Trans-Am Tour 1998 - Part 3

Day 47 (July 1)

Temperature 54 degrees Fahrenheit this morning. I slept well in these serene mountains at 9000 feet above sea level.

NOTE: At this point I took a vacation from my tour, spending a week in Boulder with old friends. Boulder had been my home from 1977 to 1981. I needed the vacation, but I missed my tour. It was jarring not to be travelling the backroads of America with full panniers, a world unto myself.

Day 55 (July 9)

I got a lift back to Silverthorne and the Trans-Am trail, and suddenly I was back on the tour. The riding was downhill and easy but the sky was spitting rain. I waited half an hour in an outhouse vestibule, then an hour at the Green Mountain Inn, an unspoiled, out of the way place with a nice view. But by the time I reached Kremmling, I was pretty wet. I met another cyclist, Chris, at a café in town. We camped at the RV Park for six dollars, special price for cyclists, a new policy for these new owners. Chris suggested that they have a logbook for cyclists to sign. On the Trans-Am, campgrounds, restaurants, and hostels often have logbooks for bike tourists to sign. I was the first to sign this one.

Day 56 (July 10)

The farthest I’ve ever ridden with no services, today was nonetheless easy. From Kremmling to Walden, 62 miles, there was not a store, restaurant, or service station. And even though we climbed Muddy Pass, the grade was gentle, so it wasn’t difficult. We hit Walden shortly after 3:00, racing the rain - and beating it.

At the city park, we met the eastbound Elenz family from Gaylord MI. They had seen Janet and Ralph recently - today, maybe. Susanne and Fabian were well up into Wyoming - she sent e-mail - but Mickey was only a couple days ahead. Everyone I'd asked had seen Mickey. The Elenz girl, Jody, pulled out the smallest computer I'd ever seen. It wasn't a palmtop - it runs full-blown Windows 95 (in fact that's a pretty good name for it). She was doing a Web page on their tour, updating it daily.

I ordered a piece of pecan pie after dinner. Should I keep my fork? I asked the waitress. "I’ll bring you a new one," she said, making it the classiest café on the Trans-Am trail. I'd been keeping my fork for weeks.

Between the Elenz’s, Chris and I, and a couple who came to meet Chris, it was a full city park in Walden. At night, a strange jingling noise. Chris and his friends were still up. "Is it a dog?" I asked out the tent. It’s a horse. What’s he doing? I asked. "Eating grass." A cowboy had come to town. His horse was leaping about, front legs tied together; he was sleeping in the pagoda. We met him out on the road the next morning.

Day 57 (July 11)

The family was up at five. They'd been getting up at four to beat the heat, but Chris convinced them it would not be a problem. "We could sleep in till five," Mom had said, without irony.

Chris and I rapped out ten easy miles to Cowdrey for apple pie, then crossed into Wyoming, "Like No Place On Earth." In Riverside, it rained. We vacillated but rode eighteen calm miles to Saratoga, where the $1.50 shower fee is waived for cyclists. We camped at the city park, on an island in the North Platte River. Saratoga was nice in a western way. The Mexican restaurant was pretty good, if not up to Tres Hombres in Carbondale IL - which itself was a far cry from Arriba in Pueblo, best restaurant of the tour so far.

It had been some great country today, especially the suddenly green stretch out of Riverside, abundant with little creeks and rivulets. The light etched the sagebrush into sharp relief; antelope prance in the fields. At one point, a farm startled me - I hadn't seen tilled soil in hundreds of miles. It could have been upstate New York.

The time off in Boulder had unsettled me. It had changed the pace of life. But three days back on the Trans-Am trail and I was doing fine; covered 175 miles in 2 1/2 riding days; cooked zero meals.

Day 58 (July 12)

Chris shook my hand and departed, going his own way. A lone German named Stefan, cooking mush or gruel on the other side of the tennis courts, had ridden down from Alaska solo.

Riding was as beautiful as a flock of pelicans, the one at the wetlands preserve just outside of Saratoga. Wind became the story of the day however - I turned to face it head-on when I hit I-80. The interstate, hurtling huge trucks and flying cars, felt briefly familiar. But thirteen miles was enough.

Someone built an oil refinery for Sinclair in 1925, then built a town around it, the town of Sinclair. He built a hotel, restaurant, barber shop - he built the entire town. By 2002 the refinery will live up to its claimed status of most modern refinery in somewhere. From Sinclair I rode to Rawlins, into the wind at seven or eight mph, like the day I had to hitch-hike. It didn’t seem as grueling, perhaps because I had only eight miles to go.

I rode across town to a campground near the interstate, with private showers, a cable TV lounge - everything but trees. I exaggerate, of course - there were trees, three of them, and I set up leeward of them. After dinner, I went into the campground office to kill time. A young woman was working there. I'd not failed to notice her earlier, her dark hair, beautiful eyes, and big breasts. She was playing the Windows plumbing game I used to play, and didn't seem to mind my company, so I watched her for half an hour or so. She giggled and narrated the game, getting better and better the more she played. If she made a bad move she’d say, "Just kidding." It was the closest I’d been to a woman in a long time. On the way out I asked her where she went to school. "Here," she said. "High school." I had spend the evening flirting with a high school girl. I had no idea! She was mature, smart and self-assured. And the best-looking girl I had seen in eight weeks.

Day 59 (July 13)

Up early, I consumed half the breakfast bar at JB’s. Today I was headed to Jeffrey City, most infamous stop on the Trans-Am. I'd been hearing about it for a week; Chris was dead set on avoiding a night there.

From Rawlins to Grandma’s restaurant in Lamont, nothing but a little highway construction and a moderate crosswind. In Ireland, Chris Boardman won the prelude time trial of the Tour de France, followed by Olano and Laurent Jalabert - then Bobby Julich! In the first road stage, Frankie Andrieu finished in the top ten. An eastbound rider, Andy, came in, a nice, unaffected guy. We talked for an hour, exchanging shower locations and camping deals. I spent two and a half hours there.

Easy eleven miles to Muddy Gap, then a long 22 to Jeffrey City. I didn't get there till 7:00. It was pretty bleak, alright - the speed limit doesn't even change. As Andy told me, the Lion's Club park was overgrown, but I could set up in the pavilion. My waitress was the most masculine woman I have ever seen. Dressed like a man, in tight blue jeans and a tight T-shirt, she was built about like me and spoke in a low voice. She worked on her father-in-law’s ranch. I have to keep an eye out for these things, I thought; I don’t want to end up like the guy in The Crying Game.

Days 60-61 (July 14)

Jeffrey City, Wyoming

Again today, Wyoming offered little in the way of commerce: a gas station, a rest area, a campground. Bagels and peanut butter nourished me; hundred-degree water slaked my thirst. But I made Lander early, shortly after three; scoped the town out and ate a huge turkey sub and an amber ale at Gannett Grill (Andy’s recommendation). I stayed with friends of friends, Karen and Bob Sweeney. Karen made a great pasta salad; I talked touring with them. As usual the last few weeks, I slept in a bed. I took the next day off.

Day 62 (July 16)

North of Lander lie the lovely, green valley of the Wind River. After about twenty miles, however, 287 led back into the arid hills typical of the last few days. I was on "res" land, as they say out here, so most people were brown-skinned Native Americans, with their soft voices like rivers. I spend an hour at the only establishment for fifty miles, the Crowheart store. At sixty-four miles I came to a restaurant not listed on my map. It turned out to be a high point of the day. A couple sat at the bar and ordered margaritas. I ask for an iced tea, but I’d rather have a margarita. It was after six already, after all. The woman, late 40’s perhaps, asked my name and showed me a menu. She was named Maddy and the guy with her was Rod. Maddy was having escargot tonight. The restaurant also offered elk, venison, pheasant, duck; I forget what else. It looked very good indeed. The bartender stuck my bottles under ice, bending over to show a couple inches of cleavage. She wouldn't charge me for the iced tea.

With all those smiling women, and the bartender’s neckline, I could hardly leave, but the last fourteen miles were stunning - I was stopping for a picture every ten minutes. Red-rock cliffs lined the canyon, similar to Oak Creek Canyon in Arizona.

I hit the Circle-Up Campground in Dubois - Andy’s recommendation again - at 8:00, my latest day. An Adventure Cycling group was there, the first group to do the entire Great Divide route. The cook for the night was Howard, a young Brit. "We’ve got some extra food here," he told me. They had fifteen big pork chops barbecuing, left over. I got the last roasted potato, ratatouille - Howard had actually made ratatouille - and fresh fruit salad from a plastic grocery bag. The mosquitoes ate as well as I did.

Day 63 (July 17)

Rode over the second highest pass of the route today, Togwatee Pass, 9658 feet above sea level. I was twelve hours on the road but only six and a half on the bike, covering 77 miles with 3840 feet of altitude gain. Again I got to camp at 8:00.

I began the climb from 6900 feet up the Valley of Biting Flies, climbing steadily rather than steeply, beside or above the Wind River. Eight miles from the pass, a café on the left served me a very good lunch. The placemats were blue jean seats with silverware in the pocket. I can’t remember the name, but they also sold performance truck exhausts. I ordered grilled cheese and a stainless steel low-restriction muffler. At Togwotee Pass I chatted with a couple from Milwaukee. Happy that I had quit my job, the woman said, "Good for you!" several times. The ascent was better than Hoosier Pass, quieter, closer to the mountains. [Author's Note: my spelling checker did not recognize the word placemats, suggesting placentas in its place. Thank God this was not the case. - Mark]

Day 64 (July 18)

With a day off in Lander, I’ve ridden 409 miles in the past seven days. Four days of 69 miles or more.

I met a cyclist named Cory after breakfast - a good one - and chit-chatted with him until noon. The 29-year-old ponytailed liberal (or so he was described in an article somewhere) from the Ithaca, New York area is eastbound on the Trans-Am. Together we rode off-route to Jenny Lake, camping at the stunning hiker-bicyclist area there. For the first time since Fort Gorge Campground, the Whisperlite stove comes out of its sack for a pasta meal with mozzarella string cheese. The minimally-stocked grocery sold microbrews by the bottle for $1.50. Life could be a lot worse than this.

In the shadow of the Grand Tetons, among the most majestic mountains I have ever seen, sleep was an honor.

Day 65 (July 19)

Cory and I decided to take a day off and hike. If ever a hike lived up to all expectations, this one did. We ascended by a roaring, cascading creek, glacial meltwater, which slipped guises easily into a calm stream in flat sections. The proverbial extra mile carried us to a meadow surrounded by high peaks, snowfields, and glacial waterfalls. I made a snowball. Coming back we got within 40 feet of a bull moose unabashedly eating a bush, and later, a couple more. We also got very tired. All told it was a five and a half hour trek back to the queue for the boat. We covered eleven miles in all, in our cycling shoes.

Cory and I improvised a fine potato-cheddar soup, from potatoes, cheese, milk, onions, garlic, dill and rosemary. No mix, no prepared ingredients. We amazed ourselves.

Day 66 (July 20)

This morning we concocted scrambled eggs with (leftover) onions and cheese. It was 10:45 AM before we hit the road. We met a rider named Gary riding his T-700 to Tierra del Fuego, who wouuldn't shut up. About a hundred cyclists were on the road as well, heading the opposite way, on a sagged group tour with one of those organizations that offers sagged group tours, Cycle America. A lot of girls were in the group. I pulled across to chat with the last, and cutest, one, Katherine from Chicago, in one of those little sporty outfits that girls wear on sagged group tours. She fell off her bike in surprise that we’re riding across The Big One.

Day 67 (July 21)

Excerpt from my journal, July 21:

I’m happy on this tour. I never wonder if what I’m doing is what I should be doing, whether my life is worthwhile, whether I’m wasting it. I don’t think about myself constantly. I go to bed each night alone but rarely lonely. I set goals, I meet them, if not today then the next day. I have no doubt that I’ll ride through Yellowstone then Montana; across Idaho; across Oregon.

Forty miles to Grant Village, over the Divide once more. Fueled by the breakfast buffet, it felt good to be going somewhere new. Most of the time I could climb in 2nd or 3rd gear, riding through the remnants of the 1988 fires beside beautiful Lewis River.

Day 68 (July 22)

An Adventure Cycling group of eleven riders - not Mickey's group but a second one - had left the east coast about two weeks after me. After my Boulder week and three days in the Tetons, they caught me. I had met some of them, three Denver guys and a woman, last night in Colter Bay. Tonight I camped by Tim from California, across from a young couple riding the Trans-Am west to east, not part of the group.

Day off. Took a bus tour of the Yellowstone lower loop. Cooked my own dinner. Other cyclists all gone - I’m on my own. One camping family couldn't quite grasp that I wasn't riding with the group.

Day 69 (July 23)

Today completed the tenth week of the tour. I'll reach Astoria in three to four weeks, then I may go down the coast for three more weeks. It's not as close as it seems, the end. Seven more weeks - where was I after seven weeks? Ordway, Colorado.

I stopped at a couple of geyser basins that the bus tour had skipped; cauldrons bubbled and geysers spouted and one hot spring poured out four thousand gallons of boiling water every minute, steadily. At 12:47 PM I saw Old Faithful for the second time. Later I entered Montana and left the national parks for the real world again. The Adventure Cycling group was spending their second night at the Wagon Wheel Campground; I joined them and finagled a site for $8.50. The showers there were as clean and nice as the place in Berea. The bathroom was spotless. At dinner I sat with an archeologist for the BLM who had herself discovered a bunch of obsidian on the Continental Divide, which had been quarried by Indians. She was going to investigate it with some geologists. I talked with Alice, leader of the Adventure Cycling group. A teacher in Brattleboro, Vermont, she tours in summer, plays ice hockey in winter.