Somewhere Over the Lame Toe

Day 40

Eads, CO to Scott City, KS

Distance: 104 miles

Bug count: milli-pedal

Margarita count: two (but size matters)

After the malaise of naval gazing going down yesterday, I took myself to one side and gave myself a piece of my mind. Or something less psychotic than that, but equally as effective.

And so this morning I was up and raring to spring from the traps… after hitting snooze twice.

Spritzing the foxy feet with a fine mist of ironing spray (OK, a thick fog) and slotting in the pristine new insoles purchased in the Eads Treasure Trove, I felt better already. And once my pedicure injury was anointed and wrapped tight with Band-Aid, and the Starsky & Hutch sunburn was liberally slathered with Factor 70, Steed and I were ready to hit the road.

With wheels rolling by a little before 7.30am, it wasn’t too shabby a start, and with virtually no wind, and a flat, smooth road, I was in Sheridan Lake and packing down a warm apple pie and yuk-coffee with powdered creamer before you could say “muchas calorifica”.

And it was as I was heading away from my first morning break that the bugs started in earnest.  I’ve started getting used to the jumping crickets, the magic biting flies that can penetrate through lycra without a second glance and the fat, hairy, slow-moving caterpillars. The meaty locusts still freak me the f**k out but, other than that, I thought I’d cracked it… But no.

Within a mile of my stop, I had a big, fat nasty bug with furry legs stuck in my hair, in a gap in my cycling helmet. Stopping to remove my helmet and flick it out, and then rub my hair manically and scream like a banshee for several seconds, I proceeded to take a photo of the offending beastie (just in case) both face down and (even more gross) belly-up.

It wasn’t long before a second bug made the same error of judgment – this time a couple in a pick-up pulled over to ask if I was OK as I was going through my freak-out routine – I assured them in my best BBC English accent that I was “absolutely fine, but thank you so much for asking” before returning to manic scalp scratching and squealing at full volume.  

And as the “bug-rate” increased, I had to stop singing “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” by Kylie, and hum it instead, for fear of a nasty wingy-thingy flying into my mouth. We won’t talk about the one that got stuck in my sports bra (good story being told down the young bug pub tonight over a bug beer), or the small fly I pulled out of my ear on the end of a cotton bud earlier (TMI).  

Even Steed was not immune, as I flinched from several unwelcome stowaways, clinging onto his forks, and other bits of him with their nasty wiggly legs, until I turned the wheel and forced the wind through the relevant part of the bike, and saw them on their way.

Next, I started to notice huge, black crusty beatles scuttling across the shoulder in front of me, just tempting me to crunch over them with my tyres and make crispy cream of them, which I didn’t want to do, but, really….

Finally, they got their own back when one of the huge trucks on the road was coming the other way, which, each time, would cause a wall of wind to hit me head-on like a slap in the face. But this time a poor unsuspecting bug got caught in the slip-stream, and collided with my left cheekbone at a high rate of knots, giving me the sensation of having been pelted in the face with a stone the size of a small marble.

But really, it was all good fun. And I was soon distracted by the tiny town I passed just a few miles later called, rather appropriately, Towner. I could just imagine the pioneers and they rode through on their wagons naming the various settlements upon which they stumbled.

“OK Bob, I think we’ll call this town…er… (blink)….oh…”

“Gotcha Bill, 'Towner', great name.”

And it wasn’t long after that I reached the Kansas border, after which the bugs were conspicuous by their absence. Well almost. It’s a shame that the same thing could not be said about the wind. After a still morning, the breeze picked up in the afternoon. With fifty miles still to go, and a stupidly strong side-wind, it felt like I was back in Wyoming again, except the terrain was flat, and the road smooth.

Eventually rolling into my hotel a little after 5.30pm (with the time change), I showered up and headed back up the main road to a Mexican restaurant I had passed (and noticed its sign about fantastic Margaritas).

It was no word of a lie and, as I tucked into my first of two goldfish bowl sized pieces of limey, sweet, salty joy, I also devoured a whole chicken fajita dinner (tortillas, rice, refried beans, the works), before necking the second.

I was hoping to be able simply to click my red shoes together to get back to my hotel. But instead, I found myself swaying gently through the darkness. 

Past a beautiful and perfect crescent moon.  

Rest day again tomorrow – much needed after this afternoon’s wind.

Me x