Day 5
By the Numbers:
My uncle told me that once I left Windsor, I'd immediately regret the decision, because what's left for me to ride through is a vast nothingness. He was half right. I didn't regret it, much, but Eastern Colorado and Nebraska are truly empty places. And when the road is flat and straight, there is less to occupy your mind, which leaves room, even in a brain the size of mine, for lots of thoughts.
As it was, I mostly thought about how hot it was, and how I was probably doing my body lasting damage. I haven't mentioned it yet, but Advil is a wonder drug. I credit it with getting me through today. That, and the steely determination that's just inherent in my nature.
It's 100 miles along Route 14 from Windsor to Sterling. In the middle is the Pawnee National Grassland. Here's someone who spent more time here than me. One of the first white men to explore this west, Major Stephen Long, described the area of Colorado thusly: "never be fit for human habitation other than the nomad races." Truly. I mostly experienced it at 75 MPH.
At Sterling, I stopped at a McDonald's to stretch my legs. On one side of the restaurant, 6 or 7 grizzled, gray-haired old men dressed in overalls and John Deere hats sat, not quietly, over their coffee. On the other side, a dozen women of the same vintage acted out the same scenario. I sat in the middle, thinking, really, I don't think I'll come back here, if I can help it.
Eastern Colorado
- Total miles today: 422
- Total miles for trip: 1943
- Time on the bike: 8 AM mountain time
- Time off the bike: 6:30 PM central time
- # of conversations about the bike: 2
My uncle told me that once I left Windsor, I'd immediately regret the decision, because what's left for me to ride through is a vast nothingness. He was half right. I didn't regret it, much, but Eastern Colorado and Nebraska are truly empty places. And when the road is flat and straight, there is less to occupy your mind, which leaves room, even in a brain the size of mine, for lots of thoughts.
As it was, I mostly thought about how hot it was, and how I was probably doing my body lasting damage. I haven't mentioned it yet, but Advil is a wonder drug. I credit it with getting me through today. That, and the steely determination that's just inherent in my nature.
It's 100 miles along Route 14 from Windsor to Sterling. In the middle is the Pawnee National Grassland. Here's someone who spent more time here than me. One of the first white men to explore this west, Major Stephen Long, described the area of Colorado thusly: "never be fit for human habitation other than the nomad races." Truly. I mostly experienced it at 75 MPH.
At Sterling, I stopped at a McDonald's to stretch my legs. On one side of the restaurant, 6 or 7 grizzled, gray-haired old men dressed in overalls and John Deere hats sat, not quietly, over their coffee. On the other side, a dozen women of the same vintage acted out the same scenario. I sat in the middle, thinking, really, I don't think I'll come back here, if I can help it.
Eastern ColoradoI caught old US 6 east of Sterling. US 6 "runs uncertainly from nowhere to nowhere, scarcely to be followed from one end to the other, except by some devoted eccentric." Hmm. It starts, or ends, depending on your point of view, in Bishop, CA, a place where certain members of my family have done things crazier than riding a motorcycle 3000 miles, alone. Then again, said family members actually are crazy, whether a doctor has told them so or not. But we love them anyway. Seems to run in the family-the main reason my uncle wanted me to stay an extra day in Windsor, I think, was so he would have an excuse to go on a gonzo hike with me (and justify it to my aunt). As we discussed the possibility of this, my uncle and I chuckled over the impulse the other male members of my family share to do crazy things, often on our own. My middle brother has set the standard for this: a bicycle trip from Mexico to Ohio (with a hand broken on the first day); ascents of Mt. Hood (fell off the mountain, survived); driving to Belize in a Datsun 510 (as an 18 year old college student, got robbed); bouldering in Wyoming (lost his nerve, got stuck [ok, he was only 10, but still...]); an absolute killer solo 100 mile bike ride, in the Rockies, with over 19,000 feet of climbing (got home before dinner); and, to me, the kicker: 2 summers spent counting wild sunflowers, by himself, in Western Colorado and Nebraska (for his doctoral thesis). My oldest brother is now showing signs of emulating the middle one, and my father, in his newly-retired state, is adopting the "can't beat 'em, join 'em" attitude, much to Mom's dismay. So maybe this whole trip is me saying, screw it, I can do crazy stuff too, even if I am the most well-adjusted of the bunch (classic little-bro dynamic). I suspect the real reason I encountered any resistance at all to this trip from my family is they all want me to support them, financially, as they grow old, and, even if they will get my couch if I eat it, money from your little brother when you're 50 and unemployed is pretty cool.
Anyway...I'll leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals.
US 6's eastern terminus is in Provincetown, MA, 3,227 miles from Bishop. Like Route 66, or Route 40, US 6 has its share of devotees who celebrate its charm by walking it, bicycling it, driving it, photographing it, or writing about it. And then there are those who ride their motorcycle along it, and are conceited enough to write a blog about it. Some people.
US 6 runs into Nebraska along Frenchman Creek, which means there are trees, which are rare in these parts. It is common, however, to refer to this area, while in this area, as "these parts." Bugs are also common in these parts. Again, I marveled at the Harley riders, who generally ride with as little protection as legally allowed. Some of these bugs were large enough to cause pain through my jacket, and one hit my knee with all the force of a hammer strike. It may have been a small bird, I don't know. Harley riders just grin and bear it. Why? I don't know. Part of the mystique of riding on technology that's 40 years old is eating bugs, I guess.
I managed to make it to 260 miles before lunch, which was the highlight of the day. Somewhere between McCook, NE, and Holdrege, NE, is an award-winning barbecue joint called "Four Legs Up Barbecue." It's truly a joint, in that I think the building used to be a gas station and I only noticed it when I doubled back through town. Anyway, kind of a boring story, but the brisket there is definitely better than most. And their barbecue sauce is award-winning. That, and the fact that the family that runs the place was extremely friendly (they gave me free cookies), gets them a plug in my blog. So, if you're ever on US 6 in western Nebraska, check them out.
Talk about empty plugs.
At the hotel, as I was unpacking my bike, I talked with the manager of the hotel, who was having a cigarette next to his behemoth of a Harley. He was skeptical of my intent to make it to NY, given what I was riding. The way my body, and mind, felt today, I'm a bit skeptical too.
Tonight, during dinner, I got the call saying I got the job. Sweet. Maybe law school won't be so painful now. Who am I kidding.
Anyway...I'll leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals.
US 6's eastern terminus is in Provincetown, MA, 3,227 miles from Bishop. Like Route 66, or Route 40, US 6 has its share of devotees who celebrate its charm by walking it, bicycling it, driving it, photographing it, or writing about it. And then there are those who ride their motorcycle along it, and are conceited enough to write a blog about it. Some people.
Talk about empty plugs.
The afternoon temperature hit 92 that day. At speed, this is not too much of a problem. A 90 degree wind blowing 75 mph is still 90 degrees, but at least it's a 75 mph wind. It's only a problem when you slow down, as I did in Hastings, NE, and later in Grand Island. It's also still a 75 mph wind when a pickup passes you in a no-passing zone, crosses back over the double yellow line right in front of you, and runs over some dessicated animal, kicking up a piece of the animal, which somehow finds its way under your faceshield and slaps you in the mouth. Ahh, Nebraska.
The history lesson for the day has to do with POW internment camps. In the US, we do that well. During WWII, in 1943, the government set up a POW camp in Nebraska for 3,000 German POW's captured in North Africa and Italy. The POW's were put to work as farm workers until 1946, when most were sent home. Farm workers, how quaint. Ain't this America? Where's the torture? Where's the sexual humiliation?
Anyway, that chimney in the distance is all that's left of the POW camp.
My original plan was to stay in Hastings, as it looked like a big town on the map, and staying there would allow me to continue on US 6 the rest of the way across Nebraska and beyond. However, I guess when I-80 got put in 30 miles to the north, Hastings lost all of its hotels/motels, and is now a gritty, run-down place with very little to recommend it, save for cheap gas and a payphone. So, at the end of a very long day, I was forced to ride 25 miles north to Grand Island, a motel town on I-80.
The history lesson for the day has to do with POW internment camps. In the US, we do that well. During WWII, in 1943, the government set up a POW camp in Nebraska for 3,000 German POW's captured in North Africa and Italy. The POW's were put to work as farm workers until 1946, when most were sent home. Farm workers, how quaint. Ain't this America? Where's the torture? Where's the sexual humiliation?
Anyway, that chimney in the distance is all that's left of the POW camp.
At the hotel, as I was unpacking my bike, I talked with the manager of the hotel, who was having a cigarette next to his behemoth of a Harley. He was skeptical of my intent to make it to NY, given what I was riding. The way my body, and mind, felt today, I'm a bit skeptical too.
Tonight, during dinner, I got the call saying I got the job. Sweet. Maybe law school won't be so painful now. Who am I kidding.
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