains.
Wetmore offered a vending machine, so I stocked up on a 7-Up clone. The combination of soda, exercise and a wide-open area made for some wicked burping, and I entertained myself as I rolled through the prairie. Seriously wicked stuff. I ripped one that scared a horse so much it bolted. I know you crave the details of the road, so there you go.
I made it to Canon City and decided to stay in town, since going further would mean missing a tour of an old territorial prison. So here I am, building pages, and it's hella late, so you'll forgive me for not narrating these pictures. Catch you all later.
