Bubba, Ian and Maggie got up earlier than I did, and they broke camp with all the stealth of a machine gun. I got up a bit later to find the fire station deserted. I packed up, noticing that a part of my saddlebags had fallen off (nice!), and rode out of town. Before I had left the city limits I'd caught up with Bubba and friends. We hit the road together. Here ya go:
Man, Bubba and Maggie ride slow. Oh Jesus Lord, do they ride slow. It has been brought to my attention that they are both twice my age, and Bubba is bigger than me. That's true. But they also have lower gearing, which means that riding very slowly still allows them to spin at a comfortable cadence, while on my bike, riding that slow put a lot of pressure on my knees.
I couldn't ride behind them on the uphills, because at 3 mph, it takes a load of effort just to keep the bike upright. I quickly developed a strategy of riding to the top of hills and waiting for them to catch up. Sometimes Iain would ride with me -- he's a strong rider, and clearly frustrated by the pace Bubba and Maggie set.
We rode throughout the morning, though I think I may have been able to keep up with them on foot (for a while). After 3 hours, we'd only covered 20 miles. Ian had warned me of this, but quite frankly I hadn't believed him. We finally reached Muddy Pass -- our third crossing of the continental divide -- an easy climb, at 8,772 feet. We reached the top (at different times) and stopped for lunch. Bubba enlisted Maggie to take a picture of him mooning the divide sign -- apparently he does this everytime he crossed the continental divide. It's his own "great divide," he explains. I just concentrated on my sandwich until the whole sordid episode was over.
I decided to jet ahead to Walden in order to treat some mildew on my tent -- a worthy cause that also offered me an excuse to break away from my new, but painfully slow, friends. Note -- I don't mean that riding slow is bad, or weak. It's just different from my style -- and it makes a long day on the bike into a much longer one. Riding all day is hard work. Bubba and Maggie tend to take a leisurely pace and talk, enjoying the moment. I on the other hand, like to see the scenery and get a workout at the same time. I like to set up my tent and write in my journal, etc., all of which are made difficult by arriving in camp late. So please understand that when I say "They were slow," I simply mean that their pace was much too slow for my liking. I am sure they could ride faster if they wanted too, but that's not their style.
As I rode to Walden, I came across a Golden Eagle, one of the most beautiful birds I have ever seen. I couldn't tell what had killed it, though I assume it swooped in front of a truck. Check out the talons on this bad boy:
I hit Walden and treated my tent with liquid Lysol, then went to the city's indoor pool, where I took a shower. I wandered back to the city park, where Ian showed up about 90 minutes after I had arrived. They had made better time than I had expected, especially in light of Peterson Ridge, a particularly nasty climb that confronted us about 8 miles before Walden.
I watched their gear while they went for showers, then did some laundry. We all went to dinner together, an ordeal that took 2 hours and reminded me of why I like to travel alone. I'm used to getting a meal over and done with, and after two months on the road, eating in solitude, I've become somewhat antisocial. Iain and Maggie had a bit of a spat (frustration on both parts -- Iain with the slow pace of their trip and Maggie with Iain's surly attitude), while Bubba talked to everyone in the restaurant, including "Coffee Pot," the 70-year old owner of the joint.
Talking to Allison on a pay phone, watching the people of Walden cruise the streets at night, I decided to strike out on my own again. Riding in a group is nice, but I've grown accustomed to the quiet solitude of the open road, and I guess that's one of the things I enjoy about this trip. I walked back to the city park to find a softball game going. We had set our tents up right next to the baseball field in an attempt to escape the park's automatic sprinkler system. I watched the game for a few minutes, but the quality of play left a lot to be desired. For one thing, the outfielders were wearing cowboy boots. After watching one players get hit in the head by a fly ball, I gave up and went inside my tent. I fell asleep to the sound of cheering fans and the clanking of the scoreboard.
Around 10:00 the game broke up and the fields floodlights were turned off. I woke up briefly, then drifted back to sleep. But not for long.
Around 1:00 in the morning, the baseball field's sprinklers came on. Perhaps sprinkler isn't the right word. A more accurate description would be "water cannon." Each cannon shot a 50-foot jet of water as it rotated through a predefined arc. When it hit my tent, it sounded like a bunch of people were beating on my tent with their fists. Then the cannon would rotate away, giving me about 15 seconds of silence before it swept past again. After about 30 minutes, the cannons near my tent went off and a new cycle began. From the shouting that started in Iain's tent, I assumed that this new cycle was hitting them pretty hard. I finally made it back to sleep, only to be awakened by a third cycle that doused my tent.