Day 17
I was almost asleep in the clean hotel bed when it started, just a little bit at first at prone areas such as the bottom elastic leg bands of my shorts, then spreading to everywhere: dry skin itch. The soap scrub down had not only removed the dirt from my skin, but any semblance of moisture as well. I resisted itching a first, trying to force sleep and then I gave in and gave a scratch. One scratch led to another and after a solid six hours of scratching, my alarm went off with very little solid sleep occurring. I cursed the shower as I put my dirty clothes back on. My bike was ready and I took a deep breath, unlocked the deadbolt, and wheeled my bike outside.
It was dead still, warm, and quiet and I felt almost safe rolling out in the dark. I always felt safer riding in the early morning hours rather than the late night ones and while I knew I could have covered additional miles the night before, I was glad I had made the decision to stop and hotel it. I was passed by one car on the dark frontage road paralleling the highway, I pulled far over to the side and it passed uneventfully.
Sunrise on the Malpais Park.
The sun started to rise as I entered the Malpais (I think that was the name...) Park and I continued on pavement. 'Malpais Park,' I pondered, 'I don't remember seeing that on the cue sheet.' GPS said I was on route so I kept pedaling through beautiful country but the fear that I was off route that had haunted me all of the prior day was back and eventually, it got the best of me. I sat down on the side of the road and pulled out the cue sheet: Left on a dirt road, right on a dirt road, climb steeply. I cursed and confirmed on the GPS that my arrow was still on my red line. I sat there for a while and pouted, how could I have screwed up my cutting and pasting of the cues that Jarral had sent me so badly? Was I going to be riding blindly the rest of the way to Mexico? I remembered a fit Chris threw when we first toured the Colorado Trail in 2004. It involved kicking his bike. I considered kicking my bike but reconsidered when I thought about how faithfully it had carried me so far.
Then I got up and pedaled. Eventually, the road turned to dirt and there was my confirmation: tire tracks. Jarral's Bontrager front and Python rear tire tracks in the dirt, clear as day. I let out a hoot! There was also a sign: Pie Town. I was almost there.
The long road to Pie Town.
I pedaled along, looking at the mountains ahead: the Gila. The road was straight, and long, but lacking in significant hills and at the end of it, a stop sign. I went to run it when a red pickup came cruising around the corner. I hit my brakes to yield when I recognized the truck: Eddie! We exchanged some words about Pie Town being three miles away and I took off at full tilt, or at least as full tilt as I could go.
I had a slice of key lime pie, a la mode for an appetizer and a bacon burger for lunch. Eddie had a video running while I was eating, it's pretty funny. I pondered a second slice of pie, but knew that in the heat, I'd run the risk of my entire meal making a reappearance, and anyhow, I was deadset on making it to the Beaverhead Work Station for sleep.
A slice of heaven. I'd ride the Divide again just to go to Pie Town.
After some more pedaling, I found the church that Matthew Lee filled his water bottles up at, so being big on Tour Divide lore, I stopped and filled up my water and started into the Plains of St. Agustin. It was absolutely spectacular riding, flat, with relatively minimal wind, and wide open. Beautiful. Then I turned a corner to see the familiar red pickup and assumed my very best 'serious bike racer' face to get my picture taken. I haven't seen any of these surface, but I'd love to see them. The light was pure Golden Hour and at the time, I was convinced it was the most beautiful place in the world.
Eddie and the Plains of Agustin. This used to all be underwater.
I told Eddie I was headed for the Beaverhead, he told me he was headed for the trees just above the plains, was going to drink a beer and enjoy the sunset. I felt a pang of jealousy, but knew that if I could make it to the Beaverhead, I'd have a chance of pushing it into the finish in one sweep. There were a couple of Continental Divide crossings, a beautiful sunset, a giant heat electrical storm, hundreds of elk with glowing green eyes, and a giant sand pit. I'm not sure where the giant sand pit came from as the road leading to it was perfect and the road after it was perfect, but I wallowed in the sand, confused, in the dark for far too long.
Sunset.
11 miles from the Beaverhead, I gave up. The sleepies were creeping, but worse, my irrational brain was starting to take over the rational and I couldn't convince myself that the red line that my arrow was on was, in fact, the correct red line and I was still on course. After futzing with the GPS, wasting time, I pulled a few feet off the road and laid out my bedding in the soft sand. There were a million stars out and I made a point of admiring them before letting my eyelids fall, knowing that this had the potential to be my last sleep on the Divide.
I felt a pang of sadness with the thought.
"I felt a pang of sadness with the thought."
I wonder if this is universal. I feel this way too after longer, involved adventures. At the end there's the desire to sleep in my own bed, but the pull to stay away and keep going always feels stronger.
Posted by: Snakebite | July 12, 2012 at 07:27 PM