Big Wind

Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, but whatever the cause I slept well on my little hardwood bench in the Trinidad State JC gym. The woman's volleyball team apparently had Friday morning off, but it didn't matter I was up and ready to go at 6 am. (Yes, mom I can actually arise at the hour) It had rained all night, and the morning news blaring from an overhead television in the student cafeteria continued to report rain storm mayhem throughout the state. Russ, Steve and I packed like we were going to war. Carefully consideration was given to which clothes would be layered in the first riding section, then reserve clothes packed in the order of attack. At departure, the skies were gray, but a tiny speck of gold was visible in the east, our direction of travel. When we kicked off through the brick streets of Trinidad, the rain had ceased.

We left behind one of my favorite guys on the trip, Gunther, who at 76, looks like Ernest Hemmingway if Papa had lived that long. I'm talking gray stubble and a ruddy face. At dinner last night Gunther told that 52 years ago he left his home in Germany and pedaled across Europe, to Turkey, Iraq, Persia, Afghanistan and then into India (he must have crossed Pakistan as well). He continued down to what was then Ceylon, and caught a ship back to Italy. We stopped complaining about our measly sogged out 76 miles the day before. But Gunther had stomach issues in the morning so he's sitting today out.

We made steady progress east of Trinidad on Highway 50. The slight tail wind that began the morning increased. We flew easily clocking 20 mph on many stretches without much pedaling. Dead ahead lay a black veil of rain. We took few rest breaks, though during these interludes Steve continued his habit of stretching in the middle of the highway.

 Yes, there is not much traffic, but come on my friend be sensible! I worry he may become a road kill stat if he continues this behavior. By 11 am we had clocked 39 miles, and had barely broken a sweat.

Steve had trouble with his shifting, and at lunch we discovered with Gunther's help that a part of his rear shifting cable had frayed and was jamming in the bottom bracket holder. We got that fixed, and were on our way again.

The wind velocity out of the south continued to increase. Our pace was astounding as we sped across the grasslands, our speeds rarely dipping below 20 mph. Flocks of birds flew from grass on the road fringes as we passed, at one point a big hawk swooped out of some bushes and paced us for a bit.
 Sunflowers lined the road. The mountains, the Spanish Peaks still shrouded in clouds, receded as we entered the vast flatness of the Great Plains. We passed crumbled old towns with rotted abandoned building, names like Delhi and Tyrone, among the places that time had forgot. Perhaps the dust bowl gutted them. We don't know.

About 15 miles from La Junta, our destination, the wind changed direction. It still came from the south, but the angle was toward our faces. Our amazing speed slowed to half of what it was. The greatest day of cycling appeared that it would end with us pressing to finish. The great black clouds of the morning were now on our south side flinging off stray raindrops. The major storm was closing in on us, as we struggled to reach the last few miles to La Junta. About 4 miles from our destination, the wind shifted again -- to our backs. We breezed into town, 85 miles of mostly sheer joy.

We are camped at the Koshares Indian Museum at Otero Junior College. Our tent site is on the most comfortable grass we've yet experienced.

Steve had been looking forward to this particular Friday night for a long time. He told me before the trip he was an avid High School football fan. He said he and his brother go to games all over Northwest Washington just for the sheer fun of enjoying a small part of Americana that has not changed over the years. He had consulted his guide and found that the La Junta Tigers played a home game on this very night and the stadium was only a few blocks away. Now I haven't been to a high school football game since I was in high school. I only did so because I was conscripted into the marching band. But both Russ and I thought this was a great idea. What a way to see how a small community came together for an event. Good planning Steve!

We walked to the stadium, but became suspicious when we noticed no people or cars, just a cat in a tree. There was no game tonight. Steve quickly checked his source on his miracle phone, and much to his horror discovered that the game was on Saturday night. What a bummer! We were dead in the water on a Friday night in La Junta. Russ and I walked into town as night closed in and the crickets began to chirp, while Steve headed back to camp. I really felt bad for Steve, and frankly I wanted to go to.

Statistics: Mileage 85. Average Speed: 16.8. Road kill: 1 snake, 1 entrail of unknown origin. Beer report: Steve back on the wagon.

We passed abandoned towns, probably victims of the Dust Bowl