After only a few days in the Rockies, it's hard to remember what those flat, endless, Kansas prairie roads were like. The photo at left was taken with my iPhone (my camera is broken and I haven't had a chance to replace it yet) as Ryan and I climbed from Fairplay, Colorado to the highest point on the TransAmerica Trail: Hoosier Pass, which at 11,500 + feet forms the Continental Divide. Forgive me for overworking my inadequate collection of superlatives here. The Rockies are breathtaking - in more ways than one actually: the air is a bit thin at this altitude, and a lightheaded, dizzy feeling and a mild headache often accompany strenuous exercise, like climbing a bloody high mountain pass on a bicycle.
At the top of the pass, we congratulated and photographed each other, as you do, and were slightly contemptuous of people who were doing the same - backslapping and high-fiving and taking photos - because they had made it up there IN A CAR!
The sun is still hot and brilliant at this altitude, but the breeze is chilly, and brief, sudden thunderstorms are common, especially in the afternoons. We were treated to one of these on our first day in the Rockies, and had to huddle under my tent fly by the side of the road as lightning flashed, thunder roared and horizontal hail peppered us like lead shot. Fifteen minutes later, the sun was out and a gentle breeze was blowing again. The only clue to what had just occurred was the torrent of water rushing down the side of the road, flooding our biles to the hubs.
And then there were two.
Just two days before crossing the Continental Divide, we said goodbye to Joe Meyer. While Ryan and I follow the TransAm north through Wyoming and Montana, then west through Idaho to the Oregon Coast, Joe is riding the Western Express trail through the deserts of Utah and Nevada to San Francisco. We'll miss Joe's "have a go" attitude and larger than life personality. This is the man who swam the Ohio River rather than taking the ferry, and almost ended up in the Gulf of Mexico; the man who's travelling across a continent with less gear than most of us need to get to the local shop; the man who blithely rode halfway across Kansas with his front tyre held together with duct tape. In short, he's an inspiration. I'd wish him luck, but with energy and willpower like that, you don't need luck.
Before I consign the Kansas experience to history, and concentrate on Colorado, I must make mention of the two angels of Scott City. I arrived in town in the early afternoon after one of my 5:00 am starts, and had to grab the sole remaining dingy motel room for the three of us because the harvest crews had booked up everything else. There was a campground - the only one I've ever encountered that had no toilets or showers whatsoever. The woman managing the place said that she and her husband had talked about installing them, but hadn't got around to it. The place was packed with self-contained RVs (recreational vehicles) with their own toilets and showers, so I guess there was no urgency to cater for a few cyclists.
It had been a hot, dusty ride, and I'd been fantasising about cold beer for several hours. I was delighted to find that the only supermarket had a fridge full of the stuff, so I grabbed a six-pack of Budweiser and headed to the checkout, where the unsmiling young woman at the register informed me, "We don't sell beer on Sundays." I knew that Kansas didn't have dry counties like Kenfuckingtucky (the official spelling in the |TransAm cyclists' dictionary), but what I didn't know was that it has "moist" counties, where bizarre and illogical restrictions are placed on its sale. I can only imagine that this assuages the abiding fear of the religious authorities in the county that someone, somewhere, might be having fun.
After gaping, open-mouthed at the checkout operator for a while, refusing to believe the stuff was displayed in the fridge but I couldn't buy it, and making some semi-coherent remarks about her ancestry, I turned and trudged back to the fridge to replace the beer. Enter, angel number one. A soft, Mexican voice from behind me said, "I have beer at my place. Come over for a drink." I turned to meet Gilberto and his two incredibly beautiful olive skinned, almond-eyed, smiling children. Over several cans of (believe it or not) Fosters Lager at his kitchen table, I learned that he publishes a Spanish language Yellow Pages in several major centres in western Kansas, and is doing quite nicely because of the growing population of Mexican workers. I remembered that Tim Flannery in The Eternal Frontier had predicted that America's future would be a Hispanic one. I fervently hope he's right.
Angel number two was a softly-spoken man from South Carolina called Rod - a harvesting contractor who also happened to be a keen cyclist. As he was planning to buy new tyres for his bike, which he carried across the country in his car in case the opportunity to ride arose, he gave one of his old tyres to Joe. Later that evening, he brought a case of beer to our motel room to share with us and refused any payment.
So now we've parted from Joe, as earlier, in Illinois, we parted from Cooper, and Ryan and I are tackling the Colorado Rockies. Since the Hoosier Pass, we've ridden through wild and spectacular terrain, camped by (and bathed in) the pristine upper reaches of the Colorado River, and met more remarkable people. Details in the next posting. And tomorrow, we cross another state line into Wyoming.
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