I was a broken man by the time I crested Wolfcreek Pass Colorado, 10,857ft. Nine days and just about 1000 miles into my journey east. Both Achilles’s tendons were swollen as wide as my ankles while the attendant pain narrowed to a point and stabbed each pedal stroke with a seared flesh kind of misery. It was as if those meat-cables had had enough of my torment and were going revolutionary, threatening to tear free of my heel bones to take cover deep inside my calves. Advil didn’t help, nor did turning the music up. I just wasn’t ready for such an adventure; hadn’t put the time in to train for a thing so intense. This was classic me. I was over my head, way over my head. Why not just pack up and ride your bike across the county in 18 days? Why not?
A few days later, I took a window seat on a bus leaving Colorado Springs with the bike packed in a box and stashed below with the other passenger luggage. I got a good look at all the Great Plains country I wouldn’t be able to pedal through, and reflect on the last two weeks.
In Chicago we switched buses, and I dragged the bike box through the Greyhound station with a limp and a smile. To quote R.P. McMurphy, “But I tried, didn’t I? God-damn it. At least I did that.”
I remember riding out with you that morning after coffee and a scone. We stopped briefly at Silver Canyon Rd. and Hwy 6 where I wished you luck. You were anxious to get going so not much was said beyond that. As you rode away on that contraption of a cross-the-country road machine I thought “I can’t believe he just set his mind on doing this and did”.
On my ride back to town, I stopped and looked east to reflect on what you were attempting and why. Gazing up at White Mountain Peak in the shadow of the early morning sun, I envisioned you working your way up Montgomery pass, the start of a long, arduous journey. That vision brought to mind another scene from the farm where Mac looked up at the Chief and said “God dam boy, you’re about as big as a mountain”. I pumped my fist and shouted, “Go KO”.