Out of the desert and into civilization. On the road that would take me just around three hundred miles to Alexander, Kansas. I had that "here-we-go" look in my eye and lion's blood running through my legs. This is the road that laid out it's welcome mat and placed little towns filled to the brim with convenience just for me; maybe not to the brim and not all just for me, but it felt like it after crawling out of the pits of sand and sage spotted with tumbleweeds that whistled out the loneliness found in their wake. This is where I would start meeting others like myself. Cyclists.
The first one I met was about fifteen miles down the highway. Like most of the other cyclists I would meet, he was going west. But he was unique in that he was walking his bike along the shoulder. My first thought was that he was having trouble. I slowed down and called across the dashing cars to see if he needed any help. He motioned that he was just tired in the legs. At that point, I turned the tables seeing that my pump had fallen off somewhere behind me(and I don't blame it; if I were my pump, I would jump ship too). I asked if he had a pump that I could use and he waved me over. As he was digging for the pump, I asked him the obvious question that any traveler would ask another, "Where are you coming from?", and the rest would follow: How long? Where to? etc.? He was from Nepal and had been riding since 2003 and has been through seventy or so countries and making his way to Denver. Still taking that bundle of information in, I ran back across, dodging cars and jumping over hoods, and topped off my tires with air. When I made it back, we exchanged information/websites and I helped him with a good way to get to Denver, telling him about a marvelous route called South Meridian that was flourishing with bounty. . .kidding. He gave me his summary of his travels where it talked about having gone through six bikes and been beaten up by bandits. All of a sudden, my trip through the desert didn't seem that bad and I decided to leave that little adventure out of my "this is what's happened so far" summary. I bid him good luck and safe travels as he did the same and we went our opposite ways.
I made it further on down Highway 96/50 and turned on the back highway which cut off from 50 and continued as 96. The first town I came to was Boone, the first of many Population: Not enough, Size: Two seconds. I stopped at a (Very) General Store where I realized I was out of cash and Boone had yet to realize there was a world going by outside of them. Sam Elliot, the cashier, with his handlebar moustache that could have seconded for actual chopper bars, told me of the ATM at the VFW and I said LOL, G2G, No thanks. . .so, I sat outside for five minutes and chatted it up with a cycling couple from Kentucky enjoying a few months on the road, she on summer break and he taking three months off from making cabinets. They had the whitest teeth and I did everything I could to make them laugh or smile, wanting to take in those "pearlies" as much as I could, but they were hoarding them to the best of their abilities, so I wished them luck and hoped their teeth rotted out. . .kidding. . .
Outside of Boone, since I didn't take advantage of the store, I stopped by a couple of trees and sat in the shade eating some jerky I had picked up outside of Pueblo. As I was sitting there, I stood to stretch and looked around me. As usual, there were fields on the other side of me where cows and such were grazing. Then, a car passed and all of a sudden, staring at me from right up against the fence that didn't stand but five feet from the road, was a llama; just. . .staring. It must have been wondering the same thing I was, "What is that doing there?" Out of all the places to stick a llama, Boone was obviously a lovely place mixed right in with the cows and horses. So, I casually walked across the road, edging my to the fence where the llama, we'll say it was a he, was doing a sort of five-step-length pace left and right, feeling what must have been antsy about me approaching. At first, I treated it like a cat, holding my hand out, letting it smell me out, only because I've never read on how to approach a llama when confronted by one, which I was when it stared me down and said "Come here" with its sixth-llama sense. When it seemed to nuzzle up to my hand, I made to pet him and he backed off a bit. I switched back to the cat tactic and he went back to sniffing, then I slyly turned my hand over, going in for the pet under his chin and he was putty in my hands. I scratched and rubbed his. . ..snout? and he laid his head into my arm, looking at me longingly with those deep, lonely black eyes. I took this opportunity to sit and talk with him; the conversation was sort of one sided and he didn't have much input on any of the topics I brought up; he finally got tired of me and went back to grazing what little grass he had to go for. When I got up to leave, he perked up and looked my way and he started to, I guess, whine. It started out sounding like a donkey then went into a high-pitched moan like. . .like he didn't want me to leave. As honored as I felt, I told him I had to go and I would send other cyclists his way. And I do to this day.
Leaving that curious encounter, I rode and rode until I was about five miles out of Olney Springs and one hour away from a setting sun at my back. I made a couple of last minute, "I'm fine" calls and "I miss you" rings and finished the last bit with a song I made up going in my head. It went something like this(you have to hum it like it were an Irish lullaby):
I'm prayin' for a town just o'er the rise
A town that I miss with such sparkling eyes
Olney Springs, you lay me down in sheets of white linen
Olney Springs, why have your women. . .
gone away?
Don't ask me. It just appeared. So, hungry and ready to settle in, I was just about through the town without seeing a restaurant when I passed an antique shop that said Uncle Billy's Favorite Things and I suddenly smelled burgers coming out of the building. I pulled in and found that it was a restaurant, thinking how silly I felt for thinking it was an antique shop, though at the same time, I wouldn't have been surprised if any of these towns would rather have a junk store instead of a eatery. Either way, I walked in and found a table in the back where fifties music was playing and records and pictures of Elvis, Frank, and Dean were pinned the wall. I fell in love with the little place and ordered my food. The table just across the room was occupied by three cowboy lookin' dudes with the hats and all. They were mumbling amongst themselves, giving me a couple of second glances. My first thought was that I was in tights and it was probably a bit too much for their hardened senses. And when I got my food and they were mingling about, making to leave, one of them approached my table.
"You sure are red. Where you headed?" he stated.
I was taken aback, completely caught off guard by the voice that emanated from this rugged form. I looked up and saw a toothless grin that held the voice of what could best be described as if a child were talking and he had a matured, country lisp; and I say toothless, but he had a couple wedged in there like tilting barns.
"Yeah, I got a bit of sunburn back a couple of days ago. I'm headed back home to Arkansas," I replied with a smile.
"Orkanso. I mean Arkansas," he restated.
I looked at him with curiosity, "What's your name?" holding out my hand.
"Jim," he started, putting his rough, withered hand in mine, "my friends and I have a place for you cyclists if you need a place to stay."
"Oh, thank you, but I'm camping out in the park just across the way. . ."
". . .yeah, the park. Well, do you need some lotion for your skin? I've got some back at the house," he offered.
"Actually, that would be really helpful. Thank you."
"I'll just bring it to your tent when you head over there."
"That sounds great. So, what do you do around here?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Well, I'm a rescue pilot," he responded with his hands on his hips, still grinning and nodding his head.
"What's that like?"
"I'm always on call."
"Do you do anything else?"
"I catch rattlesnakes."
I was stunned. "Really. How is that?"
He held out his arms, "What do you think? Look at all those bites. The government sends me little vials about the size of your finger and I fill them up with venom and they pay me $100 a bottle."
"That's too cool. So, you're from around here?"
"Nope. New York. It felt like I was living in a jail. So, now I live out here where you have to drive eight miles just to get gas."
I laughed a little and paid my tab. "Well, I'll meet you over there. I guess I'm going to go and pitch tent."
New York I thought. I would have never guessed that one. At least I got a good conversation out of a local seeing that my last one with llama didn't get very far. I made it to the park and met my park mates for the evening. They were three folks my age, two guys and a girl, from Michigan. They were riding to raise money for their hometown and towns like it if I remember correctly. They come from a post-industrial town where GM left town and left many jobless. I would venture to say that would be another story in itself.
As I was setting up my site, Jim came lumbering over with a big bottle of lotion in his hand. "Thanks," I exclaimed, lathering up the burns.
He introduced himself to the others and I mentioned he was a rattlesnake catcher. He told us that we were in a good spot to run into them.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah, and if you see one, you know where to grab it, right?"
"The head."
"No, the tail. You grab the tail and swing him to your right and then to your left like this," he said, giving the motions.
Whoo-doggie I thought, bring 'em on. I know how to wrastle me some rattlesnakes. And I was serious with the thought. I found it pretty intriguing and dangerous to wake up and have to deal with a snake; though, when push came to shove, I'd probably scream like a banshee if that rattle invaded my bubble. I held up my fists when he finished as though I were fighting one of his prized foes and he just laughed, slapping my hands away.
I thanked him again and after a couple of lingering fifteen minutes, he was back to his house. I sat up with my three companions and we exchanged talk of our travels when good ole' Jim came back into camp, bearing gifts of jerky, soda, and pop-tarts for each of us. After another batch of lingering and chatting, we bid him and each other goodnight, not before we shook hands on me making coffee in the morning for everybody.
We woke up and as I was making coffee, you'll never guess who was there to greet us with the sun. Jim was back with Gatorade for each of us and he watched me make coffee and went into talk about "cowboy" coffee for about ten minutes and was off into the wilderness before we started packing, no doubt to fly a plane into a 911 call involving a rattlesnake. And after we were all packed and our dishes washed, we wished each other safe travels. Before I set out, I did one last look around for Jim so I could thank him for all of his help, but he was more than likely still off on one of his Jim adventures with four rattlesnakes hanging off of his arm as he trudged through the woods like a gentle Goliath of a two-second town.
*note* One, please bear with my dialogue; I'm still trying to get it right and the fact that I could never do Jim justice without the reader actually listening to him and Two, this is the only time that I will ever use LOL or G2G. . .ever.
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