"You know they make motors for those things," a pale, unathletic-looking man announced as I pedaled slowly by him and his parked car halfway up the third mountain pass of the day.
I was short on oxygen let alone witty retorts. I managed to blurt out before he was out of earshot "But...(gasp)...you wouldn't...(gasp)...have half as much fun!"
I'm sure that convinced him.
Ever since the Canadian guy gave us bacon by the side of the highway near Lander, Wyoming, I fantasize that every vehicle that slows down to "woo-woo" or otherwise cheer us on will also pull over and shower us with treats. Gatorade or dark chocolate, or pizza, maybe.
The runner-up to Canadian bacon man in roadside angel benevolence turned awkward (now, we've been the recipients of amazing hospitality in more circumstances than I can count by now, but I'm talking about spontaneously pulling your car over to fly to the aid of cyclists).
We were climbing through a canyon nearing Estes Park when an SUV ground to a halt in front of me. "You look exhausted! Do you want some water?" a man peered concernedly out of his window at me.
"You look exhausted" is the worst thing you could possibly tell someone who's trying their honest best. Seriously, is that what you'd say if you were cheering someone on at a race? No, you lie if you have to and say, "You look GREAT! Keep it up!"
I decided I should accept the guy's offer of water so that he wouldn't feel useless, and so I propped my bike on its kickstand and walked over to the SUV. Suddenly, my bike crashed to the ground, to the stranger's dismay more than mine, and he seemed even sorrier for me in my perceived plight. I filled up my water bottle and hurried back on the road.
The moral of the story is this: if you accost a touring cyclist, just hand them bacon. And don't tell them that they look tired.
Our journey from Ouray to Durango was, alas, bacon-less, although I did preface the ride with consuming a hefty breakfast burrito at the Backstreet Bistro.
The Million Dollar Highway snakes torturously for 13 miles up from Ouray until it reaches Red Mountain Pass, where it plummets down again to Silverton. The canyon through which the highway winds is so precipitous that switchbacks almost double back on themselves.
I heard someone say that the Million Dollar Highway is one of the most dangerous roads in the country, and I believe it. I snapped a photo; my front wheel is in the left of the frame, then a few inches to the right, the road disappears and a waterfall hurtles hundreds of feet below. No guardrail.
As we summited Red Mountain Pass, endless spines of rock flanked by green forests unfolded before our eyes.
We had tried to leave town earlier than usual to beat the midday heat, and we were rewarded by miles of shade as the sun had not yet climbed above the eastern ridges.
After descending into Silverton, I was unhappily surprised to discover that we had yet another pass to climb. I had made a deal with the road: I'd chill out and climb up past 11,000 ft. peaceably, and then I'd get to descend the 60 miles all the way to Durango. Roads don't make deals; just because we'd reached the highest point we'd attain that day didn't mean that we could fly downhill for the remainder.
I grudgingly climbed the 7 miles to the next summit and an even more incredible view. Lo and behold, after gliding downhill for a bit, the highway again sloped upwards and I almost fall off my bike at seeing the sign, "Next summit 3 miles"!
By the time we crawled triumphantly into Durango, we had set a record for toughest day yet: 80 miles and 5,000 ft. of climbing!
Jacob, who we'd met at the Ouray Brewery, put us up for the night. We camped by the farmhouse where he's working and living for the summer. We were joined by Thor and Abby, 2 other Americorps workers who entertained us with crazy stories of hitchhiking in Wyoming and leading crews of highschoolers into the wilds.
As the night chill deepened, Tom Petty warbled on the speakers and I had to agree that "even the losers get lucky sometimes."
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