As I scrubbed my leopard print underwear in a Rocky Mountain National Park campground's communal sink this afternoon, a father with 3 young sons waited just behind me to wash their lunch plates. I realized that once again on this bike trip I'd created a socially awkward situation.
"Looks like you got done what you needed to do there," the man dryly remarked as I finished up and walked away.
To name similarly themed situations:
Shaving my legs with the help of a bar of Dr. Bronners and a Nalgene of water by Yellowstone's hiker/biker picnic tables.
Balancing acrobatically on the edge of the narrow lipped sink of a public restroom to wash my dusty feet.
Spreading out a dinner of sub sandwiches, Cheetos, and yogurt in front of a Ft. Collins Safeway, and obliging all shoppers to sidestep our sidewalk feast. (We've eaten at Safeways countless times, but there's always been tables or at least a bench.)
Strewing soggy undergarments and socks like Christmas tree ornaments on the pines at our Grant Village campsite.
Piling the entire contents of my pannier---bagels, "War and Peace", jelly, carrots---Mary Poppins style onto the table of Funkwerks brewery. I finally found my ID and proved my age to the server.
As I study my list, I realize that most of these hilarious and ridiculous predicaments result from a necessity to bring my personal needs into the public sphere. Without typical privacy to eat, wash laundry, or take care of personal hygiene, I've stepped out of the realm of "normal" American middle class social behavior.
I'm still getting used to it. Desperation breeds boldness, and of course a situation is only awkward if you believe in its awkwardness. Confidence, confidence.
Let's move on and talk about how far Brock and I rode today, because I know that's what you're really interested in, right?
We biked 4 miles.
This surprised me as much as anyone, considering we'd planned to push on 48 miles to the western gates of Rocky Mountain National Park (RMNP). I'd been eagerly looking forward to spending a few days camping and hiking in RMNP, but when we talked with a ranger at the Estes Park entrance he informed us that all the front country campgrounds were full.
Go figure, it's summer peak season and we're not the only people with a bright idea and hiking shoes.
Disappointed, we plunked down on the curb right inside the Park and munched on wraps. I gazed wistfully up at the beautiful peaks, hating to think that I'd never set foot on a trail.
The near-universal rule of cycle touring is this: if you look sufficiently down on your luck, someone will come to your aid.
In today's case, aid came in the form of a pretty young park ranger with a blonde ponytail, very white teeth, and a badge reading "Mary".
"Where are you headed?" she asked us in a Southern accent as she walked by.
"To Granby; we wanted to camp in the Park, but everything's full." I replied.
"I can get you a campsite just down the road at Morraine Park," Mary said. We immediately took her up on the offer.
Katie, the ranger at the campground's entrance booth and a fellow cycle tourer, set us up with a gorgeous site perched on a hill overlooking a sweeping green meadow. Long's Peak, the highest in the Park, reared tall above the timberline.
Brock felt low on energy, whether due to the altitude or lack of hydration or both. He rested at camp while I set off to hike a 7 mile loop up to Cub Lake. I returned a few hours later to find him feeling better and we both seemed happier to spend the rest of the evening together after being apart for a bit.
As I write this, thunder crashes overhead and wind worries at the tent. The rocks that Brock used to anchor down our little home have held, and we're snug inside except for a few rascally trickles of water seeping in the edges.
These thunderstorms are a whole new beast compared to the kind of rain we get in Portland. I love the drama of lightning, but I'd prefer to have the power to shut off the electric current when I want to go to sleep.
Tomorrow we go further up and further in.
I remember last year, there was a day in Montana where I made it 11 miles. 30mph headwind all day, and the sun was brutal. 7 miles in, I was ready to quit, when I saw two touring cyclists headed towards me. They let me know there was a historic hotel with reasonable rates in the next town, and I took it. I ended up spending 2 nights there, getting drunk in the basement bar of the place with one of the bartenders (off-duty), and discussing the finer (de)/merits of Reganomics with 3 of the bar patrons, who insisted Ronnie was the greatest President who ever lived.
ReplyDeleteToto, we're not in Portland anymore...