Forty to Finish

June 23, 2019

I had averaged 99.4 miles per day during the first week and 101 miles per day in week two. When I reached Eads and the conclusion of the third week, my daily average continued to climb. Factoring in a dismal 57-mile day, I increased miles per day to 102.8 in week three. I had pedaled 2,123 miles so far. The 101-mile average was still not enough to put me in Yorktown in less than 40 days. Reports that the Ozark Mountains in Missouri and the Appalachians in Kentucky and Virginia were extraordinarily difficult to climb weighed heavily on my mind. In a postrace interview about the Ozarks, Abdullah shared, “The Ozarks were more challenging than the Rockies.” He went on to say the constant up and down hills took a toll on him, mentally and physically. I mistakenly thought it would be a slam dunk to increase miles in the open plains of eastern Colorado and Kansas. I rode away from Eads in the right frame of mind, thinking, I can make up ground as long as the weather conditions allow me to.

At 7:28 a.m., fluffy, white, cotton ball clouds appeared against the backdrop of a clear, blue sky, a welcome sight for the start of a new day. A solid white line separated the vehicle lane from the six-inch shoulder, and prairie grass continued as far as the eye could see. Nature’s beauty in this uninhabited wilderness greeted me when I set out on Highway 96. I counted the continuous telephone poles on both sides of the highway to pass the time, to the tune of “A hundred bottles of beer on the wall…” Occasionally, I rode past a dead critter or turtle run over by a passing vehicle, a not too subtle message to be aware of passing cars.

Every time I ate breakfast at a motel, I pocketed several of the half-ounce Smucker’s assorted peanut butter and jelly packets for the road. When the sensation of weakness cried out around 2:00 to 3:00 p.m. each day, I knew I had to eat quickly. My energy level decreased, and sometimes I became light-headed. Peanut butter and jelly packets became my go-to, on-the-spot fuel supply, especially when riding through towns with little or no services.

At 8:54 a.m., I stopped pedaling. A single oil derrick stood out like a sore thumb about 50 yards off the highway, surrounded by wheat fields, various grasses, and dirt. In 2013, a new oil gusher was discovered 40 miles from the Kansas border. I looked east toward the horizon and felt the majesty of the vast high plateau of the semiarid grassland. The flat landscape and fertile ground made the region ideal for ranchers and farming. The Heart of America, this area east of the Rocky Mountains and west of the Mississippi Valley, is known as the Great Plains or simply the grasslands.77

A crushed Kansas box turtle lay dead on the road shoulder. It seemed wildly out of place in this dust bowl. To engage my mind, I noticed everything, scanning my surroundings. I looked at the tall grass, likely big bluestem, which can reach as high as 10 feet. Most of what I saw in the Great Plains was short grass used for pastureland and wheat fields. The taller, lighter shade of green grass waved in the wind. The land wasn’t always this way. The term dust bowl comes from when early settlers plowed the soil and buffalo ate grass, destroying the root system.78 There was nothing to hold the soil; when winds swept through, the soil lifted, causing great dust storms.