My Cross-Country Bike Tour

Kansas is flooding. It’s been a rough few days—I’ve been gunning it to reach Missouri before any more of my route slips underwater.

I had fairly pleasant weather up until Bazine, which I rode through a few days ago, but clouds started gathering soon after I left. A few folks at a gas station at the Rush Center junction warned me that the road near a national wildlife refuge I planned to pass through was washed out, so I had to improvise a new route using the Kansas highway map a fellow cyclist had given me back in Colorado. I was a little wary of going off-route; the tour maps that I had been so used to following were more comprehensive and cyclist-friendly than ordinary highway maps, which were more suited to motorists. It started to rain in the afternoon and the sunscreen that I had smeared on in the morning didn’t hold up too well in the water. It became very runny and before long I had these pale-white splotches covering my arms and legs. Later on that day I reached the city of Great Bend, where, in spite of my appearance, the lady at the local Travelodge put me up for the night.

The next morning, I wandered into Delgado’s Mexican Restaurant, where I was served with a very filling meal without charge after I struck up a conversation with one of the owners, “Beaver” Delgado. From Great Bend I rejoined the TransAm Trail at Nickerson but I wandered off-route again towards Hutchinson in hopes of visiting the Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center. Along the way, I passed an exotic animal farm where I saw a few ostriches strutting around outside. The Space Center was closed by the time I arrived, but I did get to stay the night in the comfort of the Zion Lutheran Church in town.

After Hutchinson, I picked up the TransAm again. Near Buhler, I chanced across another two cyclists, Noah and John, who were following the same route. Right as we introduced ourselves to each other, it began to pour and we were all rescued by Chuck, Schari, and Blasi Porter, three Buhlerians who invited us into their house and bought us dinner. It stopped raining after awhile and Noah and John and I were tricked into continuing onwards to Hesston (a heavy shower caught us before we made it), where we stayed the night at the AmericInn.

Throughout the rest of my ride through Kansas I fought downpours and strong headwinds. Whenever I could, I asked the locals for information on road conditions. The roads in southeastern Kansas seemed to have been hit the hardest; KDOT road closure maps I looked at showed that many of them were “in the red.” A common conversation that I heard in gas stations and cafés revolved around Fredonia, a town about 50 miles away from the Oklahoma border that was now completely underwater. I also no longer saw combines on the road; harvest season was being ruined by the above-average rainfall.

As I moved eastward, I did my best to avoid the rising water, but it became increasingly difficult. When I arrived in Chanute yesterday night, I was greeted by barricades in the middle of the highway. Through the darkness, I could see a gas station and a few other buildings standing in water—part of the town was submerged. I consulted a nearby policeman for road information and he told me that I would be unable to take any road out of Chanute except for the one I had just rode into town on: I was boxed in. Later on that evening I met Sam, from the Holiday Park Inn 4 Less, who let me stay the night while I tried to rework my route. I couldn’t find an alternate route that would cost me less than two days’ time, so I decided to wait until the morning to see if the road conditions changed.

At around 10 AM today I received word that a road heading north out of Chanute was open. I checked my Kansas map and found a route that would take me over 40 miles off course, but by now I was frustrated with just sitting around, so I made up my mind to go for it. As I was riding, I met up with Noah and John again (we had been separated a few days ago) by sheer coincidence. They told me that they had heard of an unmarked shortcut around the floodwaters that was only a few miles longer than the original route. I decided to take a chance and follow them. We passed roads that were very close to the water and patches of trees that had newly formed rivers flowing through them, but we eventually squeezed past onto higher ground—we made it!

Tonight I’m staying at the Comfort Inn in Pittsburg, just a few miles away from Missouri. Judging from the DOT maps that I’ve been fixating on for the past few days, Missouri is comparatively dry, so I should be good to go from here on out.

The nice thing about towns in Kansas is that you can see them coming. Each one that I’ve passed through so far has a towering white grain elevator situated within the city limits, a sort of sentinel that seems to sit watch over the modest buildings below. These grain elevators are visible from miles and miles away; their imposing presence dominates the skyline. Paul and Julius, the two British cyclists I met on my last day in Wyoming, called them “Kansas skyscrapers.”

After leaving Ordway in Colorado, the leftover terrain from the Rockies quickly pounded itself down into flat pastures and grain fields. To someone used to seeing the hills and mountains in Oregon, it was amazing to look out in the distance and see nothing but textureless, featureless landscape all around. I felt like I was riding atop some kind of massive pancake.

Weather reports around here put the temperature in the mid 90s and there is no shade at all to be found the road, but the wind blows constantly and it’s not unbearably humid. A few of the towns that I’ve passed through even have public swimming pools. Scott City, where I stayed last night, is one such town, but I didn’t arrive before the pool closed for the day. I did, however, encounter a group of cyclists in town who I found out were riding from New York to San Francisco to raise money for cancer research. They were staying under the care of Pastor Warren at the Holy Cross Lutheran Church. Pastor Warren let me stay the night in the church with the other cyclists and he even brought me to the home of a member of his congregation so I could take a shower.

I caught up with Ken once more in Ness City. He was staying there for the night before breaking from the TransAm towards Chicago. We had dinner together before we parted ways; I was hoping to cover a little more ground. I made it a few miles down the road to Bazine, where I’m staying with Elaine, who runs a bed and breakfast called Elaine’s Bicycle Oasis. She has this frisky little kitten in her house that gets a kick out of playing with the straps on my panniers. I helped her plant a few wildflowers in her yard before we both turned in for the night.

It’s been an eventful past few days. My rest day in Pueblo, which I spent at the Pueblo Inn and Conference Center, ended with an unpleasant surprise: my first flat. Fortunately, it was only the front tire, but I had never patched a flat on this bike before and I wasted a good hour and a half wrestling the tire out of the front pannier rack, ripping off the casing, sealing the puncture, and trying to put it all back together. Reinflating the tire alone took much of the time, as I struggled to get it back to pressure with my mini tire pump. It’s pretty apparent that I’m no first-class bike mechanic. Even a simple operation as fixing a flat took me an inordinate amount of time and I still managed to botch the job—I could not get the tire casing to rest properly in the wheel and the tire was quite lumpy when I finished with it. The next day, I rode onwards from Pueblo, stuffing Section 7 into my map holder. Near the town of Boone, I stopped to pick up a bottle of Gatorade and to rest in the comfort of an
air-conditioned store. Around then I noticed dark clouds gathering on the horizon, but I ignored both them and a severe weather advisory being broadcast over the radio. I continued onwards. Unfortunately, when I was about ten miles away from Boone, the storm intensified. The sky immediately surrounding me had turned green and lightning was flashing at regular intervals from puffy clouds off to my left and right. The radio report that I had listened to back in Boone warned that the storm was about to hit Pueblo and that it was moving at about fifteen miles an hour. I had figured that I would be able to just duck under shelter if I needed to, but I saw nothing but flat landscape before me. As I sprinted forward, hoping to reach the next town before the storm overtook me, the small patch of clear sky ahead closed rapidly and a heavy crosswind kicked up, forcing me to cut my speed. Before long I started to feel rain drops on my arms, but I pretended not to notice and—right on cue—I spotted the exit to the town of Fowler. I turned off into the town and ducked inside a café just as it started to pour. For the next hour, I sipped on a root beer and looked out the window in fascination as wind and rain pummeled the building in a display of sheer natural power that put the mild showers back home in Corvallis, Oregon to shame. Then, just as suddenly as it had all started, the sky turned light again, the waterlogged streets drained, and the storm rolled on.

I left the café and followed the storm in its wake. About four miles away from Ordway, CO, my back tire went flat. Wanting to seek shelter for the night first, I rode the flat the rest of the way to Ordway, partially reinflating the tire every now and then. I pulled into the Hotel Ordway, where I met Ken, a chatty middle-aged cyclist who I had been hearing about since the beginning of my trip. He was following the TransAm just until Ness City, Kansas, and was originally part of a larger group. Ken gave me some useful pointers on repairing my back tire that saved me quite a bit of time and he even helped me put on a spare tire casing.

Yesterday morning, however, Ken woke me up to report that my back tire had gone flat again. Ken left shortly thereafter to continue riding while I went to check on my bike. Sure enough, the back tire had another puncture. I was in the process of repairing it when I noticed that the front tire had no pressure in it either! So that makes four flats in the past three days. Somehow I couldn’t shake the feeling that my luck was catching up to me. I fixed both tires and took the rest of the day off, checking up on my bike once in a while and squeezing the tires to see if they held.

I was hoping to go the length of my trip without any equipment problems, but I realize that that was an unrealistic expectation. I guess I’m actually pretty fortunate to have been able to ride half of my route without incident. If there is such thing as a good time to get a flat, then that time is now, when things such as shelter, buckets of water, and (if all else fails) bike shops are at my fingertips. I don’t think that I would’ve took a flat quite so lightly if it happened while I was caught out in that snowstorm back near Wisdom in Montana.

To make up for my impromptu rest day yesterday, I rode over 120 miles today over the state line into Tribune, Kansas. This is the longest day I’ve had yet and I’m exhausted. I’m definitely sleeping in tomorrow.

Hoosier Pass!

Hoosier Pass is no more. Two days ago I made it up from Kremmling to Breckenridge, just 11 miles from the top of the pass. Thanks to Pam from the Breck Inn, I was able to spend the night indoors before tackling the pass the next morning.

The ride up from Kremmling was gentle; only the last couple of miles before Hoosier Pass gave me trouble. Near the Breckenridge area I rode on a bike path that detached itself from the highway and wound its way into the woods, skirting around villages nestled up against the surrounding mountains. It was the most amazing little trail—it was a sort of road in miniature (complete with a center stripe) built expressly for bike use. After looking at a few maps of the area I discovered that the path that I rode on is part of a network of trails that spans what seems like 50 or so miles.

Contrary to what I had previously hoped for, I as not able to ride down the southern end of Hoosier Pass all the way into Pueblo; the Rockies did not end abruptly and there were actually a number of significant peaks ahead of me where I had expected to be able to see plains. I enjoyed a few miles of quality downhill from Hoosier before having to summit Currant Creek Pass. Eventually, however, the mountains became hills and, at one point near Canon City, the hills opened up into flat terrain. As I descended downwards, the humidity and heat steadily became more oppressive.

I arrived at the Yogi Bear Jellystone Camp Resort yesterday as it was getting dark and I rode the rest of Section 6 into Pueblo today, where I’m staying at the Quality Inn. I haven’t taken a rest day since Missoula, so I’m planning to take tomorrow off.

Pueblo marks the end of Section 6, which means that I’m about halfway done with my trip. This is an important milestone for me and I would like to thank everyone who has helped me so far. As I look back, I can identify numerous occasions during which I could have gotten myself into trouble had it not been for the intervention of some compassionate stranger. These are the experiences that make this trip what it is and I look to the second half of my trip with anticipation for that reason.

Today was a short day; I made under 60 miles. I’m currently at the Red Mountain RV Park right outside of Kremmling, CO. Over the past few days, I’ve met westbound cyclists on the road with increasing frequency. The novelty of stopping to talk and exchange stories has somewhat worn off; on occasion I’ve just rolled past a westbounder giving nothing more than a friendly wave.

Hoosier Pass is within reach. I don’t know if it’s the altitude I’m at, but I’m not feeling 100%. I’m going to try to make it over the pass as soon as I can.

I made it to the Old Homestead RV Park a few miles past Rand, a one-street town completely devoid of human inhabitants. The campground is located a little ways into the woods and, as far as I can tell, I’m the only person here. Unfortunately for me, a welcoming party of Colorado mosquitoes descended on the campground soon after my arrival and had their dinner before I had the chance to have mine. Lacking an effective bug repellant, I was forced to pitch my tent and eat my food “on the run.” Had there been others in the campground, I’m sure I would’ve attracted attention as I ran frantically all over the campground, waving a pot of mashed potatoes around in an effort to keep the insects off of me while I ate. It must’ve looked ridiculous.

By the time I got around to taking a shower, the sun had set. The forest seemed much more menacing in the dark; strange thoughts and memories of scary movies began circulating freely through my head. I kept thinking of a scene from the short horror film entitled Rings (of The Ring fame) that takes place in a similar setting. Luckily for me, my MP3 player still had a full charge, so I plugged in my headphones and listened to a few tunes to calm myself down as I was snuggled in my sleeping bag. It worked—I slept pretty soundly the rest of the night.

I’m back on the road after some well-needed rest. Today’s route had me riding on a 13-mile stretch of interstate. Fortunately, the shoulder proved to be as wide as the lanes themselves and I found that I could put quite a bit of distance between myself and the semis whizzing past. The experience was not as nerve-racking as I had expected it to be; near the end of my brief encounter with I-80, I actually began to appreciate the interstate’s smooth riding surface and gentle grades.

Before I got too comfortable, however, I turned off south towards Saratoga and made a beeline for the Colorado border in search of more interesting terrain. As of yesterday, Section 5 has been officially shelved. Today I made my first foray into Section 6, a map that I have been looking forward to with a mix of excitement and apprehension: in a few days’ time I’ll make an assault on Hoosier Pass, an 11,500+ ft peak that marks the highest point on my route. The westbound cyclists that I’ve interrogated report that, in theory, I should have smooth sailing on the other side as I ride down the Rockies into Kansas. I’ve never been to Kansas before and I’m really looking forward to the experience. Ever since I reviewed my route through the Midwest, I’ve had this romantic image in my head that involves me riding alongside grain fields at sunset with my MP3 player whispering “Fields of Gold” in my ear. It wouldn’t hurt if I had a west wind blowing either—apparently it’s not uncommon for cyclists to pull consecutive centuries (100+ mile days) through the state. We’ll see.

I didn’t quite make it to Colorado. Tonight I made camp at the Lazy Acres RV Park in Riverside, WY, a little under 30 miles from the state line. The RV park was packed with people getting ready for the rodeo tomorrow; the drunken rodeo enthusiasts at a nearby restaurant sang strange country songs well into the night. I met up with four other cyclists, two from England and two from Alabama, who were following the TransAm westward. We exchanged stories and route information before taking refuge from the mosquitoes and turning in.

My luck ran out yesterday. As my map had indicated, there wasn’t much of anything in between Lander and Rawlins. About 40 miles into the day, I stopped by a junction called Sweetwater Station, which had a few of modest-looking buildings sprinkled here and there. The store there was closed, but I did meet two people who offered me a bottle of Gatorade and a free campsite. They mentioned that they were managing a nearby site close to the Mormon Trail. Apparently, it was something of a historical point of interest: people could rent handcarts and pull them along a stretch of the trail, as the original pioneers did. I would’ve stayed, but I was feeling foolishly ambitious and I was anxious to get as close to Rawlins as I could.

So I pushed onwards, and at around 9:30 PM, just as the sun was setting, I reached Muddy Gap Junction. Unfortunately, the campground marked on my map was deserted. I was literally in the middle of nowhere and I had no place to stay. At this point, I was some 45 miles away from Rawlins and the nearest campground was over 20 miles back the way I came. I did, however, find a gas station nearby, so I went inside, hoping that I could convince the owner to let me stay the night. I related my predicament to the attendant, who sympathized with me briefly before handing me a sandwich and a bag of chips and telling me that she had to close the station for the night.

For the next two hours, I was in a daze. I wandered around the station, half-hoping that some kind stranger would show up to bail me out, as was customary thus far on my trip. I twice tried to leave the gas station, thinking that I could make it to Rawlins with my bike light, but before I was even half a mile from the brightly lit station, the darkness consumed the feeble beam of light, sending me back in a hurry. The nighttime atmosphere of the place was unnerving and the complete desolation of the surrounding landscape left me feeling helpless. A few motorists and bikers came by to fuel up around midnight, but they didn’t stay for long and soon I was by myself again. It finally occurred to me that I was going to be on my own for the night; no one was coming to take care of me. I realized that Randy wouldn’t be coming to share a motel room with me. I realized that Sarah and Chris weren’t coming to welcome me into their inn or bring me a five-star feast. I realized that Mom and Dad weren’t coming. I realized that I was alone.

When the reality of the situation sunk in, I stopped pacing around and I settled down a metal bench in front of the station. I had put on all of my warm clothes and I thought of pitching my tent near the parking lot, but I was too cold to move. Eventually, I pulled out my emergency blanket and wrapped myself in it. I fell asleep for about an hour before I woke up. My legs were completely numb and a steady wind was blowing around me. For the next four hours I stayed awake, wrapping the blanket around myself tighter and tighter and rubbing my legs to keep them warm.

At around 5 AM the sky grew brighter. Half an hour later, it was bright enough to see the road. By this time, someone had shown up to open the convenience store. I quickly ran inside, relieved to finally be out of the cold. Before leaving for Rawlins, I microwaved two burritos and chugged down some Gatorade. The sun had already risen by the time I was on the road.

I arrived at Rawlins well before noon and I was extremely groggy when I rolled into town. The manager at the Quality Inn gave me a room and arranged a breakfast for me tomorrow. I went to a nearby Mexican restaurant for dinner, where I struck up a conversation with a friendly biker who was so impressed with my trip that she bought me dinner. After spending a sleepless night at the gas station, it felt wonderful to be in the company of such hospitable people.