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High Plains Shifting

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I had a good look round Dodge City; it was interesting enough that a portrait of star cop Wyatt Earp replaces the now-traditional ‘another road in Kansas’ picture at the top of the page.

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Big Wyatt and the various Wild West shenanigans are only a small part of the history of Dodge. It started as a fort on the Santa Fe trail (yet another old settlers’ trail to the West, which I’ve been following for a while), became the lynchpin of the US’s buffalo-annihilation business, went through its ‘wild’ stage, and was a cattle-trading centre once all the buffaloes were out of the way. And the museum notes, with what sounds like relief, that once the railway arrived, it all gradually calmed down and became the ‘respectable’ farming town it is today. Personally, I think it sounded a lot more fun before the farmers took over, but still…

Dodge is also on the 100th meridian. Locals will tell you that some magical property of the land around the meridian means that the weather changes there pretty much constantly. One thing that certainly happened was that in the 48 hours since I got to Dodge, the daytime temperature has dropped from nearly 100F (mid-thirties C) to just 11C (fifty-odd F). In UK terms, that’s a very hot mid-summer to late autumn in two days. I thought it was clearly time to get moving before the snow started.

Despite the chill, I shot out of town with the wind at my back, and drizzle in the air. The riding was so easy that it took a while for me to realise that I was heading uphill. Super gentle uphill, yes, but uphill. In fact, it’s been there right through Kansas; I started out at around 300m (less than 1000ft), and am now up at around 900m. You don’t really notice it happening, as the height gain has happened over hundreds of miles. Reckon there must be some mountains up ahead…

The altitude causes another 100th meridian phenomenon. It marks the transition to the high plains. A much more arid area than the lower levels, which caused the early settlers major problems. One last Kansas road picture will show you the incredible difference that makes to the scenery:

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Ignoring the fact that the road has a curve, can you see the difference? As far as I can tell, the grass is a bit scrubbier, and maybe not as green. But overall, it’s the same scenery it’s been for days and days. And days. I remember a guy I met from Missouri who was talking about western Kansas. He said that, “you can sit on your porch and watch your dog run away for five days”. Can’t disagree with that.

But it’s also providing me with a break from the heat, a nice bit of drizzle, and a tailwind (in fact, with what I’d consider perfect English bike-riding conditions). With a bit of luck, it’s Colorado tomorrow. The flat bit, naturally…

Deja-Vu and Cycling Zen in the Wild West

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There’s every chance that the picture below will look slightly familiar.  Compare and contrast with the road picture in my last post.  Yes, there’s a tree in this one.  Yes, the hard shoulder of the highway is a little wider.  But there’s not much doubt that we’re still in Kansas, is there?

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For the record, this is about two-hundred miles from the previous picture, and not a whole lot has changed.  The grass desert just rolls on and on.  As I write, there’s another thunder-storm battering the roof (and presumably the tent, which is some way distant, but hopefully up to it).

And the headwinds just keep on coming, together with more heat, though this is apparently about to break properly.  But I think I’ve cracked those evil winds through Cycling Zen.  I’d copyright it, but I actually have no idea whether it has anything to do with Zen (yet another layer of ignorance reveals itself); it just seems like a good label.

After the rest day in Newton, I was raring to go again on Sunday.  I’d been half-listening to the conversation between the other three bikers on my first night there, and decided to follow Ian and Alejo’s example by switching routes from the TransAm to the Race Across America (RAAM) route, which finishes close to San Diego.  It cuts a little further south across the Rockies, but still drops me out on a good line for Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon.

With the remnants of a tailwind(!), I made 80-odd miles that day, charging across the featureless plain like some sort of caffeine-and-sugar-fuelled buffalo.  On wheels.  Roughly.  I reckoned I’d make it to Dodge City (who could miss the real Wild West if passing reasonably close?) in another day, easily.  Just the same again, thanks.

It took two days.  And pretty much two whole days.

It became apparent yesterday that the headwinds were back with a vengeance.  And the weather people were talking about 25mph winds for today (they were right, by the way).  I mindlessly deployed the same tactics I’d used on that horrendous day to Eureka, put my head down and put the pressure on as hard as I could.  More sweat, more aches and pains, and a grand total of 42 miles covered in a total of eight-and-a-half hours, including about a thousand stops for water and to ease sore muscles.  A one-legged tortoise would find that a tad on the less-than-quick side.

I spent the evening considering my position.  This was not fun.  This was not even sustainable; remember how horrible that ride to Eureka had been?  Could I even face another day like that?  Clearly, a new approach was required, which is where Cycling Zen came in.

I had about another 40 miles to get to my target campsite at Dodge City.  You can walk 40 miles in a day, at a push.  And however slow I ride, I’m always going to be (a little) quicker than walking.  So I was going to make it today.  That was a fact.  And the speed didn’t matter.  Another fact.  The wind could do what it liked, and I’d just go as slow as necessary to take the pressure off my legs.  I’d retreat into a little bubble of non-worry, telling myself amusing stories (these are unprintable, so don’t get your hopes up), and try to enjoy the ride.

My moving average speed today was 8.4mph.  That one-legged tortoise is killing himself laughing.  But I rode without pain or effort, and with a smile on my face.  A slightly loopy smile, but still…  I only stopped a couple of times for drinks, and for lunch at a truck stop.  And somewhat miraculously, within six hours, I saw this:

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So…  Going slower in headwinds makes you quite a lot faster over the course of a day, and happier to boot.  There’s a lesson I didn’t think I’d learn.  And a new weapon which will get me through the headwinds.  Don’t fight it, just relax, switch off, and enjoy the ride.  Cycling Zen.  Or arguably, just what cycling should be all about, anyway…

There’s a lot of history in Dodge City, so I’m taking tomorrow (Wednesday) off to explore.  More from the Wild West soon.

Euphoria – it’s one of those days…

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I was a miserable git this morning, wasn’t I?

Five hours later, and the world looks very different. I’m making the best average speed of the trip down Highway 54, with (whisper it) a bit of a tailwind. The sun is out, it’s not too hot, and all’s well in the world.

My clothes were dry by eleven. Then more rain swept in. I went and lay in the tent, coming reluctantly to accept that I’d have to stay another day at the campsite. I got out of the tent to pay, and a sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds. There were no more black clouds heading in. I packed up my kit and legged it.

As soon as I hit the 54, I felt the wind at my back. My legs were pumping around, easily turning the big gears on the flat, and climbing a couple of gears higher than usual. The bags were helping, acting as sails and pushing me up the road, rather than backwards, for a change. The best half-day of riding of the trip so far.

If Kansas is like this all the way through, I’ll be emotionally, as well as physically, drained by the time I get to Colorado…

I can understand why travel and journeys are so often used (and abused) as a metaphor for life. Today has shifted from frustration to elation in a matter of hours. The highs and lows come quicker on the road, and you can’t really appreciate the one without the other. Which I suppose means that I should be grateful for the frustration. I’m not.

Roll on tomorrow…

Beat By The Heat; or, Misery in Missouri?

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I’m feeling a bit warm.  The hard-pack trail is kicking up dust.  I’ve downed a couple of litres of water, but still feel thirsty.  The sun is scorching my back as I trundle along the old railway path.  I’ve got sweat in my eyes.  It’s well over 80 degrees F.  And it’s eight-thirty in the morning.

I promised I wouldn’t moan about the temperature or the humidity.  But they finally cracked me today.  I guess you can only ignore heat warnings for so long before they catch up with you.  I got ten miles down the road this morning, stopped for breakfast, and to help a lady with a flat tyre, which let the temperature rise some more.  Made it another five miles before I realised that another sweltering day – it was 100F by eleven-thirty – was going to do more harm than good, and bailed out into an air-conditioned motel.  At least I get to recharge my batteries (both literally and metaphorically) and wash my socks (just literally, I think).

I’ve made decent distance in the last few days, despite shade temperatures which have been consistently in the high 90s and low 100s.  I’ve no idea what the temperatures in the sun on the road were.  And I’ve crossed the Mississippi, which puts me at least into the west of the mid-west, if not the West itself.

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From the famous arch in St Louis onwards, the map starts to fill with those place names that are so familiar from old cowboy films and TV; Kansas City, Dodge City, Wichita, etc, etc.  You cross the old Route 66.  The whole place starts to smell a bit more of adventure; Daniel Boone lived around here (as well as almost everywhere else in the US, it seems), and Lewis and Clark set off west from here to explore for a route to the Pacific.

I rode through St Louis on Sunday.  Partly because there’s minimum traffic then, and partly because I had half an eye on what might or might not kick-off  in Ferguson, which is one of the northern suburbs.  Nothing to worry about for me, as it turns out; as usual with those sort of things, trouble tends to be localised and easily avoided.

I spoke to two cyclists with very different views of the situation.  Unsurprisingly, one was black and from the northern part of town while the other was white and from the (very) wealthy western suburbs.  It’s obviously a very polarising situation, and feels like quite a divided city; from my own view riding through, the obvious wealth differential between their two home areas was stark, and their views on the whole Ferguson crisis were diametrically opposed.  Hope it all settles out, but fear it may take a while…

Now (or at least until my cowardly retreat to the motel) I’m following the Katy Trail up the Missouri River valley.  The Missouri joins the Mississippi at St Louis, and is a fairly impressive river in itself.

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It was up this river that the Lewis and Clark expedition began, so I’m once again following in history’s footsteps.  Though I’m pretty sure they weren’t tempted by bunking off to an air-conditioned box.  Tomorrow, I’ll try to rediscover my backbone and get back out there; on the plus side, there might be a break in the weather in a couple of days.  But I’m not (all that) stupid; weather like this needs to be respected, and the daily mileage may be taking a dip until things cool off.  Assuming they ever do…

Heat, Humidity and Thunder – Sweating Across Indiana

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I felt bad yesterday morning (Tuesday).  I’d had a good night’s sleep and a splendid fry-up to kick the day off, so all should have been well.  At first, I put it down to pushing too hard, or maybe a bug of some sort.  No energy, and feeling dehydrated despite drinking three litres of water before lunch.  I’m a bit slow sometimes, and there was a headwind which I was blaming for all my ills, as usual.

I did get to see a couple of covered bridges in the morning, which was nice.  I’m not sure exactly what the point of a covered bridge is; maybe it’s just so you stay dry in a storm while waiting for the bridge to be washed away.  But they are very much a mid-west institution.  This one was outside Darlington.20140821RTW_2

At lunchtime, I stopped at a petrol station to grab a load of sugary stuff to kick-start myself; I still had a way to go.  Coming out of the shop, it finally hit me.  Like a sauna (or at least the air within a sauna).  The humidity, which the headwind had been masking as I rode, was immense.  I struggled off into the afternoon, passing two helpful signs suggesting it was either 87 or 91F.  I’m not sure what the centigrade equivalent is (and probably don’t want to know), but I do know that’s pretty hot.  This all cheered me up.  After all, I’ve been beating the elements every day (even if they always come back for more).  Something internal would have been much, much worse.

I continued south-west through a town called Waveland.  Which is so named because the land around it is kinked up into a series of short, sharp rolling hills.  Like waves.  A brilliantly literal name for a place.  I was heading for Rockville, but was disappointed to discover very few rocks.  And very little rock-n-roll.  Obviously doesn’t work everywhere…

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What I did find at Rockville was a colossal thunderstorm, which hit just as I got the tent half-up.  This was bad because all my bags got soaked, but also good, in that the people in the RV next door dragged me in, dried me off and fed me.  While having a long discussion about rugby, which I was not expecting in the US.  Oh, and they somehow reduced my camping fees to zero as well, slightly mysteriously.  I know almost every post is turning into an Oscar acceptance-speech list of thanks, but I can’t let that go without acknowledgement.  Or the free breakfast I got this morning from a bloke in the local diner.  I might have to just put a ‘thanks’ page up.

I checked the weather forecast, and it looks like the whole week ahead is going to remain in the 90s F, with loads of humidity.  There are weather warnings out for heat in the area I’m riding into (around St Louis), and thunderstorms are breaking out pretty regularly, which is a little alarming on the bike.  I turned today into a half-day just in time to get under cover before another couple of inches of rain dropped in.  So more strength-sapping heat, worries about carrying enough water and dodging lightning strikes to come for a while…

But tomorrow looks drier, and I’ll finally be leaving Indiana, and crossing into southern Illinois.  Probably sweating like a pig and moaning endlessly about the heat and humidity, but still making ground.

More soon, I hope.  And I finally updated the Progress map!  Many more exciting red markers to explore; how much more fun can you have?

 

Milestones

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I’ve hit a few milestones over the last few days, which make progress seem a little more real than just a continuous stream of ’95km, 350 metres of climbing’.  Some of these were intentional, some not, but as I roast in the midday sun in Pamplona, they do give me a little confidence that this trip might be doable.

Let’s see…  I’ve hit country number three (including the UK), entering Spain yesterday.  I’ve hit the 1000km mark in terms of distance, and I’ve endured my first day with over 2000 vertical metres of climbing (crossing the Pyrenees).  And, entirely accidentally, my first 100 mile day.  Not too bad, then.

On the other hand, there are a few issues.  An annoying rattle on the bike (or in the bags) which I can’t trace, problems with routinely getting enough water (saved by roadside springs yesterday), and a nagging feeling that I’m spending too much money.  Still, must be all sortable, I guess.

I flew through the rest of France due to an improbable tailwind and some magnificent cycleways (and, let’s face it, it was flat).  An example of a magnificent cycleway can be seen below.  Something the UK and Spain could both learn from, I feel.  The UK seems to be under the impression that a decent cycleway consists of some paint on the road, while the Spanish don’t really seem to have any (though, to be fair, I’ve only seen a few km of Spain)…

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Though I kind of knew the Pyrenees were going to be a big test, I was able to forget about them for a few days, and put in an accidental 100 mile day while outstandingly failing to find a campsite.  I’ve no intention that 100 mile days become the norm, but it’s nice to know you can if you want to.

After eight days in France, I was feeling confident that my French had improved sufficiently to pass for a local.  An illusion shattered as I rolled into Bayonne.  I stopped in the town centre to check my map, and was immediately interrupted by an Australian voice asking if I needed any help. In English, naturally.   I looked up to see a tandem, with a fairly typical Aussie bloke (tats, shades, three-quarter-length shorts, goatee) on the front.  And an oriental (maybe Chinese?)  lady in a floral summer dress and floppy straw hat on the back.  After establishing that I was heading south, I then got verbal directions for the next 30 miles.  In 30 seconds.  None of which I managed to memorise.  Oh, well…  I have no idea whether these two just hang around the town centre waiting for cyclists to arrive, or what, but it was a nice (if slightly bizarre) welcome to a lovely looking town.  But I couldn’t dally; the mountains awaited.

Yesterday was the day.  I’d pre-planned roughly where to cross the Pyrenees, spotting a nice low(ish) pass at 600-and-odd metres.  My valiant (smashed but pluckily soldiering on) iPhone guided me there, and I ticked off my first ‘mountain’ pass!  Pamplona was only another 60km or so.  It was all too, erm, Pyreneeasy.  Sorry.

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Unfortunately, relying entirely on the phone meant that I missed the fact that my intended road into Pamplona became a semi-motorway from which bikes were outlawed.  Never mind, I’d take the old road; must run pretty parallel…  Some hours later, trekking up a second, 700m-plus hill, I was not a happy bunny.  Over 2000 metres climb in a day is for the racing snakes of the Tour de France, with their lightweight carbon-fibre bikes and back-up cars.  Not really for an elderly gent lugging 40kg of bike and bags.  Let’s just say it was a long, long day.

Still, I made it to Pamplona.  It’s a lovely town, and Spain seems to be half the price of France.  And I tumbled into a lovely quiet hostel for another rest day.  More clothes washed, but I don’t think you need the pictures this time.  And for the record, the red underpants in the last post were nothing to do with me…

So, nothing to worry about between here and Madrid except the heat (30c by eleven in the morning today), and finding my way over or around another set of mountains.  Bigger than the Pyrenees. Much bigger.   Ouch…

By the way, I’ve finally added a map and some stats (everyone loves stats!) to the Progress page, for your delectation and delight.