I got onto the road fairly early and upon exiting Tribune, was greeted by a large green sign reading; "Eads 58".
"Psshh, piece of cake", I thought to myself.
I don't know what it was but I did not cruise whatsoever like the day before. Feeling very lethargic midway into the ride, I pulled my phone out to see how far I'd gotten; a measley 15 miles. Luckily, Sheridan Lake was 15 miles further. A few miles later I would enter Colorado, which reminds me, I entered the Mountain Time Zone yesterday, moving time an hour back.
Just outside of Sheridan Lake, I ran into a biker heading toward Maine from Astoria, OR. His name was Kevin Galletos from the town of Dayton, OH. As I stopped to talk to the man with long pants, and long sleeves, I began to understand his choice of wardrobe. The flies swarmed onto me and our conversation was interrupted every few seconds by cursing and frantic slaps from yours truly. Mercifully, Kevin gave me some bug spray, which alleviated the biting. They were even biting through Kevin's clothes. Kevin was tall, and thin (aren't we all) of Mexican descent with long wavy black hair down to his shoulders. He had a very calming, relaxed tone to his voice that made me feel very comfortable with him. He gave me some warnings about the distance of water between each place and the lack of food so I would be prepared. We wished each other luck and off we went.
At Sheridan Lake, I took refuge from the hostile army of flies and got a sub. It wasn't anything special but I thought it'd help my tired body pick up the pace. It kind of did. From Sheridan Lake to Eads, I ran into four other cyclists. Two of them gave a wave and continued (maybe they knew of the bugs). The other two were more friendly.
Matt was 20 years old and from New Egypt, NJ heading home. His companion was the older guy, Connor. It was funny watching them both look me over a few times, unsure what to make of me.
"How many miles do you do a day?" asked the youthful and energetic Matt.
"I don't know, don't keep track", I replied.
"You don't have a speedometer?" questioned Matt.
"I don't really have anything. Hell, I don't even have the map for this part of the trail", I laughed.
"Seriously?"
"I lost it yesterday at some museum. It's a tad more exciting this way".
Matt got a picture of me and we talked as long as we could before the flies began eating us alive. I departed toward Eads.
When I thought Kansas had nothing, I was slightly off. There were fields of wheat, and corn as far as the eye could see with vivid greens contrasting the unreal goldens. The further and further I got into Colorado, the more and more desolate the fields seemed to be. Bits of grass and corn yielded into just acres of dirt. Stopping at the Kiowa County Museum in Eads, I learned a bunch of things from the curator, Kelly.
Kelly was young to be in charge of a museum, and we hit it off. I asked a million questions that she kindly and intuitively answered. She noted there's been a very bad drought this summer in Eastern Colorado. In fact, she told me the last few years were the worst for rain (if not the worst) since the Great Depression. Also, the train tracks that I've been following since Scott City haven't been in use for over 5 years. All of this is taking a heavy toll on all of the towns. I was texting my brother and the way I described today's riding was "like a post-apocolyptic earth with deserted towns and a high scarcity of water". After hanging out in the museum for what seemed like ages, I made my way to Haswell, 21 miles away.
I flew to Haswell; the 21 miles seeming like nothing. I elected to bike without music this time and the silence was deafening. On the entire ride, the only thing I heard other than the buzzing of grasshoppers and roaring of the occassional passing car, was the sound of two chirping birds trading songs. I actually stopped to watch and listen to them. It was one of those simple, beautiful moments. A sign of life.
Now, arriving in Haswell was exactly like a post-apocolyptic scenario. The town of 2 square miles was almost a complete ghost town. Everything looked abandoned or had at least not been touched for years and years. The only living thing I met in the town was a young German Shepard wandering the streets. This is where I would be sleeping for the night. In a strange way, the total quiet and the slow decay of this place has a very peaceful effect on me.
By the by, I'm going to ask for another supply drop; this one in Rico, CO. Letters are more than appreciated:
28 S Glasgow Ave, Rico, CO 81332-99999
Wouldn't be a bad idea to write "General Delivery" on the packaging as well.
Taking the picture in Kansas, I was thinking this was empty. Colorado's drought would prove to me you can always have less.
Howdy
Matt and Connor
8 miles into the desert abyss was the site of the Sand Creek Massacre of 1864. Originally hailed as a sound American victory, the leading Colonel Chivington was given his own name for a city a few miles away. A few years later, people learned that most of the 200-500 Native Americans killed were women and children.
The Kiowa County History Museum in Eads.
Haswell, CO
Red Dusk.
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