From Friday evening until 8:30 this morning, we were spoiled on good food, good friends, and extreme relaxation. After 2 full days off the bike, my legs had ceased to feel like jello and I'd mostly forgotten how frustrating the ever-shifting Wyoming winds can be.
I hadn't seen my college friends Marie and Joe for 6 years (with the exception of Brock and my wedding, but that hardly counts for quality interaction); I never really thought I would make it out to Casper to visit them, and so rolling up to their doorstep on Friday felt surreal. Marie and Joe fed us deliciously concocted meals that typically involved meat they'd hunted: mostly elk, and some antelope and pork sausage.
While we don't eat much meat in Portland, I could get used to this carnivorous lifestyle---I'd have to hone my hunting skills of course. Last night the Scotts took us out to the shooting range on Joe's family's ranch. I nailed a couple of milk jugs with a .44 magnum, sending a satisfying spray of water high into the air; Brock, however, smoked his target 450 yards away with some sort of huge rifle. On second thoughts, he can bring home the game and I'll cook it.
I alternated gingerly attempting to shoot the various guns that Joe brought out with playing with Joe and Marie's adorable 17 month old daughter Kaia, who sported "mouse ears" (earmuffs to block the sound). She is one badass baby.
If you live in Portland, you should ride bikes. If you live in Wyoming, you should shoot guns. Otherwise, you're missing out on a defining piece of culture.
Blue skies and stiff winds greeted us as Brock and I made our way back over the pass this morning. We had an 85 mile day of riding ahead of us; I had initially balked at the distance, but there lay the only town on our way to Laramie within a day's riding distance from Casper, and we need the water a town provides.
We paused for lunch at a rest stop, one of those godsends we've discovered in Wyoming where you can take shelter in air conditioning and fill up on water.
A stout climb led up to the broad expanse of Shirley Basin, where Joe had warned us the wind could REALLY kick up. We crossed the giant plain ringed by hills and inhabited by the occasional cattle---I've been told that it takes 40 acres of land to sustain one head of cattle in this area.
The calm air belied Joe's warnings and lulled me into a content mood, happy to be pedaling and gazing up at the expansive sky. There was more sky than land to look at. Puffy white clouds, looking like disheveled cotton balls, marched in battalions across the blue as far as I could see. After some miles, the road curved westward and I spied a foreboding storm cloud stretching its dark fingers over the yellow grassland, scattering sheets of gray rain.
While the storm was still many miles away, the force of the wind that swept it along soon hit us. We slogged across the open plain in low gear, and my spirits dampened as my muscles groaned.
Finally, I couldn't take my mind off the futility of fighting the ever-increasing wind. I was seized by the desire to leap off my bike and with my last ounce of strength hurl it into the ditch and stick out my thumb for a ride.
I knew I had to keep sane, at least for Brock. I pulled over to the side of the road and announced "I'm going to walk", which must have confused my husband but in my mind translated to "I'm giving my evil bike a timeout."
Brock suggested we find shelter and wait for the wind to die down. 10 minutes later, the wind hadn't calmed but my spirits were bolstered enough to push on. To Wyoming's credit, 2 pick up trucks pulled over to ask if we were alright as we rested by the road.
When the highway bent south once more, I finally felt the wind at my back. 2 thunderstorm systems had passed by either side of us but we received scarcely a sprinkle of rain. We were going to make it 85 miles after all. As we crested the final hill and looked down on the hamlet of Medicine Bow, Brock asked me "Are you ready for dinner?". Oh yes. It's Brock's 30th birthday after all. He earned every ounce of the chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes that the old Virginia Hotel served up 30 minutes later.
Maybe I'll learn some valuable life lesson from this fickle Wyoming wind. But it'll take me a calm spell to ponder that one out.
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