Day 30, part 1, how to celebrate a month

I am in Salida, unrested from sleeping on a bench by the highway. But the sun, the sun woke me up by turning every red rock on at 530 in the morning. I made Salida by 8, finally picked up the maps, ate a cream cheese pumpkin muffin, a chocolate croissant, and a scramby eggs on a fresh ciabatta. I rode up the Arkansas and couldn't see the thing -- it was one long, blinding gold mirror.

I am washing my clothes with some hip 60-year-olds and listening to the radio. The first 15 seconds of Annie Lennox's "Walking on Broken Glass" are nearly perfect. Seeing an old cowboy tap his boots to it is completely perfect.

I got the next series of maps from Boris, who you may remember from my first hard day in Kentucky. Back then, as I remember it, this blog was a daily log of human and geographical failure. I barely wrote about people, so let's do Boris some justice as he is greatly responsible for the shift to the better.

The first day in Kentucky was the hardest day of riding. It also had the most pleasant surprise at the end of it. David, proprietor of the Historical Society, was waiting for me with a perfectly cool glass of sweet tea that helped me forget the cruelly steep hills I'd had to pass since the breaks. Boris had gotten there at noon and found it so nice he just stayed.

Boris was the first other cyclist I'd gotten a chance to sit and talk with. He was all advice: who to stop and say hello to; where to eat the best pie; where to camp with swimming pools and waterslides; and, most importantly, how to take your time and make this a trip about the country and people.

You can track cyclists traveling in the opposite direction by the many bike books in restaurants, inns, bathrooms, gas stations, and RV parks across the country. And so I could see Boris (San Fran --> Yorktown) at many of the spots I hit: "Tremendous pie, I'm waiting for one more slice"; "Thank you so much B---- and V----- for taking me into your home and your kindness..."; etc, etc, etc. He played frisbee golf with cacti in the desert. He took a day off to watch little league in Kansas.

I emailed him after he finished his goodwill tour in Yorktown. The mapmakers (who I am not tremendously fond of) ran out maps. I would have been stuck in Pueblo. Boris spent part of his first day back home express mailing me the maps and then emailing me the directions to Salida. Then he wrote a massive email listing more great things to see (abandoned motels in the desert), and where to get fresh water.

So, unsuccinctly, thank you. He lives in San Francisco and should pop up in this narrative when I get to the sweet, sweet Pacific.

---------

Now, it's been a month. My clothes are in the dryer. I have 6 minutes to decide if I celebrate this anniversary by crossing the highest pass on my trip or by getting as close to the top as I can and taking it easy. I do need a shower quite badly. I guess we'll see.