Gray

It ended up raining last night and I ended up sleeping in the barn. It was warm and comfortable enough, at least as sleeping on cement can be. It was still raining when I woke, but no more than a drizzle to a light shower. And with some of my breakfast food in my belly, I set off into the gray day. Perhaps I should have taken it as an ill foreboding, but I was in good spirits as I ventured forth into the cold and wet. I got my backside, camel pack, bike, and trailer quickly covered in sand and dirt, and had a little trouble keeping circulation in my hands (lost a little fine motor control to the numbness there for awhile) but other than that it was all good. The wind wasn't blowing, and wasn't that really all I'd been asking for?

The rain was a little disappointing mainly because it made me not want to take out my phone to take pictures. There was a fiddle festival going on in Weiser and they had decorated fiddle signs of all sorts in town, of which I got no pictures, much as the decorated bison in Custer for the same reason. But as I crossed the Snake River, and saw the sign that I was in Oregon, I couldn't help myself. I was exceedingly giddy for awhile after that, thinking how I had biked all the way from Lincoln to the edge of a coastal state. Funny how crossing a rather ordinary river and seeing a little sign can put one in such high spirits.

The Snake River Valley was gorgeous. I kept wanting to stop and take pictures. And every time I did I would make it around the bend and see something better I should have photographed instead, but then knew I shouldn't because I had just stopped. That's the way it always seems to go isn't?

I was headed along the interstate, making slow but acceptable time, the clouds having just cleared and the sun come out to dry off all the wet and vanquish the gray, when I suddenly something was wrong. My back tire had gone flat. This was bad enough, and I was cursing a little at having to deal with it, back tires being such a pain to get on and off after all. But what I thought was a problem, I realized was more a disaster. It wasn't some minor puncture, my balding tire was full of tears. Cue the "I told you so's" from everyone, including me. I knew that tire needed replaced, but the lady back at the bike shop in Worland had insisted it was fine and would last the rest of my way. If I'd just gotten a new tire back then...or really, any time before now. But the mistake was made, and the situation was what it was, me on the side of the interstate, putting in a new inner tube while feeling sure the tire wouldn't keep it from getting punctured through the next 20 miles to town. The worst thing, I had no signal. It took me way longer than I think says well of people driving past, but eventually an awesome guy with his family stopped for me. And thank goodness, he had signal (must be a Verizon customer). I called my host for the night, explained the situation as best I could over the sound of the roaring vehicles passing by, and he said he'd come rescue me.

There I was, getting rescued again, and feeling like a fool. But my host shrugged it off I offered him $20 for gas, but he refused it and it paid for my new tire instead. And then in an even more generous act, he replaced the front tire for me too with one he happened to have around in his rather impressive "bike cave" in his basement.

The worst thing is, I know the nit-picky side of me will now always say I didn't make it all the way (and that's assuming nothing else like this happens between here and Seattle). Even though I could match this 20 mile ride forward with the 20 miles back from my dad way back in Nebraska, and say the ride in Yellowstone took me out of the way more than it did closer, and certainly note there was no avoiding the one to two mile ride I got through muddy construction they were advising motorcycles against going through, I think I'm still going to judge myself. ...I guess I'll just have to get over it.

My hosts are really incredible. My hostess made a delicious vegetarian dinner and even ice cream for dessert. My hostess is an artist of all kinds, crocheting impressive doilies, making clay dragon pencil toppers, and feather earrings from inner tubes, all sorts of neat artwork, especially from recycled materials. She reminds me of my mom and her artwork (she does papier mache and painting on stone). And as alluded to already, my host is a skilled, self taught bike mechanic, and quite a bicyclist, who I am sure will be on a cross country tour of his own real soon. I always feel lucky in the great hosts I get.

I think my gray day ended up bright after all.