Day 41: To Pueblo

Two more eastbound riders rolled into Haswell late the night before, after we’d already turned in, and we caught up with them over another gas-station breakfast. Today was Pueblo or bust for everyone. As we set off I did everything I could think of to keep the ride smooth for the bike — spreading my weight across every bump, keeping the gears low, letting the wheels turn as gently as possible over ninety-one miles that would decide a lot.

Spider made a home in my lid.

Joe and I kept each other laughing, same as always, though the laughs had a nervous edge to them. Could I honestly ride ninety-plus miles further on a wheel missing two spokes? Eastern Colorado offered no answers, only desolation — nothing moved, nothing made a sound, and the only noise for hours was the two of us turning our chains over tooth by tooth. The miles piled up regardless, and before long we were halfway, Pueblo starting to feel real rather than theoretical. We stopped at a service station to check the bikes over, Joe eyeing his remaining tyre with real concern, and then something happened that still doesn’t quite seem believable: we walked in for Gatorade and there, of all people, was Rod. He had his bike in the car and, having just bought himself two new tyres, handed Joe the other one on the spot. We sat and laughed with him again, and told him he really ought to ride that bike back to South Carolina once the harvest was done.

Back on the road, we let ourselves get excited — not just about getting the bikes serviced, but about the rest day waiting in Pueblo, our first in two weeks. A wrong turn cost us some time and taught us something we hadn’t noticed: we’d been riding a tailwind all morning, because the moment we turned back it was suddenly in our faces. Even that close to the finish, my morale dipped. Everything ached, and the mental toll of listening all day for a ping or a snap had worn me down more than the miles had. Eventually the city limit arrived. Pueblo had a distinctly Hispanic feel to it, more character already than Carbondale, and promised an interesting day ahead. We found a motel, dropped our gear, and allowed ourselves to feel something like disbelief that we’d made it in on two badly wounded bikes.

String for spokes.

After cleaning up, Joe found us somewhere to eat and drink for the evening — the Shamrock Brewing Company & Restaurant. We walked into town grinning, and my whole day was made the moment I saw the special was all-you-can-eat fish and chips. The beer was good, the food was better, and we hobbled back to the motel with full stomachs, knowing full well we didn’t have to spend the next day in a saddle.

Gang on the prowl.

Joe Meyer no longer needs a tyre.