Day 39: Limp or Hitch

77.91 miles (Total: 2105.44) Avg Speed: 11.4mph Max Speed: 19.5mph

Now happy with his new front tyre, Joe is horrified to find his other tyre is now showing signs of bulge. Its a stronger walled tyre however and doesn’t look terrible so should last him to Pueblo. We leave our shoes outside the motel rooms because they smell rancid. Joe’s sorry start to the morning worsens when he finds one of his shoes is missing. A local guy tells him a dog that wanders round the motel probably took it. Cycling shoes are not cheap and he is not a happy chappy. We walk through some streets aimlessly to try find it without luck. He will have to ride in his sandals on his spd pedals, not ideal.

After eventually setting off we make steady progress through the endless wheat fields that have started to make the ride taxing mentally. Kansas is an endless stretch of crops and farmland, it can become a boring slog so I’ve started to rock more tuneage to provide a soundtrack to the scenery.

At a gas stop we come across Jerry, an old hippie riding from California to Illinois. Some kids in the last town snapped and broke his gears and cables. The guy was stuck in his lowest gear, didn’t seem like he had much money and was many many miles away from a bike shop. This is finally our chance to repay the cycling gods for the help we have had.

Me an Joe assess the situation, we can’t simply fix the gear by replacing his cable. The only option is to remove his front deraillier which will allow him to manually put his chain on to whatever crank he wants. This essentially gives him 3 options for gears. He tries it out and its a big improvement, he will be fine on his middle chainring right through Kansas. I give him my bike multi-tool, I can use Joe’s till we get to the next cycle store. He replies “Serious! Far-out man.”

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Another hour gained

We continue on knowing Terry is waiting for us in the next town from which we will push on to Sheridan Lake in Colorado. Just as we feel pleased about being able to help somebody else my rear wheel goes “Piiing!”. Another broke spoke, not again. Its rear driveside again, which means I need a wrench, lock-ring, and chain-whip. I considered picking these up when I broke my last one, but there is a reason nobody carries the tools, they are expensive, big and heavy. Added to that the fact the cassette which is the part that needs removing actually tightens slightly on every crank, so to remove one from a touring bike that has covered thousands of miles is tough by the roadside even with those tools.

The wheel remains fairly true and we make it to meet Terry without further problems. He tells us on arrival that he has had two flats today and is now out of spare tubes and riding on a patched one. Its as if our bikes no they are within 2 days of a full service in Pueblo, we will be limping or hitching our way at this rate.

We have another 30 miles to Sheridan Lake and I press on cautiously whilst Joe goes over the physics again of missing one spoke. We make it 15 miles without further issues and see the Colorado state sign, its a huge moment. Colorado signifies the start of the West for me and apart from passing through Denver airport I have never been. We are all excited about the states to come after hauling through the east and mid-west.

Right then it happened, “Ping!”. Another, two spokes down put a hole in Joe’s theories. I feared they may begin to drop like flies. Out of options, all I can do is ride the bike. The 15 miles to Sheridan Lake is like walking on wafer thin ice, to make matters worse, the roads in eastern Colorado have cracks every few feet which you can’t help but hit. I’m taking it very slowly and eventually we crawl into town just at sunset to find the pastor and his wife who invite us into the church to sleep for the night. They advise us to sleep in the nursery area as it has double padded floors and offer us full use of the kitchen and food.

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State No.6

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I find a method online to replace spokes without removing the cassette, it involves bending an S-shape into the end of the spoke after cutting the head off. It seems good, in the morning I will take one of my spares over to the auto repair shop and see what they can do. For some reason despite our individual problems everybody is happy and laughing. Joe openly admits he wanted to encounter problems, it would be too easy otherwise!

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Joe’s not worried. Ride the bike, fix it when you can!

Joe had his front tyre now, but the celebration was short: his other tyre was already showing a bulge of its own. A stronger-walled tyre, at least, and not yet ugly enough to worry about tonight — it should get him to Pueblo, or so we told ourselves. We’d left our shoes outside the motel room overnight, the smell inside them having become genuinely unsafe. Joe’s morning got worse before it got better: one of his cycling shoes was gone. A local told him a dog that wandered the motel grounds probably took it. Cycling shoes aren’t cheap, and Joe was not a happy man. We walked the nearby streets looking for it and found nothing. He’d be riding the day’s seventy-eight miles in sandals clipped into SPD pedals, which is exactly as sensible as it sounds.

Once we finally got moving, we settled into steady progress through wheat fields that seemed to have no end, the kind of scenery that starts to wear on your mind more than your legs. Kansas is one long stretch of crop and farmland, and I’d started reaching for music more often just to give the miles a soundtrack.

At a gas stop we met Jerry, an old hippie pedaling from California to Illinois. Some kids in the last town had snapped his gear cables for sport, and he was stuck in his lowest gear with barely any money and no bike shop for many miles in any direction. It felt, finally, like our turn to pay something back.

Joe and I looked the bike over. There was no fixing the gear by replacing a cable alone — the only real option was pulling his front derailleur off entirely, so he could shift the chain by hand across whichever chainring he wanted. That gave him three usable gears instead of one. He tried it, and the difference was night and day; he’d manage fine on the middle ring clear across Kansas. I handed him my multi-tool and borrowed Joe’s until we hit the next bike shop. “Serious,” he said. “Far-out, man.”

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Another hour gained.

We pushed on, knowing Terry was waiting for us up ahead, from where we’d continue on to Sheridan Lake, Colorado. Just as we were feeling pleased with ourselves for helping somebody else, my rear wheel let out a sharp “Ping!” Another broken spoke. Driveside again, which meant I needed a wrench, a lockring tool, and a chain whip — none of which I carry, for the good reason that they’re heavy, expensive, and mostly useless anyway, since the cassette they’re meant to remove only tightens itself further with every mile a loaded touring bike puts under it.

The wheel held reasonably true and we reached Terry without further drama. He’d had two flats of his own that day and was out of spare tubes, riding now on a patch. It was starting to feel like our bikes somehow knew they were two days from a proper service in Pueblo and had decided to make the most of the time remaining — we’d be limping or hitching our way there at this rate.

Thirty miles still stood between us and Sheridan Lake. I rode on carefully while Joe worked through the physics of a wheel missing one spoke. We covered fifteen miles without trouble and crossed the Colorado state line — a genuinely huge moment. Colorado meant the start of the West to me, a part of the country I’d never seen beyond the inside of Denver airport, and we were all buzzing about what lay ahead.

Then it happened again. “Ping!” A second spoke gone, blowing a hole clean through Joe’s theories. There was nothing left to try, only the riding itself. The last fifteen miles into Sheridan Lake felt like walking on wafer-thin ice, made worse by the fact that eastern Colorado’s roads crack every few feet and there’s no missing them. I rode as gently as I could manage, and we crawled into town right at sunset, where the pastor and his wife took us in to sleep in the church, pointing us toward the nursery room with its double-padded floor and telling us to help ourselves to the kitchen.

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State No.6

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I found a method online for replacing a broken spoke without pulling the cassette at all — cut the head off, bend the end into an S-shape, and hook it through. It looked promising. In the morning I’d take a spare over to the local auto repair shop and see what they could make of it. Somehow, despite each of us nursing our own separate disaster, everybody was in good spirits, laughing about it. Joe admitted, straight out, that he’d wanted trouble on this trip. Otherwise, he said, it would all be too easy.

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Joe’s not worried. Ride the bike, fix it when you can.

73 days, one line across the country

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