Gettin through Kansas

After such a great weekend, our departure from Wichita was a little difficult. Not only had the weekend with our friends impressed upon us both a sense of heavy nostalgia, but as Thomas pointed out, Pueblo, CO... not "Kansas", as may be geographically assumed... represented 50% of our trip accomplished. Although reaching Wichita made us feel so incorrectly, the truth was that we had another +200 miles to go before we could even say we'd ridden half the voyage. 

The one overwhelmingly positive result of our time off the bike was that it had given Thomas and me time enough to separate and do our own thing--which had been much-needed for awhile now. This trip has made me realize that the Type-A personalities my brother and I both carry, (not to mention how similar we are in other ways) present potential to create heavy clashes, which it has as the younger-older brother construct began to be challenged over the past year or so. For much of our life, my inclination as oldest sibling has been to be one of 'dictator', in-so-much as I've always been the one in charge, the one who decided where to go or what to do, and the one that bossed everyone around. As you can imagine, this relationship was fundamentally unsustainable--a reality that has taken me much of my college years to admit. A trip of this size simply magnifies this issue, and in the weeks leading up to Wichita, these growing conflicts had begun to shroud our relationship with an ongoing tension that influenced and distorted all of our exchanges.

It becomes difficult to enjoy the trip if the travelers can't get along.

However, either because of the interaction with our most trusted of friends, the time spent with our family (and their suggestions on how to better get along) or simply the time "apart"over the weekend, I look back on the past two weeks post-KS happily, because much of that tension has somehow been erased. Thomas and I have enjoyed the last two weeks back on the bike, with a noticeable difference in the way we interact. I try to be more cautious and conciliatory, Thomas seems to have adopted a habit of laughing off my (frequent) infractions of our new code. He might tell you (with ample supply of examples, I'm sure) that his older brother is an idiot--and all you can really do is laugh at him when he's acting accordingly. I'm okay with that. 

The ride to Colorado was long, hot, and dry. We had multiple days of +100 degree weather. Our general tactic was to awake early morning and to bicycle until about 2 oclock, at which point we'd take an afternoon break until 5 or 6--when the sun would be low enough to make continuation bearable. The true issue with midwestern heat is that it makes camping oppressively intolerable. Often it wouldn't be until 11 pm that the heat would have dissipated enough to make the tent sleep-able. Until then, we would have to wait, exhausted and anticipating an early morning rise, outside our tent where at least it was cool enough to ward off too-much sweat and funk. Of course, outside the tent there was, too, the taxing plight of mosquitos. Needless to say, Kansas (at least in this aspect) was not our most enjoyable state.

As it turned out, the entry into Colorado was accompanied by teams of what the locals call "biting flies." These nasty things were incorrigible--as all of the most successfully-evolved pests seem to be. Our first run-in with these little fuckers occurred in the middle of nowhere somewhere between Scott City and Sheridan Lake, when we stopped at a lone farm to seek water. As we trudged up the front steps to solicit well-water, I suddenly felt a biting pain in my calf. Looking down, expecting some sort of hornet, I was surprised to see what looked like a normal housefly. I swatted it away, but it came back moments later, this time with a friend. Before we knew it, Thomas and I were swinging and swatting at the hordes of flies as even more flocked toward us. We ran for our bicycles, believing a quick getaway would require no more than a quarter-mile sprint. Wrong again. As we pedaled furiously, at least 30 flies followed us, easily dodging our wild, off-balance smacks, buzzing alongside us in swarms as they flew in to bite our arms, legs, and rear-ends. As luck would have it, it was precisely in this moment of battle that my first major mechanical hold-up struck; my right pedal broke clean in half, with the front of the pedal and all of the foot-cage dragging beneath the bike. Horrified, I thought maybe I could quickly fix the pedal on the side of the road, but as soon as I stopped, the flies swarmed once again and it was all I could do to keep from panicking. As I screamed for help, Thomas tried to battle the flies as I pulled off the scrap metal and plastic that was my right pedal, but the chaos of the moment caused him to crash his bicycle. If it weren't for the sheer insanity and horror of the moment, I'm sure it would have been hilarious. As it were, we rode as fast as our little terrorized bodies could take us. 

From Wichita to Colorado, we rode three days of over 100 miles, but that day in the desert sun and with biting flies on our asses every time we attempted to stop, we raced forward to arrive in Kit Carson after a whopping 124 mile ride, after coordinating an emergency rescue with our friend Kalyn Zupan, from Graceland. She and her boyfriend, Kohl, rode all the way out from Colorado Springs in their truck to pick us up and save the day. To both of you: Thanks again. Seriously.

Trees? Who needs 'em?

No-man's Land

Rewarding ourselves with a little Mexican cuisine. :)

Deserted