Day 29, a small landmark

I watched my first movie since starting this trip. It was the new Batman. It was brilliant. I find movies to be one of the most moving, total entertainments. And this particular time I found it much more satisfying for numerous reasons, chiefly: I haven't seen images fly that quickly past my eyes; I haven't felt speed and kinetics like in the batmobile chases since my descent down Vesuvius; and come on, it's Batman.

I woke up with all my blood in my groin. I was sleeping like a banana on an imitation leather couch. It was donated. About three month's back, Gillian's home and ranch burned down in a fire that devastated much of Southeastern Colorado. The winds pushed the blaze at 60 miles an hour. It took Gillian a week to put out the fires in horse manure and on the railroad ties.

Gillian lost everything. She was stoic about the deal -- in the way you'd fully expect a Kiwi prison warden to be -- but she was upset about losing her photos. She also lost 10 years worth of logs and diaries she kept when sailing the world. So, miles from home, miles from the sea, in a donated house in a drought ridden town, wearing a donated highschool basketball jersey, Gillian helped us to goose eggs. Alicia, the fragile young girl helping around the property, mended a gosling's wing.

We rode out at 730 and made it to Pueblo by noon, despite stopping to chat with a nice bunch of cyclists from Portland with an ambitious travelplan. We had to make the post office before closing. We missed Crowley County Days, but we did see a fifty-odd classic cars drive past us on the way to the parade. Every single one waved.

The road to Pueblo was flat and uneventful. Well, I did run over a rattlesnake. Oh, and far away, blue with distance, the Rockies pricked up in the sky until they surrounded us. I am leaving flatness behind.

Pueblo is nice enough. A lot of cyclists found it a little dicey and unfriendly, but bear this in mind: any city of size is going to look bad next to the small mountain town; any city is going to seem spooky if you have to ride through the whole thing; and come on, they have a movie theater.

They also have good Mexican. We went to a nice restaurant next to a bike shop. I tried to eat a 9 pound burrito in a competition with the chef. It was called El Burrito Loco. Once I was served, I was not allowed to leave my seat until I cleaned my plate or quit. I left a loser. I don't care to see the man who can eat a 9 pound burrito.

A nap was in good order. I've been feeling lousy from the fast cycling, the long days, and the altitude. I'm feeling a bit of burnout, but I should make it to Telluride before I crash. The 5 pounds of burrito I ate did not help one iota.

I slept until 6 and then it was off to the health food store on my way to the cinema. The walls were lined with vitamins, granola bars, gluten-free shoes, head massagers, and kombucha. The women who worked there were beautiful, smiling sextagenarians who darted back and forth to help me get one of everything and anything that would make me feel better. They all had long, flowing hair that was lined with grey. They were healthy colored. It was like being helped by Joan Baez, Emmylou Harris, and Joni Mitchell if they all happened to be your mother and were wildly concerned with your health. Note: Not a bad idea for a tremendously unpopular sitcom.

I'm in my motel room. As I click, I am fighting the burrito with wonderful health food. I am sleeping in. I am navigating without maps until Salida, but I'm not worried. I'll just point my bike towards those big green mountains.