The Awkward Pose

July 9, 2015 – Thunderstorms, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 12

Miles to Date: 3,839

States to Date: 17

I spent the day in Laramie, visiting a slew of interesting people and one spiritual brother.

My warmshowers hosts made an awesome breakfast of eggs and bacon plus pancakes with orange juice and coffee. Fueled for the day, I went to the Night Heron book store to meet my cousin Andy’s Antioch friend, Vicky, a thoughtful and inspiring kindergarten teacher who exemplifies the transplant’s love of Laramie that I find everywhere here.

Afterward I met with Bright Agrotech, a local company with a cool vertical grow agriculture system. We didn’t meet at their headquarters. Rather we met downtown where their system provides truly local herbs for a restaurant – grown on the other side of the wall from where they’re served. Beside offering quick growing local food, Bright Agrotech is superfast with their media; our video interview is already up on YouTube.

Then I was off to Crossfit 7720 to learn about this cutting edge fitness regimen. Why 7720? Because Laramie is 7220 feet above sea level. They invited me for a workout, which I did.

Whoa, it’s a touch workout, especially at this altitude.

During a break from heavy thunderstorms I set out alone to fulfill the primary reason I came to Laramie: to absorb local sites related to Matthew Shepard. I went by the bar where he met his killers, the memorial bench that University of Wyoming placed within the quad, and finally rode five miles outside of town to see where, almost twenty years ago, the young gay man was tied, beaten, and abandoned. Aside from the innocuous bench, Laramie has done everything it can to wipe away this heinous crime. The bar’s had a face lift and fresh title, the streets names around the site have been changed, private property signs abound. Nothing about my 24 hours here gives any clue as to why such a hate crime happened in this seemingly benevolent place. Yet it did. And the horror of it changed things, for me and for many others.

Aside from a few flowers on the bench, there is no proper way to pay tribute to Matthew Shepard, whose senseless death was so abhorrent it triggered an outpouring of human decency. Matthew will never get married in Wyoming, but he is part of the reason that others like him can. I wanted to thank him for what we have all gained through his suffering.

Two deer came by and grazed close to me for several minutes. When they left I took it as my sign to leave as well.

July 8, 2015 – Rain, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 59

Miles to Date: 3,827

States to Date: 17

I was up, coffeed, oatmealed, and packed by six. I stopped at Albertson’s to belly up on yogurt and cinnamon buns before tackling the 50-mile desolate stretch from Cheyenne to Laramie on a featureless grey morning, spitting rain. My warmshowers host Tom warned me – it’s up all the way, until the last nine miles, which are straight down.

Tom is a trustworthy guide. I left Cheyenne (elevation 6,062) and pedaled long stretches of gentle rise. The higher I climbed, the greyer the sky became. The hissing energy of the West flanked my left – crackling power lines and flittering windmills. Vast ranches lay to my right – cows lined tight to the fence with their inscrutable gaze fixed on my tiny form. Yet the immense grey sky dominated them both and the crisp fresh air was infiltrated by musky char from the giant fires in Canada that have laid a haze over the entire continent.

Fifteen miles in I could make out the profile of distant ridges, not so far away to pretend I wouldn’t have to climb them. The rain came stronger as I pedaled higher. The wind was light, and it’s safer to pedal up rain streams than down them. When I reached the ridge crest the rain was steady. It bounced off the road, into my shoes, up and around my fenders. The precipice was a false peak, followed by a dozen more. Short shallows followed by long climbs. Another reprieve; another climb. The rain puttered away to nothing. So did the visibility. I rolled though dense fog, glad to have enough shoulder to veer clear of intermittent vehicles.

The sky lightened up at 36 miles, so I took a break and had a snack. I hadn’t stopped for two minutes when I realized that all around me was dark. Worse was coming from any direction. So, I got back in the saddle and pedaled on, another six miles into the spirit realm of foggy invisibility. Rolling through the atmosphere I could have been on an English heath or Russian steepe or Argentine plateau. There was nothing distinct about my particular location. Yet the ambiguity was gentile and light. I didn’t feel lost or afraid. The solid road and easy wind robbed the rain and fog of danger.

Out of nothing a Stop sign appeared. I was finally at the summit, 8,600 feet, and Interstate 80, though I couldn’t see it and could barely hear it. I eased my way onto the ramp and kept to the shoulder for several miles of 5% grade. With each passing mile the fog lifted, distinct clouds formed, the sides of the adjacent cliffs displayed their rock faces. Within half an hour I dropped to 7100 feet and was in Laramie.

For some reason I hoped that coming off this ethereal climb would make Laramie different. But of course it isn’t. After all, I am in the United States. U.S. 30 has the same Wal-Mart and Applebees as every other commercial strip.

University of Wyoming is larger than I expected; the sandstone buildings are stunning. Downtown is nice, with just enough funk to be interesting. I had the lunch buffet at Grand Pizza, which was quite good. By the time I finished lunch the rain had stopped, so I toured city and campus by bike, took a writing break, and enjoyed a terrific conversation and dinner with Linda and Phil, my warmshowers hosts.

July 7, 2015 – Overcast, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 49

Miles to Date: 3,768

States to Date: 17

The sky dome was complete grey when I left the Pine Bluffs and it stayed that way all day. I was nervous about my route options – they all involved service roads or country roads that I know from experience might be gravel. But not in Wyoming! A nice paved route near, but never on, I-80 all the way to Cheyenne. Having good roads made it easier to counter the strong wind and occasional rain.

There were no breakfast options in Pine Bluffs, but there was a TA Truck Stop 24 miles away and a local one 16 miles on. I arrived at the first when the wind and rain were on an uptick, so I pulled off the bleak landscape and entered what could have been a scene from The Twilight Zone. The room was rich in pungent smells and colorful decorations. Five Indians sat at two separate tables speaking Punjab. I didn’t realize at first that they were the owners and staff; I the only customer. The proprietor greeted me graciously and while his son prepared spicy paan with yogurt and mango chutney for breakfast, he showed off his display of boxing clippings and medals. The gentleman’s English was enthusiastic rather than clear, so I’m not sure exactly what sport he championed and whether he won 400, 800, or 1,000 medals, but I was impressed nonetheless. The food didn’t match what I ordered, but was quite good; the five dollars he charged me had no relationship to any menu price. But we both seemed satisfied with our interchange. When I asked what brought him from Punjab to Wyoming, the man answered, “Lucky!”

I kept on to Cheyenne, which proved to be much more of a city than I expected. The exurbs have ugly, boxy houses just like any metro area and the central city has more one-way streets than anyplace I’ve been since Chicago. The Capital District is large and impressive, the downtown a bit ragged but the Union Depot beautifully restored. The painted Cowboy boots on the street corners are fun. I spent a few hours working in the Public Library, a recent building filled with cycle enthusiasts who wanted to know about my Surly and my journey. At four I met with Jim Magagna of the Wyoming Stock Grower’s Association, who had a unique perspective on tomorrow.

I backtracked to the northeast part of town where my warmshowers host, Tom, made a terrific pork chop dinner and then we hit a local pub for beer. Tom’s an early riser, so it was good by me that we were both in bed just after nine.

July 6, 2015 – Overcast, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 69

Miles to Date: 3,719

States to Date: 17

Today marks the first day of month three of my cycling adventure, and everything was different! I woke up ten hours after I put my head on the pillow, in the exact same position I laid down – now that is sound sleep. I wasn’t ravenous, thanks to yesterday’s hearty china buffet. And the usual clear morning sky had turned to putty.

I pedaled through downtown Scottsbluff. I wasn’t hungry enough for a full breakfast, but I did savor their Deco movie palace. I crossed the swollen and muddy North Platte River to Gering where, hungry or not, I couldn’t resist the bakeries. I ate my first Grebel, a German fried cake with cinnamon sugar and allspice at The Mixing Bowl. Then I discovered the Gering Bakery, which was packed, and so enjoyed a Long John and chocolate milk. Stopping at bakeries may become my avocation.

I was fully fueled for the long climb out of the valley and the cycling was easy: cool weather, no sun, even a tailwind. The gloom obscured famous Chimney Rock, but it didn’t erase the many signs of the Oregon Trail, which passed through this valley. I pondered the people who travelled so long and hard fueled by hope and determination rather than pastry. We humans are an odd lot, part herd animal, part lone wolf, social yet solitary, clinging to our past yet always questing for more. The Oregon Trail is not a mere historical artifact. It’s another piece in the human continuum for expansion; predated by seafarers and followed by our conquest of space. The will to leave all behind and strike out for the new and better is elemental: there are more immigrants/refugees/wanderers/explorers on earth today than at any time in history.

Deep, diffuse thoughts burn cycle time, and I was in Kimball just after noon. I met with John Versay, the General Manager of the Western Nebraska Observer, local newspaper since 1885, to discuss small town news and tomorrow. He recommended the Java Blend for lunch; the stone fired pizza is excellent; worth the side trip from the Oregon Trail and even closer to I-80.

The last twenty miles of my trip was along old US 30, America’s central artery; Interstate 80 was a half-mile to my right, the main line of the Union Pacific 500 feet on my left. Long fright trains went by in each direction every half an hour or so, hauling cars, food, lumber, oil. My road was empty, not a soul lived within miles, and yet all this traffic kept whizzing by.

I got to Pine Bluffs, WY after four and had to stop at the huge Our Lady of Peace Shrine outside of town. I checked into the Gater Motel and enjoyed a quiet night.

July 5, 2015 –Clear, 95 degrees then T-storms

Miles Today: 62

Miles to Date: 3,650

States to Date: 16

I woke early and refreshed despite a night of loud fireworks followed by even louder thunderstorms. I headed west on Nebraska Route 71 while the moon was still showing its face.

I passed my first large fields of wheat, which are quite beautiful in the shimmering morning light.

I kept up a good pace until the road turned south. Fortunately, the wind shifted to a more favorable direction, but unfortunately the “Road Work Next 10 Miles’ sign spelled trouble. I’ve traveled some road construction areas that were newly paved, just not striped. But today I hit ten miles of fresh milled surface. For over an hour, every part of my Surly and me jiggled and jangled. When I finally hit smooth pavement I stopped to check bolts. My bike was sturdy as ever, though it took a while for my head screws to settle.

The rest of the ride into Scottsbluff was easy – the final ten miles a gentle down slope. I got into town to attend at last part of the Sunday service of The Abbey, and then had a long conversation about tomorrow with Father A.J. Severns.

By three the sky was growing dark, so I headed to a China Buffet to sit out the storm. The fiercest storm of my entire journey proved benign in my dry booth surrounded by egg rolls, fried rice, mushrooms with oyster sauce, pork with onions, and, of course, sponge cake rolls with vanilla ice cream. By six, the storm wasn’t quite over, but I let the wind push me eight blocks to my motel and checked in before the predicted hail fell. So far, I have been lucky in ducking nature’s wrath.

July 4, 2015 –Clear, 90 degrees

Miles Today: 43

Miles to Date: 3,588

States to Date: 16

The gods of cycling never let life be easy too long. Today I had 36 miles into the wind and was more exhausted doing that than twice the mileage yesterday. I took a late start and then spun fifteen miles of long but pretty climb up the Pine Ridge. That leveled off into High Plains, though the topography kept climbing and the wind held strong. The only other person working was a sole farmer baling his hay.  The John Deere attachment is like a giant chicken – it collects the hay and then out pops a giant hay egg.

South winds bring moisture, and sure enough by three thunderheads formed. I turned west for the last seven miles, which proved easy riding in the cooling shadow of the massive cloud. I arrived at Hemingford at four, just as the first drops began to fall. Everything was clear by five. Unfortunately my warmshowers host had to work so we didn’t get as much time together as I hoped. Still I was glad for the cozy attic room with a nice fan.

July 3, 2015 –Clear, 90 degrees

Miles Today: 85

Miles to Date: 3,545

States to Date: 16

If I keep having days like today for a year, I’m going to have to create new superlatives. The touring today was phenomenal!

I woke before my alarm, fully refreshed, ate my six Kaloches and a pint of cottage cheese, drank a cup of cabin coffee, and was on the road before seven a.m. All day on U.S. 385, I road number I know well because U.S. 385 goes through Levelland, Texas, where I lived in 1978 – only 800 miles away! The morning was cool, the breeze light, the road empty, the shoulder perfect, the slope downhill.

The roadside was gorgeous until I got to Pringles, which has a cool bicycle sculpture amidst all kind of junkyards. Just when I was thinking that man has no respect for nature, I came to a huge section of blighted trees, and realized that sometimes nature has no respect for nature as well. The bug infestations in the Dakotas are severe this year.

I got to Wind Song National Park before nine. Never heard of the place before, but it’s majestic. Teddy Roosevelt made it our seventh National Park – who knew? Wind Song’s main feature is an immense cave – 212 miles long. I skipped that, as I am not into caves, and spent most of my time adoring the Prairie Dog towns and keeping a keen eye out for Bison. They roam free in the park – I had to cross a cattle guard getting in and out – and are notoriously unfriendly to cyclists. I didn’t want a race with a bison, and thankfully avoided it.

Arrived in Hot Spring’s too early for lunch but found a BBQ place that was willing to dish me up, which was good as I had no sure services for the next fifty miles.

US 385 follows the Falls Creek out of Hot Springs, which terminates in a calendar worthy cascade of rocks and rapids. And then, quick as that, the Black Hills are over and the Prairie regains the upper hand. A mile beyond the falls, the scene behind was mountains, ahead only plain.

Lucky me, there was a cafe in Oerlich, and so I took a break in the hottest part of the day. The place was empty when I walked in. “Where is everybody?” I asked. “Haying,” the waitress responded. A few other guys trickled in, but she was right. On my way out of town I saw several combines churning hay. Someone even rowed the grass along the highway, which makes good sense. Might as well put that grass along the road to use.

Southwest South Dakota is one giant federal playground where beer is easy and gambling machines are rampant. What isn’t National Park is National Forest, and what isn’t National Forest is National Grassland. The roads are terrific; the number of RV’s too high to count. So it was easy to spot the Nebraska border, where the four lane divided highway turned into two-lane blacktop and the State Line Casino marked the divide.

No worry, a narrower 385 is still plenty for the scant traffic, and the Nebraska landscape is even more fantastic than South Dakota’s. If cycling the Dakota’s is like riding on the crest of the earth, Nebraska is skimming across an immense marble batter. The green grass and yellow goldenrod swirl in and around each other in dizzying swales. The road disappears to a thread. The afternoon turned blistering hot, the horizon melted into a blurry haze. I spun the last twenty miles to Chadron in a dreamscape.

Fortunately, I stayed alert. For although I avoided stray Bison at Wind Song, I came upon a large white animal roaming the side of the road ahead of me: a small horse, a large dog, an albino burro? I slowed to a crawl; thankful the wind wasn’t sending my scent its way. Eventually it crossed the road and disappeared behind a cattle guard. I approached, keeping my eye in its direction. When I came along the guard, the mammoth canine turned and came at me. I pedaled like crazy; thankful a pickup was coming over the rise between the huge creature and me. I kept my max speed for a half-mile or more before finally looking back. All clear.

 I arrived in Chadron at a nice motel, got cool and clean, walked over to Safeway and bought fried chicken and muffins, which I ate outdoors. Took a walk through the quiet prairie town. People were setting off all kinds of firecrackers. I particularly liked this gracious old house with a cool greenhouse/garage. When I got back to my motel, the innkeeper was holding court in his gazebo with beers all around. Back to my room, I fell asleep amidst the sounds of rockets red glare smack in the middle of this remarkable country. Happy Birthday USA!

July 2, 2015 –Big clouds, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 43

Miles to Date: 3,460

States to Date: 15

I woke early, enjoyed an awesome smoothie with greens and berries, and pedaled up along Skyline Drive in Rapid City with my hosts Sherry and Fred. They took me about five miles to the where local roads give out to U.S. 16, and I proceeded on toward Mount Rushmore. Today’s ride was short on distance but long on climb: over 5,000 vertical feet. The going was slow, the scenery spectacular. I stopped for breakfast in Keystone, a Mexican place that had a breakfast buffet with great huevos rancheros, pancakes, and fresh fruit. Fully fueled, I pedaled up to Mount Rushmore.

I had learned in Rapid City that the facilities at Mount Rushmore were much changed since I was last there, in 1982. The words ‘parking structure’ gave me worry. But I found the National Monument much better organized, capable of handling crowds, and offering more ways to appreciate the four Presidents than previously. Of course, I was predisposed to like the changes when the parking lady waved my bicycle in without the $11 parking fee.

Thirty-three years ago, we came upon the sculptures through winding rustic paths. Now there is a grand, axial concourse with a series of portals that create a procession: from parking to information, along a parade of state flags, to an overlook plaza that sits on top of the museum and in front of the amphitheater. The architecture is simple but monumental. It accommodates a huge summer crowd without competing with the sculptures. They’ve also added a nice winding path that allows people who can handle 250 steps to get very close to the base. I was happy to see so many people take that trail, sad to hear so much hoofing along the way. Americans sure are fat.

By noon the sky was threatening, so I mounted my trusty Surly and headed toward Custer, with a brief check on the Crazy Horse monument, still in construction. I had a reservation at a cabin court in Custer that turned out to be two cuts above my usual fare, so I was happy to arrive early, for although my ride had not been long, it had been hard.

 I took an evening stroll through Custer, which had live music and other July 4^th weekend festivities in progress. I bought a six pack of Kolaches, South Dakota’s state pastry, to heat up for breakfast in the morning. Custer is a tourist town, but like my cabin, a cut above many.

 I like the bison that command each corner. I got home in time to watch the sun set from my porch swing and was in the sack by nine. I’m such a party guy.

July 1, 2015 –Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 5

Miles to Date: 3,417

States to Date: 15

I spent the day tootling around Rapid City, one of the nicest places I have been. I slept until almost nine; my warmshowers hosts were all gone by the time I awoke. I let myself out and pedaled downtown, where I found Jessica at her Canvas 2 Paint shop for a proper goodbye. I also stopped by her bike shop next door. Downtown Rapid City has actual scale sculptures of al the Presidents on each corner, a nice touch that animates the place.

I had a morning interview with Rob Timm, Director of the Chiesman Center for Democracy. Afterward I enjoyed lunch at the VFW, a super good deal and an opportunity to talk with veterans and active service men. After lunch I met folks on the sidewalk, including Gerard Black Elk, a fascinating Native American. I headed out the Mount Rushmore Highway, passed a few ‘Think’ signs that mark roadside fatalities and are absolutely everywhere in South Dakota. I stopped at Mostly Chocolates, where Jessica’s children work, said Adieu to them and enjoyed a couple of delicious chocolate covered Oreos. I might not be cycling much, but my appetite is still big.

I spent a few hours catching up on the Internet and then spun the short but incredibly steep ride up Woodside Drive. Rapid City has a steep ridge that divides the city, and my second warmshowers hosts live in a solar house that overlooks a gorgeous canyon. Sherry and Fred prepared delicious fajitas with homemade salsa and offered chocolate-dipped macaroons for dessert. They cycled the West Coast in 2008 and gave me many good tips for my upcoming route

June 30, 2015 – Overcast, Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 56

Miles to Date: 3,412

States to Date: 15

There are several ways to get from Spearfish to Rapid City, depending on how hard a person wants to cycle. I opted for challenging morning and easy afternoon, which proved a good plan. Instead of taking the roads parallel to I-90 from Spearfish to Sturgis, I climbed U.S 85 for six miles, and then took the steep descent into Deadwood. It wasn’t my favorite climb, but then there’s no such thing as a ‘favorite climb’. When I turned east on US 14A from Deadwood to Sturgis I was treated to one of the nicest rides of my journey, through a canyon of tall pines, exposed stone, a loud brook and colorful wildflowers. Even the grey day couldn’t detract from their splendor. More than worth the uphill climb.

I got to Sturgis by eleven. The town is bustling with construction; the 75th motorcycle rally is less than a month away and they are expecting one million visitors! I found the offices of the famous Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, which is actually an entire city department. Tammy Bohn had great insights into tomorrow, but more importantly, we became fast friends and after an hour together when I left exchanged hugs all around.

I enjoyed the pulled pork special at Bob’s Family Restaurant and then headed to Rapid City. This time I opted for the Sturgis Road, which mirrors I-90 but has plenty of its own character. The I-90 corridor from Sturgis to Rapid City is developing fast, and the mix of ranches, campgrounds, golf courses, housing developments and RV superstores is fascinating. After spending a week in farming communities with declining population, I spent some pedal time considering why an area focused on tourism can be expanding so fast. It takes fewer and fewer people to turn out commodities, so agricultural population is waning. Meanwhile we crave more and more exotic experiences (call me Exhibit A), so outdoors oriented places like the Black Hills are growing.

I arrived in Rapid City by three, with only a few scattered showers to keep me cool. I took a McDonalds Internet break (none of those in North Dakota) and got to my warmshowers host’s house shortly after six. Jessica and I sat on her back patio for hours talking and eating and drinking local beer while her three children and their friends came and went. The night sky was glorious until a flash thunderstorm finally sent us to indoors.