I rolled tonight into Eads, Colorado, a rough little crossroads on the arid and windswept High Plains, feeling just like a road-weary cowboy ambling into town on a horse after long miles on the dusty western trail. This is the American west.

Colorado, after a week of sailing along through the agrarian prairie, is a whole new world. I left the fields of wheat and dead-level flatness dramatically behind when I made the Colorado border, as new scenes of semi-arid desert flora and undulated and duned expanses suddenly exploded before me. These are the scenes where movie Westerns were set, where tumbleweed and wagon trains were icons of the American west, where cowboys and gunslingers roamed. And still do, in fact, only now in trucks and without the six shooters. As such I can't shake the feeling that I am one of them, as is anyone who rides into this place, a drifter on the plains who just skulked into town on a tired steed, looking for grub, a bath and a bed.

I've climbed and climbed, ever so gradually, for two weeks. Always on flat ground but with a horizon that is always just above eye level. The upward push culminates here, nearly resolves, into a high plateau which is evident not in a vista but in the lack of it, as the horizon pauses to catch its breath. It is only a sense of resolution, a feeling of being up against the ceiling of the sky, like standing on a chair with your head up in the rafters, it just feels different than the air down below. We're not in Kansas anymore, and certainly not New York. Here there is a sense of peril that can never exist in agrarian plains to the east, absolutely because of what looms just ahead. It is a presense so foreboding, unyeilding and massive as to instill fear just knowing they are near: The Rocky Mountains. They are just over that horizon. Mutely awaiting me in the heights of rarified air. Seperating me from my destination.

I also left the flat-lined spirit of the tour back there in doldrumed prairie. After pedaling for a few days with other cyclists, always a psuedo experience of sorts, like peering out a window only to find it's merely a mirror, I found myself alone once again as accompanying cyclists sped ahead. I stayed to find solo peace at a table in a gas station just after leaving Kansas. I sat there eating a sandwich of turkey, beef, pickles, cucumber, olives and cheese, when a young man of about 18 years of age in billed cap and farming attire spoke to me from across the room.

"From New York," I answered.

"San Fran."

"67 days."

"Probably make it in another month or so."

I explained to the man, Daniel, a farmhand eating his lunch at the gas station, about the trek's impetus and the fundraising effort for American Brain Tumor Association. I queried him about this land, and learned about the nuances of raising wheat and millet, and hunting mule deer and pronghorn antelope.

When it was time for him to leave, he approached and handed me a $20 bill.

"It's not much, but I had a friend die last year from brain cancer, so..." he said, almost shyly, but so strong and right in his response as to seem mature beyond his years.

"She was 18, her name was Olivia," Daniel said. "It happened real fast."

It was then, solo again in the gas station, that I knew that the mission, the business, of the Life's Too Short Tour was back in focus, as sharp and vital as it was back in New Jersey, Virginia, or Missouri.

"I will," Daniel said.

Bear, who hosted me a night of the trek while passing through eastern shore of Virginia two months ago, and has since become a friend of ours here, called while I was in that same gas station, informing that he took it upon himself to give me two nights at a Clarion Hotel in Pueblo, to be enjoyed as a rest day Friday and Saturday. I could launch into a paragraph of gratitude about it, but Bear says "thanks" is enough. Thanks, Bear.

Then I got a call from Jennifer, my sister, who lives in Santa Cruz, California. Jennifer will join me for a leg of the trip through Utah and Nevada. She will pedal along with me. My mother Moya, who lives in the mountains outside of Santa Cruz, will follow in Jen's truck. This plan will happen in about two weeks. We will ride together for a week or more.

I ventured into a place at the edge of Eads called Mill House Saloon. A cowboy hat-clad proprietor served a draft and I sat back and listened to the patrons voice their culture over Johnny Cash and Hank Williams. Farmers, most of them, their banter centered on crops and weather.

"I got 2,900 acres and nearly got 47 bushels per acre."

"If I could get 40 or more on my wheat over by the Kansas line, you know I got 1,000 acres over there, I'd crap apples and eat 'em."

"Yeah well lookie there, weather report, rain every day comin' up."

The farmers and cowboys in the saloon said I'm only a day away from seeing the Rockies rise. Pike's Peak will be dead west, Twin Peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Range will appear southwest.

until later...

It is flat ground mostly, although each mile is a gradual climb up unto the high plains that are central Kansas. Winds were coming at me from the side, even slightly from behind at times, and so headwinds were not an obstacle. But when I turned north for a four-mile portion of the ride the headwinds hit me hard, slowing me to a crawl.

Tomorrow I want to put a high-mileage day in after three days of short treks. I have conceded three days now to short rides, unwilling to push hard and far, the result of a certain malaise that has set in just recently.

Other tourers speak of a malaise that can set in along this phase of the transcontinental trek. Know I now what they mean. Kansas, for as great as the people seem to be, is mostly featureless and boring. There are no vistas to await, no photos opportunities to expect, and a lack of towns to find interest in. It is well known among TransAm tourers that this mid-way point is bleak, and most challenging. The beginning third of the trek, no matter from which coast, is filled with excitement and anticipation, while the final third of the trek is highlighted each day by the approaching finish line. But the middle third, here in the prairie, are doldrums. I must fight through these doldrums to the west, where new and spectacular scenery awaits, and assuredly a new perspective will dawn. I long for the coast, where the ocean and sun evoke a spirit of freedom for me, while here in the middle of the continent I only feel trapped, trapped by miles and miles and miles of land.

But what helps sustain my mood are encouraging words from those I have met along the way. The fire chief in Farmington, Missouri, where I spent two nights a couple of weeks ago, commented on this blog, saying:

The wind on the prairie is a different kind of wind. It is like the wind that comes off the ocean, with a momentum to it that carries with it all the miles it has traveled. The wind here in Kansas feels like it has come from a long way away, across the continent. It is a large wind, like a tidal wave, which makes you feel small when it hits you and knocks you off course. Eastbounders who I've met along the route have complained about the Kansas headwinds, expressing relief to be facing the hills and mountains as they head east toward the Appalachian. Having pushed through some prairie headwinds I can concur, up to a point. A headwind is tough to pedal through, but it is nothing compared to the grades of the Appalachians. Pedaling into a headwind is stifling, and reduces speed drastically, but it does not demand the same level of sheer physical exertion as climbing hill after hill. In the mountains the bicycle is in terrain it simply isn't made for, on inclines that make pedaling a painful experience. Not so in the headwinds of the prairie, where slow and steady pedaling is tedious, but not physically demanding. I can only say that I am happy to be finished with the mountains of the east, and happy to only have wind to contend with.

Today I will attempt a 70-mile ride, to Eureka, where free camping is offered in the town park. Alternatively, I may pull up short and camp at Toronto, which is 50 miles away. I am growing weary of the camping. I long for the day when I can retire the tent and the thin sleeping pad. I believe that I'll find excitement again in the scenery of the west. But there is nothing that will excite me more than the sign that says "Welcome to California." I have ridden nearly 2,000 miles thus far, and there is about 1,600 miles to go. I am officially two-thirds into the trek, even though geographically I am in the exact middle of the continent. I figure I can arrive at the Pacific Ocean in about five weeks. At 1,600 miles, if I bike 50 miles per day, I will finish the trek in 32 days, not including a few rest days. I look forward fiercely to finishing.

Today is Rich's birthday. It is a day that the family will recognize the loss. I pray that, instead of sorrow on this significant day, we can instead find the joy of life as the sun gives another beautiful and precious day for us to behold and partake in.

Midway into the day, a man pulled over in his car and accosted me for conversation, in a replay of many previous incidents just like it. He introduced himself as Jim, a bicyclist from Pennsylvania on vacation in the Ozarks. Just like with others before, it was a few minutes into the meeting that he opened up to me about his personal travails, and I assumed my default role in these situations as roadside counselor. He showed me two portfolios of photos he had taken, gave me a water bottle, and a supply of energy drink powder called Cyto-Max. I spent 45 minutes listening to Jim, who called himself a Christian and quoted a few verses during the exchange. I am puzzled as to why these interactions continue to happen, in ongoing fashion, all along this trek. The Cyto-Max, incidentally, which I mixed into my water, is designed to alleviate lactic acid buildup, a nemisis for me throughout the past 54 days on the road. I mixed some into my water, and drank it down, and was shocked to discover a new power in my legs, with minimized lactic acid pain over the hills. This stuff really seemed to work.

I pedaled to Houston quickly, and checked in with police before setting up my tent in the town park pavilion last night. At the camp I spent a few rich hours with two fellow Trans Am bicyclists, Tom and Paul. The east-bound duo are from Cincinatti, both around 60 years of age, have been on the road from Oregon an equal amount of time as me.

I found a connection with the older riders.  There was a lot of laughter between us throughout the night and then when we breakfasted together. Paul, a retired police officer, was riding a recumbent bicycle, the first of which I have encountered on the tour. On a recumbent, the rider sits upright as if on a chair, with pedals out ahead. He towed a trailer with his recumbent for his cargo. Tom, a pipe-fitter and custom-home builder, rode a new Kona touring bike with matching a panniers and two American flags waving from the rear. After our camps were set up, we sat on picnic tables in the pavilion as darkness overtook. I shared with them, over maps of our routes, several short cuts and accomodation possibilities. Paul retired early, leaving Tom and I to spiral deep into conversation until after midnight, with moths orbiting about the pavilion lights and Tom puffing on thin cigars. We delved into esoterics late into the night.

Tom said he put two American flags on his bike to increase his visibility to motorists, and was surprised at the favorable reaction he been garnering from passersby ever since. "It's incredible how much more friendly people are since I put the flags on," he said.

The next morning the three of us went to McDonalds for breakfast, and Tom stopped at a nearby Wal-Mart and bought two such flags for me to fly.

I spent some time in a coffee shop in Houston, trying to blog. I was invited to stay at a church in town, but declined as it was four miles off-route and I was not up to the extra bicycling that evening.

Day 56: I awoke from the motel feeling fairly well-rested, packed up and loaded the 520, and am now in McDonalds where I am finishing up this post before heading out to Marshfield. The WiFi at the motel didn't work last night, another saga in the WiFi problems that seem to exist everywhere. McDonalds is the only place where I can rely on it. A typcial challenge in trying to think and write in McDonalds or in coffee shops, as I have stated here before, is the music that plays constantly in those places. Thankfully it is at a low volume in this particular McDonalds.

Today I will pedal west from Houston, along route 17 to Bucyrus, then to route 38 through Fairview, Bendavis, Hartville, and finally to Marshfield. It represents about 65 miles. At Marshfield there is free camping in the city park.

The terrain is getting flatter, the roads straigther, looking more and more like prairie land. Eastbounders I meet, such as a group in the motel last night, deem this terrain "hilly," but their perspective is borne of the horizontal landscapes they've traversed through Colorado and Kansas. Westbounders like me have pushed for weeks through the vertically oriented Appalachains, which make these western Ozark hills seem downright flat. I look forward from here on out to easier riding, and corresonding high mileages, as the plains unfold before me.

until later...