Day 44

Eureka, Nevada.

"He would have made it if he'd lasted just one more jump. But that was a mean horse. Well, I'm pretty proud of that boy."

The old timer talked out of the side of a smile, holding a picture of his grandson at the rodeo riding a wild horse to a gallery of open mouths. The boy came fourth, but he did have his photograph land on a bottle of local wine.

I forced myself to sleep late. The purple light from the neon signs kept me awake later than usual, but the sun woke me up regular. I left up into the hills and can't say I really remember anything. There was a DOT truck or two, some dumb cows who insisted on eating right on the side of the road, mild heat, then a small dust kickup on a bit of unbrushed road. At the base of the last hill, another cyclist, conversation, running out of breath from talking, thirsty, then downhill into Eureka, a fish hamburger, chocolate milk, my book.

I will nap. I'll wake myself up at 9-ish and bike by night to Austin or beyond. I don't get physically tired anymore. I just get bored.

There is a reason we bomb ourselves here. Nevada is not our prettiest place. It's our gallbladder. I wouldn't really mind if the basins did fill up with water. I think an archipelago in the mid-West would do wonders for the look of the country, provide a nice visual contrast for Maine and Florida's pointy points.

Las Vegas might serve a social function. Every country should have a space for luck-seekers, cheap-hope, and second-rate theater. It should be bright. We should go there on intervals, eat violently, have fun or else, and then leave safe in the knowledge that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

But Las Vegas is a bright dot. It's actually a very thirsty dot and it wants water from everywhere across the State, water for those who do get stuck and live and who require green lawns, swimming pools, water spectacles, and other things reasonable from a city in the unreasonable desert. We can always move Vegas south or east or west or north because it has no real business being where it is. The rest is stuck here.

You don't mind Nevada. It's not really that bad. It's just not that anything. Nevada is in its name: say it fast. Nev-ada, N-vada, Nada. There's nothing here.

There shouldn't be a place of nothing in America. It's un-American. There should be a city to house next year's Hannah Montana memorabilia, a city made of corn, a massive waterpark, military bases, I don't know. Just fill it up. Every inch of New York is filled up so you can hardly rest your eyes without seeing an ad for something you need. Move that here.

I'm on US Highway 50. They call it the Loneliest Road in America. It's not. Road's don't get lonely; that's pathetic fallacy. It goes from coast to coast. It has all the good gossip from California and it's plugged into the Washington scene. Lots of other roads intersect with it and it probably knows what kind of terrible drivers they have in Chile. The Road is far from lonely. The people on it aren't lonely either. They're waiting.

Day 43, ice cream in the desert and my Coke moment

I am horizontal in Ely. I'm reading The Road and I've got women's synchronized diving on mute in the background. The feed is from Salt Lake. In between dives, we have commercials for one stop missionary clothes shops and for stool softener.

Ely is an old western town of the type that might warm Wim Wenders' heart. I'm staying in the Hotel Nevada, once the State's tallest buildings, and as I look down at the drag I see cowboys, bikers, the downtrodden, and the odd tour group. The wind kicks up and a tumbleweed or Starbucks cup floats down an alley.

I had a great bit of coffee cake and an espresso for breakfast in Baker.
The guy there brought me cream with my coffee and I tried it out. Espresso and cream is fantastic!

I had another long stretch between water and people. So I got to singing. Home on the Range is a really annoying song. For starters, I can't see any deer or antelope -- standing anyways. Secondly, a discouraging word is seldom heard because nothing is heard. It's just you, thinking to yourself, often discouragingly.

In the middle of the dryness, a bar. I had a real Coke moment here. I open the fly screen, I'm covered in sweat, and I plunk some change on the counter.

"Make it a Coca Cola."

I gulp it down, plunk the empty can on the bar, and realize that I don't really like Coke. My commercial was ruined. And if Coke is America in a can, what does this say about me?

The lady who ran the bar was lovely. She gave me a Snickers, filled my water bottles up with wonderful tasting water, and she gave me a chocolate ice-cream cone. I'm much more of a chocolate ice-cream fan.

I've spent much of the day reading. Still, I did read outside and chat with a man who owns the vitamin shop down the street.

"Man what you're doing is crazy. But you gotta have your hobbies. You gotta have that. What's my hobby? Tattoos. See?"

This is actually not so unreasonable.

"A hobby's got to have meaning. Every one of these tattoos has meaning. I did some of these on my forearms. I designed the rest."

I don't quite know what the meaning of a snake and a wolf fighting under the full moon is (avoid the full moon?), but I nodded as this all made sense to him and as I expect people to nod when I talk about biking.

Two sad gamblers, a man and a woman not in love, sat in the booth once removed from mine at the casino's 24 hour restaurant. We were in section 1, Dana's section, although judging from the artwork it belonged entirely to Dale Ernhardt. I ordered the bbq pork and shrimp. When the treff was gone, I sat listening to the gamblers talk. Faintly, in the background, the sound of country and fruit machines clanking. Dana left me the jug of coffee.

"She had my system beat."
"I know what was that?"
"Pour me some coffee. Every move I made, every card I played, she knew it. It's not my week."
"No it's not. And you're driving us back."
"Christ."
"We've got Reno or Vegas it's your pick."
"Vegas is closer, but you know."
"Yeah."

I spent the afternoon reading. I did approach a girl my age who was staring intensely at a wooden replica of a cowboy.

I begin:

"You know that's 16th century."
"Is it now?"
"Don't touch. It's priceless."
"Oh I won't. What's your name?"
"I'm Richard. Richard Nixon. And you are?"
"Charles Bronson."
"Charles? That's a funny name for a --"
"Lady."
"Well I'll be the judge of that."

Charlie and I get to talking, and then her party headed over.

"Well, if you're out and about, I'll be over at the low roller's table by that woman with the gray hair."

And I might be. Currently, I'm smuggly wrapped in my blanket and in slight awe at this fact: I have one week to go.

Day 42

Goodbye Utah or, if you prefer to be maudlin about things, hello Nevada. Or, if you wish to remain neutral but imply progress, I'm in the Pacific timezone.

I slept in Millford's pavillion yesterday. I stayed for storytime at the library and the nice lady gave me string cheese and two apples. The story was about dragons.

I went to bed early. I woke up in a little while to the sound of four teenagers either eating junk food or doing drugs. It's amazing how, if you take away the visual element, you would not be able to tell the difference. Consider:

[Bubbling sound or sound of slurpy slurped]

Ow my brain.
I know dude.
Man Mike got busted fighting. He beat his best friend up.

[Snorting sound or sound of really enjoying a smoothie]

I can't touch that stuff. It makes me shake.
Dude let's go. Some homeless guy's in the corner.
Ok. Who wants to watch the new Batman?

[I do!]

Much of my night was jake brakes and gravel screaming, but that gave way to the sound of wild dogs picking at the trash. I screwed waking up early.

Today's ride was 84 miles between water and people. 10 cars passed me. I skipped up along the Nevada-Utah border and it was interesting riding. Since this is what I have to look forwards to for the next week, here's a brief description.

Imagine riding from island to island in a small Caribbean paradise, except that a thousand year drought has dried the trees and seabed to hard rock. You start up at the top of an island, quickly dip down to the old waterline, and then crest along the dried harborfloor for 10 miles before resurfacing and climbing the next island. Repeat until any beauty is lost in a hail of cursewords and boredom.

I'm at Silver Jack's in Baker. Baker is Silver Jack's. There's a public shower, a cheap laundry, very little shade, and a senior center. Terry of Silver Jack's has kindly allowed me to sleep for free provided I eat at his establishment. As it is all filling veg food, I see no short end to this stick.. This is an even stick.

I made one mistake today. I picked up a copy of Cormac McCarthy's The Road that someone left in the laundrette. It's sad, moving, incredibly readable (if you don't stop to wonder what an 'autistic night' is), and might weigh me down heading into Ely. I think I'll try and go to sleep just so I can wake up, beat the heat, and spend my casino day reading at the buffet. I might combine stargazing with riding and head out at 4.

Day 41, goodnight Utah

This is my last night in Utah and all I want to do is watch the Olympic Games. As this was a completely nondescript day of cycling, save a much-needed trip to WalMart, I'll take the time to answer some reader mail.

Cletus, 42, from Vatican City, Vatican City (the city so nice they named it twice) wants to know, "How do you go to the bathroom when camping?"

This is a fair and valid question. In fact, I hope this opens up an entirely new avenue of scholarship. There are the metaphysical aspects we can skip by -- does the Pope shit in the woods? -- and let's focus on ugly facts. You dig a hole as deep as your forearm, toss it in, and then use any of smooth objects nature can provide to finish your toilet (this is hard to do in the desert). Then you close the hole and bury your secret in the ground.

Mary Kate, 13, from New York says, "What animals have you seen? What was your favorite?"

Wild animals are notoriously fast and tough to see. Luckily, intrepid naturalists and truckers pin them to the road so that cyclists can better see and smell them. I have seen an entire Looney Tunes stable of roadkill: Speedy Gonzales, Bugs Bunny, Foghorn Leghorn, Pepe le Phew, Andy the Armadillo, Tweety, Wil E. Coyote, and Sylvester. Today I saw a heart and lungs with no animal attached, although my suspicions are egret.

I happen to love birds of prey. Today I biked with a condor floating beside me for a small while. I also saw an eagle dive down and pick up a mouse from the middle of the road out of the goodness of its heart. I also like deer. They are graceful, fast, playful, and run alongside of you if there are no cars. Fields of sheep are nice things to pass by, especially the one I saw in Western Colorado where every bell was tuned to a different, lovely note.

I do hate bats. I wish more truckers rode at night. Desert ants scare me, but there is something beautiful about them when they swarm into their giant anthills. It's a bit like a broken beer bottle coming together and reassembling itself underground.

Sleve Pillow, 64, from Detroit is curious: "Are you doing this for a cause? What's the point?"

I hate this question, Sleve. The purpose, I assume, is self-evident. If not, read the blog and you might find some areas that are evident-evident. If it still isn't evident, might I ask you to pause and consider what the purpose of anything is. If, after you decide that there is none and that curiosity is not its own reward, can I then recommend any of the thousands of cliffs I have crossed as a perfect space for further contemplation.

Here is my issue with "are you doing this for a cause?" This is fun. Honest. You can't have your friends and family sponsor a charity for you to have the time of your life crossing the country. That doesn't scan.

I like this subtext. You think you can cross the country but you know there are times when you'll wish you were elsewhere; then, use the fact that you have the Clean Air fund relying upon you to carry you up that hill. Fine. I've done this but I've done this differently (I've brought You along; I told too many people so failure would be too embarrassing). There are some pursuits in life that are inherently solitary, but the pursuit of those pursuits needn't be. We can get by with a little help from...

I hate this subtext. Running a marathon is hard. Chronic fatigue is hard. Do these sufferings equal each other? No. First off: running a marathon is the only time a regular adult can have a crowd of 200,000 people cheer them on. It is beyond fun. Second off: it's not that hard.

So why does "I'm doing this for myself" sound so selfish? It is, isn't it? Is that wrong?

That may be why I'm doing it, but that's not what I tell people. I know when people might find an answer of some value, so I say this: "I'm not doing this for anything specifically, but I hope the people I talk to will want to see more of their State or the Country, or maybe ride a bike somewhere new, or maybe just get to say "You'll never guess what I saw today!""

Cheese McMillan, 28, of the former Luxembourg, offers his two cents: "I wish could ride a bike across country, but you make it seem so hard and awful. Is it? I'm a former Olympic medalist who is training for the Ironman. Do you think I have what it takes?"

Probably not.

Jaime-Lynne Banderas, 74, writes: "What have you found indispensable on this trip?"

The backside of hills. Milk. Sleep. The joy of showering. Coppertone Oil Free SPF 30 Broad Spectrum UVA UVB Odorless Sunblock. Life on the Mississippi by Mark Twain. The ACA maps. The big gears on the front part of the bike and the little ones on the wheel. Oh. Water. The kindness of strangers. The Blackberry. EMS' 35 degree sleeping bag the folds down to the size of a credit card. The bike. Lots and lots of hair product, especially in this dry heat.

Darby O'Russell of Tel Aviv wants to know "where the prettiest sky was."

Pretty skies usually come with or before rain. I liked the sky in Kansas a whole lot just before that really long day. It was broad and very rich in orange, probably as a result of all the methane. I liked the sky in Colorado when you were up at cloud height, but oftentimes that was accompanied by hail and lightning. And Utah, colorful Utah, has had the most variety in it's evening sky: one end of the horizon could be pink and pale blue, while the other side is bright red and starry. I do, however, hold out for Nevada on all things stargazing and skywatching.

John Tesh, 18, gets the last word: "So you've got eight easy days left. Give us a sneak peak and let us in on one thing you want to do when you reach the end?"

That's a good question. I want to find a bar with a good jukebox and give that Bob Dylan song we heard at Elaine's in Bazine, KS another listen.

........................

My cellphone reception will be spotty from here on across Nevada. I'll try and keep current, but I can't be certain of anything.

Day 40

Today was the last day of canyons and the tip of the desert. I was cold.

I left the motel late. I loaded my bike up in front of an old hot dog roller that had been modified to heat taquitos. This disgusted me, but later, in Cedar City, I would have a man deep fry my Chipotle-style burrito and I would thank him crazy for it.

I rode 36 miles up(steep)hill to the top of Cedar Breaks and barely glanced down at the canyons. More storms were on me and I wanted out. I went over the break and down the seventeen miles to Cedar City in forty minutes ... look, this is beginning to get repetitive.

I haven't much time left, yes, but I do have this tremendous desert between me and the Pacific that can't be beaten quickly. I'm am tiring. I really do want to go home. I don't want to see the Neil Simon festival in town, or the Shakespeare for that matter.

This is not the most productive attitude, and so I will have to do away with it. The real source of my recent discontent is my consumption. You see, they get me when I'm weak and tired. It's then, when you're cold, that you'll take anything to feel otherwise. I have been taking pie and double hamburgers and deep-fried lardwiches. My body, too smart for its master, has said enough. It's empty and it's expensive.

Change starts small. I began with a shower and shave. Waugh shaved throughout the war; so did the foolish man in the white suit from Heart of Darkness; you may remember him as Robert Duvall. I don't think it's a gesture of civilization amongst the savageries of the RV park; I think of it as a small change.

My face looks different now. It is cleaner and younger, pale where sideburns once hung. I'm outside and it feels good against the light wind. When you shave, you are forced to look at areas of the face only the most studious painters pay attention to: that ridge-valley-ridge below the nose; the hair that sticks closest to your nostrils; the dark side of your neck; etc.

So now I am optimistic about the desert. It will dry me out some, but that could be good. Plus, I'll have two chances to play cards. Am I supposed to double down on 7, 11, and 6? What is splitting the deck? And how do I win in slots?

As I have little to report today, best tell you about my Mormon church experience.

I went to the church here in Cedar City for an architectural tour that was light on architecture and heavy on literature. On this trip I have collected three kinds of pamphlets: religious whatnot, national park maps, RV park maps. My hosts showed me a well produced video about the building, took me to the church to look at the red cedar pews, and then we headed downstairs to the font and a corridor decorated with paintings that conveniently explained how Joseph Smith was the 13th apostle and what Mormonism is about.

Most of the American Christian sects are really Christ heavy. Often, they will pray to Jesus. So far as I'm concerned, the guy doesn't even show up until the sequel: God is the star. Some evangelicals believe that the Mormons don't believe in Christ. Here's what I got: they believe in SuperChrist.

After Christ dies, he teleports over to the New World to teach the Native Americans. One really strong Native American who looked a lot like Magneto became a prophet. He buried his extra books of the bible in upstate New York and, as time passed, young con artist Joseph Smith stumbled onto them. The rest you know from South Park.

Now, if somebody wants to argue that that sounds ridiculous and all Christ did was turn water into wine, make fish out of thin air, and resurrect himself after three days, fine. Cast the first stone. My argument would always be belief requires thinking the fantastic is real, although we probably shouldn't reward those who think the most nonsensical things are true if we want to keep society moving orderly towards the future (Rapture, yes!).

Actually, I hate to delay you some Mormon facts, but a quick thought on the Rapture. This, like Jihad, is Christianty's poisonous idea and is completely misinterpreted by scaremongers and other bad people. How about this for a great idea: we're on this Earth, we'll be stewards of it for a long, long while, it's not going to blow up any time soon, and if it were, that would be a sad day for everyone and Kirk Cameron. Bearing this, recycle that Pepsi Blast in the name of Jesus.

Some promised oddities: Mormon communion is taken with water and bread (and this is the world's fastest growing religion?); every church has at least a half-court basketball court in the rec room; when you marry, you don't marry till death due you part, you marry into your afterlife on the Celestial plain; good people who don't believe in Christ (me?) get to go to the Terrestial plain; crappy people go somewhere else.

What interests me about the LDS folks is how American they are. An angel descended from the heavens and picked New York of all places. All their religious iconography is either apostles dressed like Thomas Jefferson standing about, or it's strong jawed men in grey flannel suits and white buttondowns with other men in flannel suits. They have basketball courts in church! Their missionaries dress like office boys from the 50s. We'll wear nametags in heaven. Their church is structured like an American corporation or social lodge, with Presidents and Aldermen. And they're so, so nice.

Tomorrow I'll be answering some reader mail and, hopefully, staying at a Lion's Club. We'll see.

Day 39, Bryce

Is it possible to go a day without cell signal in the US? I guess so. Apologies if today's and yesterday's posts come lumped together. If they're unreadably long, tough. You'll be quizzed on both days next Monday.

This was a really special day for me class. I saw Bryce Canyon. Yes, I was almost killed by lightning, I broke another spoke on my rear wheel, and I got caught in freezing rain (in Utah? how?) -- no matter. I cannot complain because I have seen it.

I woke up and had a very European breakfast of espresso, nutella bagel, nutella Cliff Bar, and nutella nutella. A small German child was fascinated to learn that you can eat an entire jar in 5 minutes. His mother covered his eyes.

Nothing too eventful until Bryce, except that I saw some trees. I remember trees. In my tradition, we kill them for Christmas.

Trees came and went. So did the rather optimistically-named town of Tropic. I ate three donuts and that made me feel guilty. If a food product can make a man who eats like me and who uses up 10,000 calories a day feel some guilt, then perhaps that food product is dangerous. I would have done anything to get that bear claw from around my heart.

The hill up to Bryce started steep enough and, as is often the case, it became the target for some heavy rain and lightning. Rain and lightning was horrible in Colorado; it is inexcusable as you rise up-and-up a mountain almost incapable of keeping trees.

I sprinted to the top only to find that the top was a large treeless plateau. I put on my helmet because lightning hates polystyrene. And I kept on sprinting.

Bryce was 4 miles off route, and then it was a 19 mile loop of some kind. As I neared my target I saw a sign for a free shuttle bus. I raised my hands in joy and then quickly, cautiously lowered them. A wonderful woman in a kiosk agreed to watch my bike as I waited out the lightning with a coffee.

Seated to the left of me were two French eight-year-olds drinking espressos and talking about an affair the smaller one was having with some bourgeois girl over in the ball pit. I stuck to my maps and Twain, and away from the windows. An awful man was yapping away on his cellphone, which really irked me because mine ceased to work.

Lightning be damned, I'm seeing Bryce. I went back to the lovely woman in the kiosk, got my tickets, took the bus, ran up to the highest viewpoint and stood as far away from the tallest Dutch tourist I could.

It won't photograph, but I took pictures. I could try to describe it, but it won't come across (it looks like a thousand thousand-foot sandcastles made by dripping wet pink sand). It really has to be seen in 3D.

Actually, I remember there being a computer program called Bryce with the sole purpose of rendering canyons and spires. This was the mid-90s, and is probably responsible for the wealth of 3D canyons on New Age albums of the period.

I have a lot of respect for the 3D artist and the man who makes that artist's tools. Pixar have been on my mind because I really believe their pastel color tests for Cars are the most accurate representation of the Utah sky I have ever seen. Again, a camera cannot reconcile the canyon and the sky in their separate but equal brightness: there should be no contrast.

Another part of the Pixar business is making Renderman, a painting (with time!) program a gazillion times more complex than Bryce. A gazillion times more complex are the canyons themselves.

I saw them from two Points (Sunset and Independence(?)) and tried to triangulate what I saw so I could walk it in my dreams. Every spire changes color subtly; every surface is smooth, then jagged, then crumbled and lost; every spire casts a shadow on the next and changes it; every cloud works like a spotlight that darkens; people wind in and out of it like an Esher drawing; it just gets complicated.

I am in a motel in Panguitch now. It's almost as cheap as a campsite. This is the first time I've been indoors and alone in a long while. And good. The building has been struck by lightning twice.

Out back are six Geos that have been painted bright colors and then wrecked in the derby. The guy who cooked me dinner races occasionally. The other guy who cooked me dinner caught a 20 inch tiger trout in Panguitch Lake with a marshmallow.

I will hit my last bike shop before Sacramento tomorrow. After that, it's pushing each other across the deserts of Nevada. 800 something miles to go.

Day 38, your thanks has already been included

Let me tell you about bad sleep. I finished at the rollerpizza and went down about 500 ft closer to Capitol Reef. I opened a cattleguard, pushed the bike up to the top of a small cliff, took my tent, went down to what was on the other side of said cliff and set it on the only flat spot -- three dead cacti and hard rock. I set my leftover pizza on a rock and went to bed.

At about 12:50 I hear James Brown telling me to Stand Right Up from directly behind me. The stereo at the restaurant has turned itself on and it's loud. Loud like let's spook the guy in the tent down there and then kill him to start Tuesday off right. Then, much closer, the sound of fast running or galloping coming down the cliff. They've killed my bike, pushed it off, and I'm next.

"Who's there?"

I run out of my tent in my underwear, cycling shoes, and the acrylic shirt that guy gave me at the free box.

"Huh? Who's there?"

Nothing. Just Hot Fun in the Summertime from up the canyon. I run up to my bike. I haven't got any contacts, so I what I actually did was run up to my blur. It was still there. So was my lovely pizza, which I had only given a 50 percent chance of finishing the night anyways. They must be starting out slow.

I put my contacts in and sit and wait in my tent. I can't run to safety. I'll sit here and play it by ear. Grab something hard. Think rationally. What's their motive? I asked for Fanta and then got water when they didn't have it? No. They just don't like me? It's possible. No. It must have been a deer and some late night rollerskating. Then it began to rain, I put on my rainfly, and my night vigil went on until...

I ate anchovy pizza for breakfast. I lived through it -- both the night and the pizza -- although the only evidence I have of sleep was that I remember waking up. They weren't murderous centaurs. Here's my final guess: last night's lovely hostess loved a boy she met at her grandmother's roller-rink in Salt Lake. At night, sometimes, she skates to remember him.

I stopped at a Ranger station 10 miles out of Torrey and was met by a nice older couple who volunteer for the Park. One perk: they have a wood-burning stove. They gave me a fresh bran muffin and it was so good it tasted store bought. Outside, two families from Montpelier (France) sat fascinated with the hummingbirds at the hummingbird feeder; as, indeed, they should have been, because the things move around like Tinkerbells and they have never hurt a fly.

I wish to make a small sartorial digression on the dress of the European tourist in the canyonlands. The families from Montpelier were exceptionally well dressed; here are the rest.

I took my morning coffee at the Best Western up the valley from Capitol Reef. It's very popular with the French, Belge, and German tourist. Coming in and out I saw: a man in hi-cut 80s sports shorts, no lining (ew), tight red shirt and the kind of sandals Jesus would have worn if he were more athletic; his wife had shock red hair and a ludicrous pair of spectacles. Heading inside were two stern looking men with long necks and stubble for hair; they had two different, ludicrous pairs of glasses, both neon. A visibly-German man had a fanny pack (honest), khaki shorts, and matching pink socks (pulled high) and shirt (tucked in). A Belgian man made it easy: he wore a shirt with the word 'Belgium' on it. In almost all cases, teeth point in all sorts of directions.

I have lost my quiet canyon voice as I have left the canyons. You notice things like this in absence. The voice in my head was whispering all throughout the canyonlands. When the winds were up I could barely hear myself talk to myself. Now I'm back to normal (shouting in my odd accent) and I miss that stillness. Thankfully, I'm so exhausted that my mind's voice is a bit out of breath. Am I alone in finding fatigue -- earned fatigue versus, say, jetlag -- a pleasure of sorts? Like nice quiet?

So I went up to the mountain, rolled back down the other side, and ended up back with canyons of Escalante State Park.

A bit of a bad thing happened at lunch today. I pulled into Boulder and wanted the hippie-cooked meal somebody promised me down the line. Locally sourced beef? Sounds promising, only the second I sat down and the beef planted its cruel worm in my brain I am told that they're all out of the local stuff but that, never fear, Sysco has a solution. Fine. Sign me up for the ruben-on-top-of-my-burger burger. A glass of homemade ice-T sir? Yes, I'll reward local industry, sure. Very well, we pour the hot water over these here Lipton's bags ourselves. Then we add ice. We don't add sugar because that would be like cooking. One tea, coming right up.

Everything is satisfactory. I have a piece of pie only to remind myself how special Cooky's was. Cooky's was. Then the bill comes. Wow, but it's ok because I've heard her telling other people that tip already in there. Is tip in there? No. I only do that to the Europeans.

This is the last straw! I hate this! This really bothers me! And you call yourself a hippie. These people have crossed an ocean to see your bit of dirt, fueled only by their curiosity and a weak dollar, and we reward them with this? Am I wrong in being of the opinion that we should roll out our finest china for the guests, especially the French, to whom we owe a great debt, who don't think too highly of us, and who are, let's face it, unfairly caricatured as skinny bohemians in ludicrous glasses.

Let's discuss two things: is tipping culturally American and, if so, so what? And, is short distance transportation of food worth 20 percent of said food?

Tipping 15 and now 20 percent for service might have began as a sincere gesture of gratitude, but it has become status quo probably out of every American's fear of social failure and penury, worked its way into the pay structure of the restaurant industry, and taken some nice myths along with it (struggling actor, artist, mother, etc). Now, if we want to pay everyone fairly (and we should), we simply have to see it as a hidden tax in a largely cash business with curious accounting. For if we're really truly being generous, then surely 40 is the number -- 20 for cost, 20 for thanks. That seems American and extortionate.

For argument's sake, let's say it's a particularly American peccadillo that we do out of our wonderful magnitude. If that were the case then we can't demand it of others. It should be its own reward, and when we go to Belgium and leave two dollars by a plate of fries, the loud cries of 'merci merci' should further convince us of our big generosity.

Of course that is not the case. More often than not we are held prisoner in Europe, because the service is so much slower (as a meal should be), that when you're finally confronted with the bill you want to say I was not impressed and end up leaving 18 percent. This means nothing to the waiter. This is just extra money.

Now to the question of whether or not the lifting of food is worth 20 percent of it. I've laid up a bit of a straw man here. It's not just the carrying; it's the smile. My waitress is putting a human face on beef. She is the last thing I see before I shove it down my throat. My mind thinks, 'She made this out of thin air in 5 minutes.' This is what I value and I value it 20.

She didn't do it though. This beef passed through a lot of hands, some of which I've shook on this trip. The feed, the cow, the fattening, the Mack truck, the slaughter, the Mack truck, the Mexican who unboxes things for the restaurant, the mind of the chef, the cook, the waitress, me. Of all these people and machines is it hardest to say no to a smiling woman? Versus the tough truck driver squeezed by rising fuel costs? The trucker should be so lucky as to be thought of before their work is eaten. This seems American and naive.

I want to reward thought and talent. If chefs were capable of smiling (they're not, cf. Bourdain, Ramsey, D. Chang, et al) they'd get in on the action --

"You're eating that wrong. You want to grind the veal down into the plate with your forehead and then -- ONLY THEN -- pick it up with your wallet and chew it twice."

-- That's where the skill lies. Instead, we've got a system where when people are genuinely nice to you (hey, free bran muffin) you're left reaching for your pocket and mental tip calculator.

I don't think we're rewarding talent here. We're rewarding friendliness. We're talking about quantifying and commodifying the simplest and greatest gift we have got going as humans -- that which holds us together -- and we're capping it at 20 percent?

Question: Is there not a difference in interaction between someone who smiles at you, gives you great advice, makes you feel happy and interested, and the same experience with a small tip jar in your peripheral vision? I've begun noticing these everywhere. They're US Parks standard issue. When the Ranger came and offered me that muffin my initial response was of complete thanks; but then I slowly felt ill at ease and wondered whether I should walk back into the shop and 'donate' something small.

I've been very fortunate to have people offer me their homes, churches, and food with no expectation of compensation other than in the giving; when I give back to them out of a desire to feel that same feeling of giving, that is a rich experience. Perhaps that is why I have fallen into this digression (kudos on making it this far). I also wish to tie this together with more thoughts on food in my final trip summary as, often, the dinner plate is where America can come to you.

I rode out of there and along the backbone of Escalante's most spectacular canyon-dunes at 35 miles an hour. I forgot the silly business from above and made it to Escalante (town), to pizza, to the tremendously nice Britons (who'd had service added to their bills!), to my first shower in 4 days, to running water, to 2 hours on the Blackberry and work. Now, here in my last sentence, I must appologize for the length.

Day 38, for the record

I did end up tipping her the full 20. I was very far away from the front door and these people have cars here. I wouldn't have gotten very far.

Day 37, still awake

Utah is canyons and people. The canyons are constant; the people are spread out, just seeing one is amazing, and meeting them is a delicacy.

I left Hite at 3 in the morning. It actually wasn't much colder, but it was its coldest. I couldn't see anything. It took a while for my eyes to make out the stars. Then the canyons: at first they were silhouettes, all shoulders jutting out high above me on both sides. The brightening sky sketched some features onto them, and then some pale colors. When the sun neared the horizon, the canyons took over coloring themselves. We began with grey Moon canyons, red Clint Eastwood canyons, red Mars canyons, orange I-Don't-Know-What-canyons, and finally Tatooine canyons into Hanksville, my latte, and my morning post.

I was driving down a particularly grey canyon when I stumbled across an organic coffee shop/farm. This is quite a stumble. If the Bible were written in reverse, the would be the shock of coming from dirt, plague, pestilence (and knowledge) into the rich Garden of Eden. Plus, God's got some coffee on.

Inside are four kids my age. Cool kids. Dave is tremendously bearded, organizes music festivals, and plays new folk music. The couple seem similarly artistic, and they know every swimming hole and cold spring in a wide radius. The girl (try and remember names) Ingridchen is rolling dough, making me two cinabuns, cutting melons, and chatting with me about music, food, kombucha, and whatever else my sleep deprived mind bounced into play. She was quite pretty and she had armpit hair (don't stare). The coffee was the best drip I've ever had (stop, stop). And we listened to some throat singing (she sees you!).

I left with tons of recommendations and tremendous good feeling. People like me, here. There were clouds in the sky: somebody up there loves me.

Canyon riding is biking at the bottom of a lost ocean. That's why so many of the rocks look like petrified Canard Cruiseliners. If I could get up to the top I'm sure I could see the caveman shufflepuck board and the caveman climbing wall hanging over the bough.

Blah blah blah beautiful, uphill, humid, swimming in a waterfall with French tourists and grown men who can't bring themselves to swear, blessed nap, unblessed pain in my knees, final slog up a hill and 1500 ft to Torrey.

I'm at the Patio, a pizza joint and one of America's best restaurants. In the background is a tremendous iron canyon. The sun is on it. Our hostess is 55, glittery blue nail polish, three Bic pens in her hair, on rollerskates. Our music is Patsy Cline, Devo (!), Hank Williams, Beatles, and unheard Peter Gabriel. It's perfect. A dog is licking my legs clean of salt. I'm going to camp somewhere in that red mess over there. Two women have inspired my next trip: juke joints in the Mississippi Delta. The lovely Brits took an easy day and have found this place too. A man here plays harmonica with David from the farm. Perhaps pizza on rollerskates is how people find each other in the desert.

Early day 37, some old stories

I took a bath in Lake Powell by sunset, ate my last meal (soup!), tried to sleep on the hot concrete, woke up at 3, rode by dark, then stars, then sunrise, into Hanksville, and right up to this latte, which I plan on snorting.

Now might be a good time to give you three stories that have slipped through the cracks.

1.

I found another Shake Shack. This one is in Monticello, Utah. I can't say it was as great as my Shake Shack, but if gristle is any indicator, they do use real meat in their burgers.

The hostesses were two scarily Aryan sixteen-year-olds who were either sisters or the girls from Brazil. At the counter was Jed, picking up an order for Jred. It's rude to presume someone a methamphetamine addict, so let's just say that the lack of any fat in his temples did not bode well for his brain.

All of this did not put me in a turning around mood. Keep your eyes on your milkshake. Plus, I was in a booth. Behind me was a man and a woman and I swear they didn't have any children with them. Still, their conversation went --

M: Well anyhow it was great seeing you and Dan, and what are we dooey wooing...
W: Oh I know, bwabuwabuwaba, we've got to do it again.
M: Yes we do, yes we do.

It went on like this for twenty minutes before I ran out.

2.

There are three lovely young Britons riding on the same route as I. They're being sagged by two very nice, older Britons named Paul. Occasionally, the Pauls will find me on the side of the road and offer me water and kind words from their red minivan.

This story was told to me by the dreadlocked girl at the laundrette in Salida. In the interest of narrative simplicity and making it seem like I'm good with names, I'll draw three from a hat for our Brits.

"I saw Harry and Hermione at the base of the hill; Ron was at the top and getting his face shouted at by a trucker who'd stopped in the middle of the road. I hate that that would happen in Colorado [Ed: so do I]. If you see them again, please apologize to them from me on behalf all Colorado."

I bumped into Ron again (smiling, Ron) and confirmed the story.

"Were you there? [I explained] Yeah, this van drove up beside me and he hit me with his mirror. I said something impolite to him and he stopped his van, got out, and then he hit me in the face."

This is the part that kills me.

"I thought he was terribly rude."

Trucker gets back into truck, Wendy's gets their hamburgers, Ron has been hit in the face on the side of the road, and this is the level of his consternation. Were it I who was hit -- and I wish it was -- I'd be Blackberrying you snide comments from a wood paneled circuit court in Denver. I'd probably be in a neckbrace.

Ron is a better man than I, and he has the right attitude. Whereas I would have spent the next thousand miles dreaming of fun and dangerous ways to kill that guy, I honestly believe the whole gang had forgotten about it until I brought it up.

"Yes I remember something about that guy hitting me with his car and punching me in the face, but, you know, water under the bridge..."

3.

Three fishermen called their wives from the payphone in my bedroom yesterday night.

The first one called his wife 'snookums'. Honestly.

The second one called his wife 'babe', repeatedly. "Babe, the stripers were biting, babe. Babe? Babe! I thought I'd lost you..."

The third one called his wife Wendy. She seemed to have no idea he was off fishing. He had no idea she was away at a family reunion. He agreed that he should turn the water on for her when he got back.

Day 36

It's hot.

I'll get back to how hot, but first, an addend. I did not sleep outdoors yesterday. As I was about to close enter Slumberland, a big bat flew across my face and I crashed out of bed. I should never have eaten that Welsh rarebit. My tent was up in seconds.

So it's hot. The only surprise here is that it was such a complete surprise to me. I biked to Natural Bridges to fill up on water and that was fine. I bumped into two guys riding east and they seemed fine. They were in a band and were carrying their instruments with them. They actually seemed great.

Here's how it hit me. Natural Bridges is at about 7000 ft in altitude. I am in Glen Canyon, up above Lake Powell, and at about 3000 ft in altitude. For every 1000 ft I went down the temperature jumped about 7 degrees until here, Hite, where it is 120 something with hot wind.

The greatest part of losing altitude is going downhill. I never felt that. According the the Salt Lake Tribune, today's wind is blowing in whatever direction I am not going. This makes sense: I was riding down the exhaust pipe of a particularly hot oven.

I was compensated otherwise for I am in canyon country. Hot wind can't keep your eyes from this beautiful land (although it can make you tear up uncontrollably). There are canyons that look like rainbow trout with flat heads; canyons like oceanliners; canyons like cobras; canyons like Buicks. There are buttes: Cheese Box Butte, and another one I call 5-Finger Butte. I am surrounded by them now. They keep me warm.

I was going to explore some of these caves but it was when I stopped moving that I became fast aware of the temperature.

I stink. I haven't showered in days. There's a fine layer of red dust in every crack and crevice my skin has. My shirt is starched thick with sweat. I look forwards to a dip later in the lake.

I am going to have to beat Utah in the mornings. I'll be up at 3 tomorrow to ride, dip, and ride up all that elevation I lost and towards the mountains.

Day 35

I don't quite know how we went from day 33 to 44 to 35; perhaps time is getting a little unstuck as I move in a straight line; perhaps I'm going so quickly that, like with Superman, I am rotating the earth backwards.

I am looking up at the desert sky. I am pretty sure that's not a Sting song, but it very well could be. It could also be a fragrance. I must have a fragrance of my own because the desert fly loves me. I must smell dead.

I pulled up short of Natural Bridges National Monument, but I am much further than I thought I was going to go. I was too tired. I just stopped my bike, walked off the side of the road, and went into the desert (of Desert Sky fame).

The reason I can walk into the desert is I am carrying 8 liters of water. This could also be the reason I couldn't make it up the hill.

I am in Utah. The first 8/10ths of the day was a bit lackluster. I left the reservoir, biked down a canal, noticed how the canal kept everything wet while I dried out. I was in Utah before I knew it. Their state sign is an impossibly ugly piece of Photoshop. The landscape was a bit like eastern Colorado. I went to a town called Monticello, which is solid evidence that America is repeating itself.

After a shake, I went to Blanding, and decided to keep moving. Here's where it gets beautiful. Bicentennial highway runs along a canyon valley until it turns up into a narrow slit in the canyon, winds through that and opens on a lush valley lined with red canyons on both sides. Despite being the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and being mostly downhill, I stopped and took photographs for You because -- wow -- it was amazing. A thin shaft of light came through the clouds and lit the distant canyon wall LionKing-ish.

About five miles after that, I lost the will to pedal. I boiled rice with a packet of mac n cheese mix and lay down to write this.

The woman in the Blanding info center said this is the darkest sky in the nation. I suppose that's another way of saying, there ain't nothing there. I look forwards to some stargazing, light sleep outdoors, and then getting on the road so I can skip Lake Powell and its cursed jet skis and maybe make another park.

Day 44, More Than This

As often, I am drinking a malt. This time I'm in Dolores and it's chocolate. A terrible cover of Bryan Ferry's More Than This is on the radio. The original is brilliant: "You know there's nothing more than this." Of what comfort is that?

I woke up this morning to a tent that smelled of cold pork. The human body sweats a liter of water in sleep, and mine had a high ratio of Fat Albert's pulled pork. It was kind of the bears to spare me.

After packing, I bumped into John with whom I've been friendly since getting into Telluride. He has dreads, sweatpants, and is in his mid-30s. I saw him smiling at the free concert, smiling his way down main street, and smiling his way to the gondola with a bike. He's just a nice guy.

John has a weird favor to ask me. I tell him anything, which, by the way, is bad policy. John worked at Golden Gate State Park. I will end my trip there. He worked there with a woman who used to guide kids from Oakland on confidence building rafting trips. She drowned on one of those trips. John and some friends buried her -- actually buried her, with their own shovels.

There is a plaque in her honor hidden between Sausalito and a town that begins with an M. He asked me to leave something there for her, from him. He said it could be a pine cone.

I will be looking for the perfect pine cone, or a really round rock, and I will leave it with her because I said I would.

I went back to Maggie's Bakery for breakfast. Today I was joined by Dan Pearlman. Dan is the inventor of the halogen lamp. He made it for the movies. It was supposed to be a miniature sun; a black body that glows with color when heated to 3700 K. He sold the patent, but he won an Academy Award for it.

We have breakfast for 2 hours. Dan is in town before he's due in front of the Supreme Court to argue his latest case that, under the Constitution, the government does not exist.

Dan sought me out actually. He'd wanted to eat breakfast with me yesterday, but I was with the cycling geophysicist and family. Dan is also a cyclist. He rode a bike around for 3 years, living off patents and money he made as a film producer, and then road magic and the kindness of strangers. There were days when he'd find 20, 40, 100 bucks stuck in his bags.

He recommended the desert. Once, when riding practically-abandoned highway 50 in the desert, he came upon a large guy carrying an even larger cross. The cross had a little wheel in back. He asks the guy if he's religious.

"Not particularly," the man says. He just liked the idea of the cross. Isn't it a bit weird to be walking around with a cross in the desert?

"Isn't it a bit weird to be riding around with a bicycle?"

Further up 50, he spots a large, er, spot on the horizon. Clean the glasses, put them back on, the spot grows bigger. Soon the spot is passing over him at 1000 miles an hour. It was a supersonic jet. It knocked him clean on his fanny.

Further further up 50 he sees an antique store. He heads in. Everything in there is smashed into pieces.

A: I'm so glad you're here. This is a good day.
D: Excuse me?
A: I was just about to go bankrupt.

It seems that every year or so, this woman goes out and buys a bunch of glass antiques. She puts them right on the edge of her high shelves. Then she waits for some flyboy to line up on the highway and have the Air Force buy her a new set of china ... and then some.

Dan has run for President. His name was on the ballot. He has also run for governor of New Mexico. You see, there's lot of competition at the lower levels of government, but only a few candidates at the higher level. No harm, no foul is a motto.

His case before the Supreme Court is also a longshot, but it is being heard. He's gonna go on Bill Moyers beforehand and then head out into the desert to think on it. He holds it as self-evident (axiomatic) that 2/3rds of the population need to vote yay or nay to elect an official. Obama got a little more than half of a lot less than half of the population, ergo he's illegitimate. Ditto McCain. Ditto GWB. Ditto everyone. Ergo, the thing is undemocratic.

In its place, he hopes to put a voting machine that allows every American to call in or go online and vote for their preferred candidate (Sanjaya?). Even though this trip has shown me how intelligent and generous many Americans can be, I can't believe that we wouldn't just vote in our best interests and put the future off.

The farmer sees the future. The bro in Telluride does not. Experiential living is liberating until your (occasionally philosophical) unwillingness to live for tomorrow closes off some doors. Again, a good question to ask is, where are the children?

He wished me good luck in my life and we parted.

I left Telluride late but an easy ride got me into Dolores early. I'm in a restaurant that wants me to pay for my water and that has made me really angry. I'm off to the massive reservoir down the road to go swimming.

Day 33

I am in the library. I have been reading up on Nikola Tesla, Mark Twain, minerals, Iceland spar, solenoids, the temperature in Nevada at night, an environmental consultancy I'm interested in working for, and home rule municipalities. I made to leave but turned around when I realized I could listen to an album that I must be the crowning musical achievement of the young 21st century. Ys, by Joanna Newsom. As she weaves her harp arpeggious and baroque, something quite American shines through: the rare (too rare) three-part female harmony, the banjos, the cowboy's harp, her hi-Appalachian twang. And the great orchestral swells in and out again. And it all blends together beautifully. And it sounds so old, like it's a miracle recording equipment existed that could catch this thing and put this it to (magnetic) tape.

It is the perfect soundtrack to Telluride because the place blends together beautifully too. As I listened, I stared out at a mountain that stitched red rock into evergreens and grass without any visible seams. Waterfalls pass through houses here. The sun seems to take some physical shape when it is long and passes down the box canyon onto Bear Pass. Earlier, I hiked up to the Bridal Falls and stared up at the house with the generator in it. This is the house of a mad American King. There is a rusty gondola to carry everyone up to court. There is a small widow's walk (or is it a window?) for the Queen to lie and wait for her millionaire miner to return from getting her gold and other heavy metals. All their power is AC from the waterfall. They are rich with gravity. Birds fly down the valley and bring them news and berries. The king heads down to the village for his weekly meeting at the Masonic lodge and to look up into the bordello windows. He walks the mile up past the power plant and its green ponds and then up to his wife with wildflowers by way of apology.

I woke up at 6:30 so I could be at Maggie's bakery by 7. A tremendously youthful German geophysicist was there with his son and grandson. The boy called him Opa. They lived in Boulder, which is where he taught. They kindly invited me to eat with them. The grandfather biked across country and got his family hooked. They liked to rotate riding in Europe and the States every summer. They were heading south. He talked about traveling Mexico by car and feeling that it seemed empty at speeds, but would reveal itself on the bike. We could all agree that the bike keeps you riding at the speed of older journeys. When you slowly travel Europe, the languages, food, architecture, and geography can change in a steep afternoon's climb.

I should like to be this man when I'm his age, intelligent, smiling, wildly curious at 7 in the morning.

I went to a coffee shop for a latte and was reminded of why I hate these places. Every barista (I prefer cashier) thinks he or she has the greatest, most diverse taste in music which shuffles around -- too early -- why? -- perhaps to win over the pale girl in Telluride -- the one in the corner -- perhaps to suggest that he is more than a barista (I prefer cashier) -- he was once in a band -- he's working on an album on afternoons off from mountainbiking -- ugh. I stayed there for 2 hours. The coffee was great. I have mapped out most of the rest of my trip.

I will be in San Francisco in two weeks and three days at the latest. I'll be riding short days in the desert because a lot of my options are either 68 miles or 148. I think we can all agree I've made the right choice. I hope to camp out on some vineyards in the Sierras and to put 20 on black in Carson City. If I win that, I'll put 20 on my birthday. If I win that, I'll invest the money in a really hi-quality Elvis costume.

I've yet to figure out how to get from the East Bay over to the North Bay and into San Francisco from the Golden Gate Bridge. I can hit Sonoma and Napa, but I can't seem to avoid San Quentin. Is San Quentin nice this time of year, or should I wait for the foliage?

Before all that, I plan on reading my Twain up the valley and by the river.

But that's all the future-flexible. We did a little bit of the past-todayish. Now let's do the present-now. I'm still in the library, but, don't worry, I'll be in Fat Albert's soon enough. A Mexican man seated to the left of me is updating his Match.com profile and furiously clicking on some girls who, from their photographs, have no need for online dating. Ys has run out. The mountains are still here.

I can imagine Tesla living on the top of the mountain, a mad-American King, thinking magnetism and inventing electricity. There is a bit of that here. The rocks on the way to the Bridal Falls were shiny and metallic. The box canyon seems to trap some energy in it -- no, not holistic energy, man -- but perhaps solar. Perhaps this could be rigged up like a large solenoid. Perhaps we could use this large solenoid to pull comets towards earth and bring back Mark Twain for a brief lecture tour and to collect some hard earned royalties from Hal Holbrook. Perhaps, sadly, it is time to leave Telluride. Tomorrow, I will be back on the road. I will be rested and I will be fed.

Day 32, I have arrived

I am in Telluride. Nothing -- not the sun, not the full day climb, not making the awful mistake of taking 5 electrolyte pills and swelling shut -- could keep me from her. I'm sipping a latte. I'm under an aspen tree and a banner of multi-colored Tibetan prayer napkins. They're made in China.

I'm reading the local paper, The Telluride Watch. Some guy named Art Goodtimes is kvetching about which burial service is best. The man hates paragraphs. The rest of the paper is all green building, green shopping, the Dalai Lama, some local bartender/dj getting stabbed in the neck, and real estate listings. Garrison Keillor is syndicated. He's in New York. The balls on this man. First, he claims that the whole place smells of pizza and fresh coffee (it doesn't). Then he compares getting on a train in Penn Station to getting the last one out of Warsaw in 37 (overstating it a bit). Then he goes on about beautiful New York women and terrorism (?). This is travel writing at its worst: unfocused, false, and unfocused.

Telluride is lovely and a little bit frightening. My campsite is infested with flies. Doug Silver behind me is shouting in my ear about an amazing piece of property he's trying to sell ("I'd just hate to see it go to waste"). A gaggle of five teenage girls teleported in from the Upper West Side to talk about calling Doug and seeing if he was interested in Ani (Doug Silver?). A man in his mid-forties with an impressive amount of hair is chatting up our barista and is all "cool" this and "awesome" that. He is going to go mountain biking with his kids. It's 3 on a weekday. When I grow up I want to be so busy I can't see my kids until at least 7 on weekdays and that's if they make an appointment. And I vow that they'll never see me in shorts.

I'm off to the Free Box. Apparently I can just drop off stuff I don't want (the scissors I cut my hair with) for stuff I do (a red union suit for my desert nights). We'll see.

I'm back from the Free Box with a free flannel. A gentleman with sunbleached hair and teeth chipped from mountain biking gifted it to me.

X: Keep the free box free!
G: Keep the free box free!?

He also recommended some mountain biking trails to me and the historical museum.

X: There's stuff in there that you'd never see anywhere. Mining gear. Photos of John Denver.

After he let go of my hand, I walked down Main Street. This is a national landmark. Where hokey art galleries, western wear stores, and lovely cafes are, there were once bordellos and banks. One bank was robbed by a young Butch Cassidy. An older Nikola Tesla built the world's first AC- generating hydroelectric damn here; it is now a house that I'll try to check out.

I can't find my union suit here. I did find a free gondola, which I rode to a free concert. Nobody knew who was playing. Scuttlebutt had it she was the daughter of an old folkie. The turnout was massive. You are allowed open containers here in Telluride and its sister village. Everyone was friendly and jolly on the sunny side of the mountain.

You are keeping me from my pulled pork sandwich. Here's something you should never say to the chef at a restaurant called Fat Albert's.

G: So are you Albert?

Day 31

I just made a horrible mistake. I'm sitting in the corner at a Pizza Hut all-you-can-eat buffet. I am that guy. I am determined to get my 6 dollars worth.

There is a strategy to overeating. I was discussing this with my waitress at the burrito joint I nearly snuffed it in. Do bread last. Avoid carbs. Avoid chewing. Don't taste anything. Don't get distracted. I might add to that list, never confuse Pizza Hut's strawberry and icing pizza with pepperoni. The shock would fell a less conditioned man.

Same old stuff today. Colorado gets prettier, rode with my wheel unscrewed for 36 miles, wobbled into Gunnison and had a man fix my bike in 7 seconds, ate eggs, went down to canyon country, ran along Blue Mesa Lake (which isn't really blue, but the mountains around it are), skirted Black Canyon of the Gunnison (one of the eight wonders of my world), stopped by the Black River to give myself a crap haircut and a rinse, got to Cimarron, waved to a statue I thought was alive, really, really wanted to quit for the day, carried on 5 miles straight up and 15 straight down into Montrose where they have Pizza Hut and a mini-golf course that doubles as a campsite. With luck, I'll get site 18.

So there you have it. I am a day's away from Telluride. I need it. My knees won't go anymore. I have been dreaming about this for a long, long time. I want to see Nikola Tesla's generator house. I want latte. I want mountain girl. I want long underwear. I want ride gondola. I want healthfood store to sell me pills that make my legs feel great, like when I was working in copyediting and they never touched the floor.

I think it's important to believe in something. I believe I'll have some more pizza.

Day 30, a quick correction

Salida is pronounced Sal-EYE-Duh.

I also forgot to note that I got three thumbs up from drivers on the way up, and a hi-five when I got to the top.

Day 30, part 2

If you are a fan of the posts where I go through extensive suffering -- versus talking about how nice everyone is -- please enjoy my afternoon.

I am in Sargents sitting in an genuine teepee, just like the Indians before me. There are traditional Indian paintings, there is the standard, miniature flap door, and there is the traditional propane-fueled fire ring. I couldn't have celebrated my anniversary any better.

Well. After I washed my clothes I got to talking to a beautiful and charming Salidan girl with dreadlocks (note: Sal-EE-Dan). She started telling me about all the neat things in town, was polite enough to laugh at my jokes (and not my unfortunate outfit) and wondered if I mightn't rest in Salida and hit up the hotsprings. The next lines of dialogue would have been the smart thing to say --

G: I wouldn't know where to find it.
X: I could show you.
G: I haven't got a bathing costume.
X: That won't be necessary.
G: I love you.

What I ended up saying was that I'd always have Monarch pass scaring me subconciously and that it would ruin the bathing experience. I made to pedal off, she wished me luck with my trip, I wished her luck finishing her laundry.

I then went to one of those combination maternity wear/gun shops, went into a darkened alley, and proceeded to strangle myself with a 7-month dress. Cheating death, I went into a coffee shop and had the first latte of the trip. Note this conversation starter:

G: Good morning.
Y: Good morning.

From here the whole places makes like I've returned home from war a hero. Everyone's talking, everybody knows your name. If you have the option to work from home, move to Salida.

I biked up towards Monarch pass (elev. 1,312 feet). With my height at 6 feet flat, that makes the highest I'll climb this trip. Things are going swimmingly until it starts to rain.

I have forgotten rain as I have forgotten hills. The last time I was rained on I spent the night in a men's room. This time, I spent it riding up a winding road into thunder-and-you-know, around landslides, and then high enough for rain to become glorious hail.

I believe the bike helmet is nearly useless. You'd have to be pretty naïve to think a plastic hat would save you from a jackknifing manure spitter. If you've ever seen a smushed armadillo then you know how worthless a hard exoskeleton can be against a harder Mack truck.

That said, my helmet came in handy twice today. A bird made a nest in it yesterday night, and it made for a great hail shield. Hail is hard. Getting caught in it is like being stoned to death by Lilliputians. Death will happen, just be patient.

I climb, I freeze, I near the top, I near the lightning, trucks spray me half to death, I use what little ESP I have to do the same to them. I make it to the top. Bless Colorado, there's a gift shop.

I order a large hot cocoa and 10 dollars worth of fudge. I couldn't stop shivering. I had my arms wrapped around my chest and slowly tried to raise my body temperature. I wrote some texts. I stared blankly and talked to some (motor)bikers from Missouri ("God the water managed to get through my rain pants." Eat shit. I'm dying here. And I'm in shorts). The proprietor says another front's coming. Now is my chance.

I make for the bike, fumble with my gloves, put on my golf-inspired windbreaker, bite down on my teeth to stop them chattering, and point us downhill. Two massive trucks with massive fans are lumbering down the hill. I pass one to get down faster. The storm is on me. I'm blowing downhill at 40 miles an hour, everything is freezing, my eyes can't squint any smaller and still hail hits my precious eyeballs, and I can't move my hands. Sections of the road have become rivers. The whole thing was terrifying, zero fun (well...), and even when the air got warmer I refused to. I could not move my legs. Things began to flatten out and then the truck I passed took his sweet revenge by passing me with a millimeter to spare. I loudly wished him well.

I saw a small cafe. I couldn't move my knees so I rolled up to the wooden front and keeled over. I clicked out from the ground. I swung the saloon doors open and made straight for the hot coffee. I had four cups. I spilled half of the first one on the floor I was shaking so hard. The waitress took pity on me and brought me some chili. Another woman gave me a towel she'd warmed up. Some (motor)bikers told me to go into the gift shop, try on a fleece for an hour, and then return it. I passed on the latter.

I was in the Pacific half of the country. I had crossed the Continental Divide in a month. I was also, unknowingly, in the campground I planned on staying at.

G: I called earlier about pitching a tent.
Z: Oh you're the guy. That'll be blah blah blah.
G: Where is the lot?
Z: Over there by the teepees.
G: Teepees?
Z: Yes.
G: Sign me up for that chief.

I showered. For an hour. I got ready. I went back for more food. I met a nice man from Kansas City (Go Broncos!) who was there dirt bike riding. Last year, he rode his (motor)bike to the see the ocean for the very first time. Riding south on 1 on the California coast, if you look down you see the ocean. He was pleased. He dreamed of a trip to Alaska, but the guy he was planning it with hurt his shoulder skydiving. I do hope he makes it work somehow.

Minor annoyance. Bill O'Reilly was on the TV. Dan, the man from the paragraph above (Go Broncos!), likes him. He says it like it is apparently. I don't want to debate that here or ever. (Sometimes, SF, there isn't enough vomit in the world.) I did have the privilege of meeting Bill O'Reilly at an amazing concert and can say this empirically: he's boring. And sometimes that's worse than being wrong.

This fire is amazing.

Day 30, part 1, how to celebrate a month

I am in Salida, unrested from sleeping on a bench by the highway. But the sun, the sun woke me up by turning every red rock on at 530 in the morning. I made Salida by 8, finally picked up the maps, ate a cream cheese pumpkin muffin, a chocolate croissant, and a scramby eggs on a fresh ciabatta. I rode up the Arkansas and couldn't see the thing -- it was one long, blinding gold mirror.

I am washing my clothes with some hip 60-year-olds and listening to the radio. The first 15 seconds of Annie Lennox's "Walking on Broken Glass" are nearly perfect. Seeing an old cowboy tap his boots to it is completely perfect.

I got the next series of maps from Boris, who you may remember from my first hard day in Kentucky. Back then, as I remember it, this blog was a daily log of human and geographical failure. I barely wrote about people, so let's do Boris some justice as he is greatly responsible for the shift to the better.

The first day in Kentucky was the hardest day of riding. It also had the most pleasant surprise at the end of it. David, proprietor of the Historical Society, was waiting for me with a perfectly cool glass of sweet tea that helped me forget the cruelly steep hills I'd had to pass since the breaks. Boris had gotten there at noon and found it so nice he just stayed.

Boris was the first other cyclist I'd gotten a chance to sit and talk with. He was all advice: who to stop and say hello to; where to eat the best pie; where to camp with swimming pools and waterslides; and, most importantly, how to take your time and make this a trip about the country and people.

You can track cyclists traveling in the opposite direction by the many bike books in restaurants, inns, bathrooms, gas stations, and RV parks across the country. And so I could see Boris (San Fran --> Yorktown) at many of the spots I hit: "Tremendous pie, I'm waiting for one more slice"; "Thank you so much B---- and V----- for taking me into your home and your kindness..."; etc, etc, etc. He played frisbee golf with cacti in the desert. He took a day off to watch little league in Kansas.

I emailed him after he finished his goodwill tour in Yorktown. The mapmakers (who I am not tremendously fond of) ran out maps. I would have been stuck in Pueblo. Boris spent part of his first day back home express mailing me the maps and then emailing me the directions to Salida. Then he wrote a massive email listing more great things to see (abandoned motels in the desert), and where to get fresh water.

So, unsuccinctly, thank you. He lives in San Francisco and should pop up in this narrative when I get to the sweet, sweet Pacific.

---------

Now, it's been a month. My clothes are in the dryer. I have 6 minutes to decide if I celebrate this anniversary by crossing the highest pass on my trip or by getting as close to the top as I can and taking it easy. I do need a shower quite badly. I guess we'll see.

Day 29, a day of changes

Many eventful days begin with slow mornings. Today was one of those. We set no alarms. We planned on sleeping in. We were up at half past seven.

You have not known pain if you have not shaved off a months face bristle with hotel soap and a single blade razor.

We went and ate breakfast at the diner across the parking lot. I looked twelve. There were a lot of Sunday regulars. Our waitress and a large man were huddled around the TV watching a local boy compete in the Tour de France. So did I. I even ordered 8 slices of French toast in honor of the last day of the tournament.

These men are small monsters. It takes a particular kind of strength to compete in any athletic event that lasts a month, and so my hat's off to the hopped up jockeys in leotards. Now, if they really wanted to impress me, have them carry all their gear and keep the bikes in one speed -- like in the Tour's early days.

The Tour did nothing for motivation. We waddled back to the room and put off everything. Today was the last day Connor and I would be riding together, and so there was a bit of sadness on top of altitude sickness and fatigue that made leaving Pueblo a challenge.

The massive storm drains along the Arkansas are covered with large colorful portraits. Downtown Pueblo has some striking buildings and I felt some regret that I did not do a bit more exploration. We rode through the park and onto the winner of best street name on the trip so far -- Goodnight Boulevard.

The Pueblo lake area looks like a miniature grand canyon. Actually, I can't do any of today's sights -- my most beautiful day -- justice. You'll have to wait for my photos or someone else's. These might be lacking also.

Eventually, we hit the town of Wetmore. This is where I go straight west and Connor goes north. We looked for water, found none, and settled for shade. Connor was a tremendous person to ride with: I met a thousand more people because of his easy affability; we were equal in speed, films watched, books read, our understandings of what the value and purpose of slow travel is; he always ate a full 3-course meal and convinced you to do the same; he hated bike talk; he fundamentally understood this isn't an athletic event and convinced me of the same; he was just great company. I owe him a malted mikshake (it turns out one cannot eat 3 pieces of bread in a minute). I hope he comes to New York to collect.

One last note on the subject and then on to the afternoon. If you're traveling across country, you want a Sal Paradise not a Dr. Gonzo by your side: somebody good and somebody interested in everything and somebody who rarely sleeps.

So west led me straight over my first pass. I climbed 4000 ft. I sweated, I got nauseous, I was lightheaded, and I loved. Colorado has had a tremendous amount of snow and everything is green and rocky. The hills are not as steep as the Appalachians and there are no trees looming over you. When you get up top of the pass, you are free to look around you at cloud height, down to the light green cattlefields at the base of the real Rockies, and straight up at the jagged mountains you've yet to hit.

I met a cyclist who'd just come across the desert. He'd invented a kind of mask made out of cloth with hundreds of little American flags printed on it. He drank water right through the thing. He showed me right there on the side of the road. He recommended the opera in Telluride.

I got to Westcliffe and stopped dead. I went to a Mexican restaurant, chatted with the chef, had three flautas, and chatted with two young Britons I'd met earlier on at the Colorado border. I could not move. I went to the dingiest motel, asked what the dingiest room might cost, told them to go stuff themselves, and asked the directions to Cotopaxi. It was 26 miles away.

26 miles yes, but 26 miles down a rolling hill, into the sunset, narrowly beating storm clouds, past a beautiful pasture, into a ravine, down it at 40 miles an hour as the green makes way for orange and red rock, and right to the Cotopaxi store.

I am sleeping at the store. The man with the mask told me it was OK. I'll be up by 6, but I might just stick around for breakfast. I'm only a few miles from Salida, where my maps await, and then only a few miles from where I plan on stopping. I will wait at the base of Monarch pass. American Flag Man alleged that Monarch is the tallest in the nation. If so, I'll want a days rest and clean clothes.

Day 29, a small landmark

I watched my first movie since starting this trip. It was the new Batman. It was brilliant. I find movies to be one of the most moving, total entertainments. And this particular time I found it much more satisfying for numerous reasons, chiefly: I haven't seen images fly that quickly past my eyes; I haven't felt speed and kinetics like in the batmobile chases since my descent down Vesuvius; and come on, it's Batman.

I woke up with all my blood in my groin. I was sleeping like a banana on an imitation leather couch. It was donated. About three month's back, Gillian's home and ranch burned down in a fire that devastated much of Southeastern Colorado. The winds pushed the blaze at 60 miles an hour. It took Gillian a week to put out the fires in horse manure and on the railroad ties.

Gillian lost everything. She was stoic about the deal -- in the way you'd fully expect a Kiwi prison warden to be -- but she was upset about losing her photos. She also lost 10 years worth of logs and diaries she kept when sailing the world. So, miles from home, miles from the sea, in a donated house in a drought ridden town, wearing a donated highschool basketball jersey, Gillian helped us to goose eggs. Alicia, the fragile young girl helping around the property, mended a gosling's wing.

We rode out at 730 and made it to Pueblo by noon, despite stopping to chat with a nice bunch of cyclists from Portland with an ambitious travelplan. We had to make the post office before closing. We missed Crowley County Days, but we did see a fifty-odd classic cars drive past us on the way to the parade. Every single one waved.

The road to Pueblo was flat and uneventful. Well, I did run over a rattlesnake. Oh, and far away, blue with distance, the Rockies pricked up in the sky until they surrounded us. I am leaving flatness behind.

Pueblo is nice enough. A lot of cyclists found it a little dicey and unfriendly, but bear this in mind: any city of size is going to look bad next to the small mountain town; any city is going to seem spooky if you have to ride through the whole thing; and come on, they have a movie theater.

They also have good Mexican. We went to a nice restaurant next to a bike shop. I tried to eat a 9 pound burrito in a competition with the chef. It was called El Burrito Loco. Once I was served, I was not allowed to leave my seat until I cleaned my plate or quit. I left a loser. I don't care to see the man who can eat a 9 pound burrito.

A nap was in good order. I've been feeling lousy from the fast cycling, the long days, and the altitude. I'm feeling a bit of burnout, but I should make it to Telluride before I crash. The 5 pounds of burrito I ate did not help one iota.

I slept until 6 and then it was off to the health food store on my way to the cinema. The walls were lined with vitamins, granola bars, gluten-free shoes, head massagers, and kombucha. The women who worked there were beautiful, smiling sextagenarians who darted back and forth to help me get one of everything and anything that would make me feel better. They all had long, flowing hair that was lined with grey. They were healthy colored. It was like being helped by Joan Baez, Emmylou Harris, and Joni Mitchell if they all happened to be your mother and were wildly concerned with your health. Note: Not a bad idea for a tremendously unpopular sitcom.

I'm in my motel room. As I click, I am fighting the burrito with wonderful health food. I am sleeping in. I am navigating without maps until Salida, but I'm not worried. I'll just point my bike towards those big green mountains.

Day 28, Welcome to Colorful Colorado, please enjoy the rodeo

Here is a slight disclaimer: I already love Colorado. I have loved it since I was a boy. I love the Rockies. I love the people and their athletic friendliness. I love the air. I love the Broncos. I love the milk. I love everything you can do here. I love that I have already met someone who has made the long flight to my hometown. I even loved John Denver when he guested on The Muppet Show.

I love it and I've looked forward to it and I got into it at about 8 this morning.

Our last night in Kansas was quite eventful. I had two bean burritos and mushrooms at a restaurant that also sold videos and bric-a-brac. Get Disney's First Kid starring Sinbad and a Hommel figurine for 5 bucks with a free side of curly fries. We ate with efficient joy, set up tent, and brushed teeth so that we could pass out by 8. We did this because we planned on waking up at 3 and making the long trip to Ordway without wind or sun.

Five minutes into sleep and a blinding light shines right into my face. I'm convinced it's either a group of people come to kill me or the sheriff come to write me a ticket for failing to yield fully at the 4-way. It is neither. It is the lights to the tennis court and, while I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, I did manage to make out that it was a very important match between two teenage girls who were both terrified of the ball. I have never heard such screaming.

I woke up again to my tent slowly suffocating me. The wind had picked up so fiercely that the side wall had wrapped itself around my face and blown up my nostrils. This was followed by a loud crash. Connor's bike had been blown into the air and onto the ground. He rushed to right it while I held his tent down.

My alarm went off just as I got to sleep. I had stayed up praying we wouldn't be struck by lightning. The storm worsened. The heat lightning had gone, but the wind picked up and was blowing against us. Connor's tent was completely smushed in on him. If we were to head out, we'd have to bike as hard as we could just to be blown backwards into Missouri. We made a tough executive decision: we went back to sleep.

We were back up at 530 and got ready to go. The wind might be up, but the storm had put hundreds of wonderful clouds in the air. I was even a little bit cold. We pushed on.

Then the best thing happened. We couldn't feel the wind. It was behind us and it stayed behind us as it pushed us across the rest of Kansas and 100 miles into Colorado. As I said in the first paragraph, I just love Colorado.

We ate lunch in Eads and were joined by a couple of Dubliners. These two got together over a couple of beers and drew up a map of places they wanted to see in the states using Google maps. Then they bought a road atlas and set about biking -- up to Yellowstone from San Francisco, back down to Vegas, over to the Rockies via Arizona, the desert at its hottest, and an Indian reservation.

They rode until they were tired and then they slept on the shoulder. They ate with real hunger at lunch. They survived the desert and coming upon town after town that existed on the maps but had either burned down or been abandoned. They had managed to see most of what they'd wanted to and they were only halfways.

I was very impressed. They weren't even sunburnt.

We arrived in Ordway at 6, had a decent meal, I lost a challenge to see if I could eat 3 pieces of bread in a minute (impossible), and we had a strange conversation with a curved-over man in camouflage about rattlesnakes. We went to Gillian's house and then the county rodeo.

Gillian is a woman from New Zealand who is kind enough to let cyclists into her home despite her being at work all day in the penitentiary. She has a hurt baby goose in her bathtub. She also has Alicia, who is working around the place in the mornings so she can live in sleepy, lovely Ordway. I have yet to meet Gillian, but I have spoken to her on the telephone.

The rodeo was tremendous. We walked from the dirt field in back of Gillian's to the floodlights and the music. We got there in time for the pairs cow lasso thingy, which was giving every rider trouble, and we stayed as the sun and lightning disappeared and the bull riding began.

One bull (KO) was not having it. He kicked and kicked in the stocks. Oddly, he was riden the longest. Heat -- what you could describe as a stretch-bull -- seemed friendly enough until he bucked his rider into the ground and stood on the boy's ribs. The boy, who had prayed to Jesus just moments before, was not that phased by being trampled. He was much more upset at going out so early. He had a nice pink shirt, sequined chaps, a new haircut (his neck tan gave him away), and he walked with all the unearned confidence young men often pretend to. He kept himself twice as busy after his loss, which helped keep his eyes down and away from the crowd.

Day 27, a small fragment

I ended up getting the necessary courage and heatstroke to get in the pool.

Lying face down on the poolside was a plump blond woman with skin the color of beef jerky. She had a special harness for her face so that she could tan her broad shoulders without crushing her nose. She had a tremendous laugh.

In the deep-end were two elderly ladies doing aquarobics and me. They had polystyrene harnesses and weights and they managed to keep their permanented hair dry. One of the two women had a terrible bruise across her face.

I eavesdropped while resting on the pool's gutter.

"It's interesting that you say that because when we did it he took our hands like so [folded over each other] and then pronounced us."

"See we had our hands by our sides and only when we were husband and wife could we grab each others palms."

"But the prayer was the same."

"Oh yes. The prayer was."

Day 27, we're almost not in Kansas anymore Toto

Forgive me the obvious subtitle, but I think I've either earned it or Kansas and the heat have melted any archness from my brain.

It's 105 degrees here. I'm at the pool in Tribune. I'm sweating in the shade. I'm in Mountain Time. I was reading my Twain book.

Woke up early today so that we could wake up early tomorrow. We rode for about 50 miles today (perhaps my shortest day yet) in anticipation of 120 miles tomorrow (perhaps my longest). We got into town early and had an early lunch at the Chatterbox Cafe.

Sometimes places live up to their names. Everyone was talking at the Cafe. People were shouting to us from across the room. "Where you from?" "Hot enough for you?" "Where you heading?"

A gentleman with a respirator wished us well. His wife offered us the local newspaper, The Hutchinson Post. A sweet, round couple who wore their pants very high told me about their daughter's trip to my hometown. She worked as a nanny for the man who built our soccer stadium. She flew in first. Apparently, she drinks scotch as a habit; on the flight, she had two 20 year old glasses of Chivas.

"That's not even a single malt," he said.

I told him I've never understood why those are so expensive.

"Because somebody's willing to pay for it!"

Quite wise. I went to the library, sat in a BarcaLounger, cracked open a copy of Adventure Kansas, rested it across my face and went to sleep. I woke up at closing, we to City Hall, looked at some neat old photos and a barbed wire collection, and then I hit the pool.

That brings us to now with one big omission. I no longer eat beef. There are hundreds of reasons to avoid eating another animal. I have three of the least noble: I'm sick of looking at them, or them looking at me; I hate the machines they use to move them around; and I have driven by a feedlot.

Now I think it is completely fine to remain willfully naive about some things. You can't feel bad about every decision. If you love the taste of a good hamburger -- as I do -- ignore my last paragraph and head to Shake Shack.

When the prairie cow turns 3 he is fattened up before death (humans follow this arc somewhat). What does a 3-year-old grass fed cow eat? Cow! Not, perhaps, what you and I might recognize as cow unless you are particularly fond of hoof, horn, bone, anus, and intestine. This swollen cow is then killed, subdivided, and sometimes sold to you as grass-fed wondercow.

I just don't think this sounds healthy. And the bloody trucks they use.

Day 26

Kansas is subtly different today. Imagine her from yesterday, but less rain and flatter land has made her paler and short. I'll be honest, some of her beauty might be fading away too.

The grass is shorter in this part of the High Plains. Well I'll take it. The grass keeps everything down. Remember, this was once the Dustbowl. Best not to rip up the topsoil to grow potatoes here.

I had a minor depression today. The wind just would not get off my case. When it wasn't directly in my face, it decided to blow hard into the left side of my bike and body. To keep from riding into the shoulder (and up to Nebraska), I had to lean my entire body's weight on the right side on my handlebars. Fine. Then, settled, a Mack truck filled with cattle would come flying down the opposite lane and send a horrible gust of wind into your chest. It was like leaning into a punch or being sprayed by shrapnel made of cowshit.

This began to wear thin. I should never have drank a gallon of soy milk at breakfast. Elaine made the best granola and, after giving me a CD ROM of some kind of rapture inspired videogame, Dan played us one last song. "Baby, Let Me Follow You Down" is the perfect song for a Kansas sunrise and sweet goodbyes.

We walked outside and briefly met the 80-year-old man who farmed last night's sweet corn. As a teenager, he and his Sunday school class built a large sign outside of town that is visible from an airplane. It says: Jesus Pilot Me. Is it asking or saying in broken English? The man is a spry 80, and he says this is because he never drank or smoke or did anything but love the Lord. We took photos of him holding a rock with the sign carved into it. He sells them for 30 bucks.

But back to me being in a bad mood. Good feelings wear with the wind, and after three hours of cowshit shrapnel punches, I was about ready to stop my bike, run into a cornfield, grab an ear and shout a violent obscenity in one of the few parts of the country where that might still matter. It made me mad.

Compounding this all, the electric motor I've been using to power my bike died. It's Korean. It uses 37 hearing aid batteries every 70 miles. I hate buying new batteries because some teenagers slip them behind their eyelids to get high. You should see the dirty looks I get at the pharmacy. I broke a sweat just worrying about it.

Scott City couldn't have come fast enough. Towns pop up from about 10 miles out here. You can see a town's grain elevator take over the sky like the Emerald City itself. We made our battered way to a Mexican restaurant, ate modestly, and then hit the Athleticlub.

The Athleticlub let's cyclists sleep on the floor, use the showers, and, most importantly, use their jacuzzi. They also have a diving board. The room I am lying in now has little girl's gymnastics lockers, a series of trophies, a large fan, and a couple of framed photographs of George Bush and Regan on a white horse. Oddly (or not), this is the exact same trope used on my rapture CD-ROM.

And that is a full day. We have an easy one tomorrow to Tribune (named for the New York Tribune) and we're going to try and wake up at 5 and bang it out. I'll be in bed soon, but I want to leave the day with breakfast because what we were talking about (and that we were talking about it) was all quite interesting.

We talked about organic food, mad cow's disease, other wasting diseases, agribusinesses that don't allow you to keep last year's seeds, and agricultural talk radio. Dan is a sometimes phone in caller. One farmer called in and wanted to know why hormone free organic milk lasts longer. The host had no answer.

An angry farmer called in to say that all this organic talk is rubbish and we should just go back to doing it like we used to, like our grandparents did. He meant using pesticides and hormones like our grandparents did. Even if his family were prodigious breeders, I should have liked to have had the chance to correct him. Dan was in his harvester at the time, but he wanted to give the man hell.

Day 25, late evening

Elaine's was a treat.

While her Easy Veronica with meatballs cooked, Elaine took us to Mitch's to see his miniature artwork.

Mitch makes small scenes and people out of sculpey and in eggs, gourds, or plain old dioramas. Some of his scenes included a saloon, an artist at work in his studio ("If you look you'll see the plugs all plug in," noted Elaine), a lighthouse off of Cape Cod, Eskimos on ice, and a Scotland scene. The last one was going to go inside an emu's egg.

"I was looking at the egg and it wasn't quite right. Then it tipped over onto its side and I thought [*snap*] sideways!"

Mitch paints some and he also makes statuettes. He's got a Valkyrie, a gypsy girl, a barbarian with sword, and a female preacher with Tibetan lambswool for hair.

His house smells of old cigarette smoke. Everything was low down so he could reach it from his wheelchair. Once, when he was at a fair, a heavy wind started to blow his tarp away. He grabbed his tarp to stop it from going, it kited up and started to roll him down the street. He stopped it in time, but he couldn't feel his feet drag a harbor scene gourd crashing to the ground. He was alone at the time.

Each scene takes him about 10 months to make. I mentioned that I loved the dioramas at the Museum of Natural History in New York and he told me that that's where he wanted to get his stuff. He asked me to flag down the curator if I ever see him, and, if I ever do, I will. Perhaps for someone in Bazine (pop. 435), meeting one person in New York (pop. 9 million?) might seem easy.

Dinner was fantastic. Elaine told us that if we're short of water we can cool off by jumping into cowbaths at the base of windmills. Dan, her husband, told me a little bit about his many jobs rolling hay or alfalfa, raising cattle for feed, raising feed for cattle, his positive thoughts on organic produce, his negative thoughts on Barack Obama (it was my fault for bringing it up, and my fault for lingering on it). His ears really pricked up when we talked music.

In 1964, Dan and his family were on vacation in Colorado. He and his brother were listening to the AM when they heard that there were tickets still available for the Beatles concert at Red Rocks Natural Amphitheater. With luck and $6.60, Dan saw the Beatles at their loudest.

Dan has seen all kinds of bands over the years. My ears pricked up when he said he broke through the ropes to see The Band play at Harvard. When I told him that I'd been recreating The Band by The Band all throughout Virginia and Kentucky, Dan returned with a copy of that LP and Music from the Big Pink.

We put it on the machine, I sat back and listened to the first scrap of music I've actively listened to in months. Dan apologized profusely for the fact that only one speaker worked and then he took the dogs out for a run alongside his pickup.

One speaker is fine and plenty. A parting lyric from Rocking Chair that I remember misremembering in the Appalachians:

"Oh to be home again,
Down in old Virginie,
With my very best friend,
They call him Ragtime Willy...
This hill's too steep to climb,
And the days that remain ain't worth a dime..."

I am halfway across the country.

Day 25

I have everything I need, here, in Bazine, Kansas.

I have my feet elevated in a hammock. I have my book and my notepad. I have a sharpened pencil. I have some almonds within reach. I have showered. I have no more riding to do.

It's 100 out, but I am in the shade. We woke up early, checked for dead ducks (there were none; or do duck eat duck?), grabbed a quick chocolate milk, and were heading west by 8. After a little while we made a right turn and headed north for 19 miles.

What's this? I can hear? I'm not bleeding out of my eardrums? Pedaling is easy again? I'm riding uphill at 20 miles an hour?

Finally, after a long four days journey into wind, a little bit of it at our backs. I apologize if the ratio of chat about how hard cycling is vs how joyful it can be is 87 to 13. In the interest of fixing my numbers, imagine this: you're spinning your feet through air while America at her most dramatic (yet) passes you by. The prairie is green in parts, golden in parts; the sky is whiteblue near the horizon and thick blue right above you. Most farm equipment is primary colored -- red, yellow, blue. The sun washes everything so that it blends nicely. The road remains black and yellow. There are a couple of clouds to keep things interesting.

I guess everything was so pleasant because I knew I'd be at Elaine's Bicycle Oasis by 1. This is where I am now.

Elaine is a lovely, softspoken woman whose idea of tourism is traveling to El Salvador for church volunteer work and getting guns pulled on her. She and her husband raise cattle but she has clearly driven miles out of her way to find soy milk for vegan cyclists. She likes us, despite whispers in the small town, because we are the kind of people who spend our holidays fighting our way across the country, people in transition, from college to retirement. Most of all, we are an appreciative lot. I thanked her three times for letting me use her shower.

We are driving in her truck to her friend Mich's house. Mick is disabled and paints miniatures and then glues them inside egg shells.

Day 24

I left the bike store at 3. The gentleman who fixed my spokes offered to sell me a wheel that -- his words -- was just as bad as mine. I told him I'd have to pass. Two spokes and a wheel true came to 22 dollars (2 little ducks -- quack quack). The gentleman threw in bending my fender for free. Baruch Spinoza managed to remain composed in the hardest of situations. Must remain Spinozalike.

I flew up northwards. The wind was at my back and I was at Nickerson in short time. Good. I was in a hurry. I wanted to get off the road before the sun was at face level and the Larned public pool closed. At the expense of much suspense, I will tell you flat out that this did not happen.

Between Nickerson and Larend is 58 miles of prairie, my first sunflower field, a waterfowl preserve, and no drinkable water. Naturally, I stocked up.

About 10 miles down the road I managed to pour the contents of one of my precious waterbottles on my legs (it did feel good) and I discovered that the gentleman at the bike shop had kindly emptied my other one for me. I would have to breathe through my nose.

In the distance, large rolling sprinklers sprayed gallons of water on the grassfields. I closed my eyes. Spinoza's philosophy is quite interesting (and awfully boring to read) because it makes philosophical arguments as geological proofs.

Allow me to attempt a geographical argument using geometry. Kansas' flatland cannot stop the wind from moving across it. The wind cools. Ergo, the people have to remain warm to each other. Otherwise, they would just blow away.

Breakfast at Joey's Diner was a lovely experience. Old men is various plaids and ladies in two pieces all approached us and asked us where we were going. They demanded we have a bigger table for all the food we were eating. They wished us well.

Larned has the only hill in the area. While writing to you from my tent, a group of teenagers stoned a duck to death in the pond next to my campsite. 20 minutes on and the ducks are still crying.

Larned reminds me a bit of the town in The Magnificent Ambersons. At the top of the hill is a mansion that predates the rest of the homes. It is a bit Georgian and seems to have been built with the idea that the hill around it would remain sparsely populated. This was not to be. You can see other large homes from the following decades -- none as nice -- and as times grew tougher, lots were divided and divided and flimsier homes were jammed in the cracks.

At the end of the estate is a nice Mexican restaurant. I had a Jarritos mandarin, ice-cream and churros, a quesadilla, a burrito, chimmichangas, chips and salsa. I had everything at the same time. In the background, a waitress tried to explain to a farmer why Mexican Coke is better than American Coke.

"Well, for starters, they don't use corn."

Day 24, a quick correction

They actually have shark in Kansas! This used to be a vast ocean and in Oakley you can see fossils of horrifyingly large shark. Fortunately, I'm past it.

Day 24, Stuck in Hutch

I am in Hutchinson. My faithful bicycle is being repaired and I will have to wait. So I went to the space museum.

The Hutchinson Cosmosphere was voted one of the 8 Wonders of Kansas. I wonder why anyone would pay money to see a simulacra of the sky when any Kansan can get the real deal for free (good and clear and with a thick orange harvest moon). I didn't feel like paying for it either, so I stuck to the gift shop, bought some astronaut ice-cream to see if it was as disgusting as I remembered it (it was) and defaced some currency. For 51 cents, I smushed a spaceshuttle clean across Abraham Lincoln's proud, copper face.

And now I'm in the library. Hutchinson has a museum of Hollywood kitsch 650 feet underground in an abandoned mine, but sadly it's too far away to walk to. I will make do with the Wichita Business Journal, the tourist bureau's 'Kansas: as big as you think', and 'The Philosophy of Spinoza' by Spinoza.

I have 75 miles to go today and it looks like I'll be starting at 3. With luck, I'll be done at 11PM. I very well might have to ride by the stars.