See PART I HERE
PART II
I'm going to wrap this story up. This journey had almost nothing to do with scenery or people so look elsewhere for those details. It was a test of endurance and my will power to meet the wind head on. The landscape was irrelevant.
I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by 'em;
I remember seeing faces, hearing voices, through the smoke;
I remember they were fancy -- for I threw a stone to try 'em.
"Something lost behind the Ranges" was the only word they spoke.
I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by 'em;
I remember seeing faces, hearing voices, through the smoke;
I remember they were fancy -- for I threw a stone to try 'em.
"Something lost behind the Ranges" was the only word they spoke.
- Kipling. "The Explorer"
The madness was only beginning. I remained in St. Paul for a
week or two, always thinking about the winter approaching Wyoming and the
Sierras. I slowly recovered use of my arms and legs. The soreness and lack of
agility would take 5 years to recover from but in the two weeks off the bike I
managed to walk, to support my weight with my arms, to open and close my fists.
A doctor would've told me that I had narrowly avoided permanent joint damage.
"You're lucky to be alive," he'd probably say. But I didn't see a
doctor and considered my partial recovery a sign that I would indeed arrive at
my destination before winter. No sooner
had I regained the ability to walk I returned to the road. My friend had been
unable to convince me to postpone the journey until I fully recovered. I wanted
to prove to the wind that I could take the worst it could dish out. The rain
never stopped but I had washed my clothes. Dried out my gear. I've seen other
bike touring rigs and most weigh less than mine, but not by much. I had 75
pounds but most of that weight was water.

