ALWAYS OPEN … NOT! And more ...

The plan for the entire trip was to not eat breakfast until I had ridden about an hour, so as to have achieved something before taking time off. It was a good strategy, until other criteria overrode the plan.

The first to seize supremacy was the stomach. There were times when it just plain ruled. Just as with stopping for a sip of water or a mini-rest, not by the clock (as in once an hour or some such), but when the body ordered it. Listening to the body sounds like a mystery when you’ve never done it before. It doesn’t just out and talk to you in some obvious way. You simply get urges that you eventually learn not to ignore. Thirsty? Drink. Tired? Stop. Hungry? Eat.

Next criterion: out west, along with watering holes and motels, eateries could be 40 or more miles apart, so I learned to have breakfast at the first opportunity, else stop number one would be lunch.

And that’s why I got off Interstate 25 just 2 miles south of the town of Trinidad, Colorado, where I’d spent the night. The sign across the highway, maybe 100 feet tall, so it could be seen from the Interstate by cars going 80mph, said "Always Open." It was below another that said "Earl’s Country Breakfast" … or something like that. But it wasn’t. And there was no "Earl’s Country Breakfast" either. However, there was a restaurant called "Tequila."

I took the overpass and rode over to the restaurant, only to discover that it didn’t open till 10am. I didn’t want to waste an hour waiting, but by then my rear tire was flat. (I got way too many flats on highway exits and overpasses. Debris seems to gather there, dammit!) This turned out to be a tiny pinhole which, I later learned, was caused by a local plentiful burr that has a slender very sharp spike which easily penetrates tires and tubes. This flat happened to my rear tire, necessitating unloading the saddle bags, which, by now, were intricately lashed on to prevent being dislodged by bumps. I was proud of the Rube Goldberg solution for its effectiveness, but it took a while to undo it all.

When I got the tube out of the tire, I discovered that my two spare tubes were missing. A quick memory search: that odd noise I heard a few days ago was the sound of the bundle of two of them hitting the road after a bump. I had not stopped to investigate the noise. Damn.

The yellow pages in the phone book in the restaurant yielded no bike shops in Trinidad, but on chance, the white pages showed one in town. I called and they had my tubes, but they don’t, won’t and can’t deliver, so I had to catch a ride. The address was on E. Main Street, so I thought I’d have an easy time of it.

By now, the restaurant was almost open. A middle-aged couple came out and they agreed to take me to E. Main Street. The couple’s names were Manuel and Nelly Garcia, and they owned the restaurant. I must admit I was disconcerted by their constant reference to me as “gringo,” but it sounded benign.

Problem: There was no bike shop on Main Street, east or west of the midtown area. In fact, there was no official East on Main Street. Manuel recalled a suburb, north of town, that had its own Main Street, and so it did, and there it was. They showed incredible patience while they waited .. it took extra long because the bike shop’s computer was down and they seemed not to be able to conclude my business without it. Then they asked if I minded them making some stops on the way back to the restaurant! Indeed, it was why they left the restaurant in the first place. Talk about politeness, civility and generosity of spirit!

It took awhile. By the time I got back and had the bike ready to go, it was nearing noon, so breakfast became lunch. I don’t recommend a mega-meal of Mexican food, as good-tasting as it may be (and this was), as the way to begin a serious biking effort. Enough said.

This was the day I got three flats within seven miles, and destroyed a tire on one of them. My resolve was severely tested. It was also one of four occasions when (sorry, ladies) if I were a woman, I’d have sat down and cried ... which was my first inclination.

This last flat was on a steep uphill to Raton Pass, and the flat made itself known to me as I got off the bike to walk the last eighth of a mile to the top. A guy hailed me from the other side of the divided highway. He’d passed me going my way then circled back. “Do you need any help?” Answer: “Do you have any spare tubes with you?” I was speaking self-mockingly. I had one tube left. He circled back and made space to haul me to the next truck stop. I was dead tired and dispirited. Making space was no small feat. Ian Dolly was returning from a month’s graduate program of field studies in North Dakota. He camped while doing research on burrowing owls. All his camping gear and whatever was in the back of that little Toyota, plus his mountain bike on the back rack, where there was room for my bike too. The dog he’d acquired was in the front seat ... a wonderfully friendly and handsome long-haired Corgi. I still can’t figure out how my stuff got in there, but the Corgi wound up on top of everything else in the back, perched where she could continually lick my neck. I am not normally fond of licking, and I did have to inhibit her a little, but I needed a dose of friendliness of the touching kind, and I must say I mostly relished it.

Ian was heading south, way past Albuquerque and wanted to take me that far, but I got out at the next truck stop, maybe a total of 7 miles down the road, and more significantly, over the Raton Pass.

Once there, I proceeded to change the tube. A fellow pumping his own gas asked if I needed money. It sounded like a dumb question, but I explained that I was donating my ride to raise money for charity. Joseph and Eileen Edwards insisted on giving me $10.00! As with the unexpected donations handed to me in Fremont, Wisconsin, I reasoned that he would not be much inclined to support my humanist religion, nor my college, nor my home town, but undoubtedly would have preferred the high school club (Interact) that helps third world children with medical problems.

I made great time after that, but was extremely nervous about riding without spare tubes.

I came upon two young women in a small Honda beside the road. The car was wearing a totally shredded tire. When I stopped to check on them, they said an AAA truck was coming for them and they had requested he bring a tire. The truck arrived momentarily. No spare tire. But the ladies had a donut spare. They didn’t know you can drive on them up to 60mph and thought they’d be limited to maybe 30mph. I got some cool water from them and left, but they did invite me to ride with them if I wanted to. It was an empty gesture ... there really was no room in the little car (and no, they were being nice, not coming on to me). They were headed for a wedding in Albuquerque (or was it Santa Fe?). Eventually they passed me, without even a horn toot.

I stopped at a rest area, maybe 12 miles down the road. “Next rest area: 60 miles away.” At 80 mph, that’s only 45 minutes. No big deal in a car; on a bike, it can be the whole day.

Rest areas are different out west. Attractively architected, but consisting only of toilets, nice sheltered bench areas, and water fountains that run cool, if you wait long enough. (And warnings not to venture off-path because of poisonous insects and snakes. Don't gotta tell me that twice!) No other services, although one place had a soda vending machine. Huge areas for trucks to park. I had conversations with two truckdrivers. Both offered to give me a ride, and one was going all the way to L.A. That was the older one. He said he'd won a $172 million lottery. His wife stole the ticket and took off. He got not one cent of it. Meanwhile, he was raising their kids and two nephews. He said other things, and was so earnest, but I really didn’t believe him. I guess I'd like to think it wasn’t true.

The younger one, maybe 23 years old, had a completely different tale. He had gone on a church walk with five other youths, at the age of 15. They carried a cross and walked from Oklahoma to Missouri, to spread the faith by their so doing. They were not allowed to ask for food or shelter, but could accept it when offered. They’d camped out a lot and eventually scored a ride all the way back to Tulsa. He wanted to do it again, and walk further, as much for the spiritualism of it as the wanderlust and experience. Guess I wasn't the only odd duck on the road. Everyone, it seems, has a story.

At a truck stop later on, I asked how far to the next motel and the countergirl said there was one in Springer, 5 miles further. Then she called it and made a reservation for me ... the last room available. They said they’d hold it for me for 30 minutes, till they heard I was on a bike, and bumped that to 1 hour, at my request. I must have been prescient. The countergirl suggested that I take the newly paved frontage road beside I25, to avoid the traffic. Mistake! Newly paved, yes. But it was the worst kind of macadem, overmixed with stones and bumpy/vibrationy as hell. Worse, I forgot, for the time, that frontage roads have more ups and downs than the highways they parallel. Worse, the headwinds picked up. I needed most of the one hour hold time to make it to the motel. The town was Springer, famous locally for its correctional institution. Road signs warn against picking up hitchhikers in the area!

There was a small Mexican restaurant next door to the motel, closing soon after I checked in, where I had the tastiest sauteed chicken strips/caesar salad I’ve ever had. The salad dressing was a package of Newman’s Own Italian, 180 calories of which 170 were fat ... something I’d normally avoid like the plague, but relished on the road.

Sometimes you win.