We've been slowly rolling our way across the great state of Wyoming over the past week. After two nights in Yellowstone, we stayed with a delightful couchsurfing family in Cody, Wyoming. From Cody we biked around 50 miles to Greybull, where we camped for the night next to a cheery old man riding across the country on his motorcycle to visit his kids. He blasted off a few hours before us in the morning blasting a Jack Johnson song and howling at the wind.
Then came The Big Climb. After crossing the Continental Divide, and a few more steep hills in Yellowstone, we were pretty sure we would be scotch free as far as inclines go for the rest of the country. Then we happened upon a topographical map of Wyoming at a rest stop somewhere along the line. Turns out there's a mountain range that dips down from Montana in northcentral Wyoming, called the Big Horn Mountains. Turns out they're Big. As in, 9,030 feet at the pass. We started at an elevation of just over 4,000 feet, so that means we climbed 5,000 feet, over a period of 18 lovely miles.
After having a mini-panic attack at the beginning of the climb, based on how non-existent the road shoulder was, how hot the day was and how many semi-trucks were coming screaming around every switchback, Ben calmed me down and told me we could take as many breaks as we wanted to. Goooo sloooowww. That's the name of the game here, folks.
Somehow, we made it. It took us all day, and I'm pretty sure it was the hardest physical thing I've ever done. My body literally started shutting down from exhaustion in ways I didn't know where possible. I couldn't really breathe deeply without laughing or crying or vomiting or some weird combination of all three, so I just giggled and looked at cows. But we made it! There was one final steep climb and we made it to the blessed green sign that announced we were at Granite Pass, 9,030 feet above sea level. And good lord, it was beautiful.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you about today. See, there was this one time, in Spotted Horse...
We haven't seen too many other cyclists along the way, probably because it's late in the season and this isn't a very popular route. But we did meet up with this lovely Southern Californian, Jessica, somewhere between Cody and Greybull. We've been riding with her off and on, and ended up staying with her in Sheridan. We rode mostly together yesterday, about 73 miles (which is a personal record for me) east of Sheridan, which put us right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
We saw on the map that there was a dot (which we assumed was a town) called Spotted Horse, so we thought we'd inquire about a place to camp and fill up on water there. When we finally got there, we quickly discovered that there was no town at all, just a bar with a collection of RVs behind it and a sign that said "Spotted Horse, Population: 2." We entered the bar, and 3 sets of bleary eyes turned to look at us. The woman behind the bar took one look at my empty water bottles and said, "I hope you're not looking for water...wait a second, did you bike here??"
We spent the next half hour or so explaining to the bartender as well as the two other people at the bar why on earth we would be riding our bicycles across middle-of-nowhere Wyoming. The bartender looked at Ben with squinty eyes and said, "You're not a tree-hugger are you?" Ben claims she was asking because of my hairy armpits, but I'm sure she was looking straight at him. She quickly got over any issues she had with our potential tree-hugging qualities, and demanded that we set up camp right there, in Spotted Horse. She told us we couldn't possibly keep going, because there was nothing for 37 more miles, and then we would get to Gillette. We kept trying to tell her that all we needed was nothing, just a place to pitch a tent, but the message wasn't getting through.
At this point she came around the other side of the bar, grabbed Ben by the arm and ushered us out the door. She was a tiny woman with flying blonde curls and crocs, and introduced herself at least 3 times as Colette. She dragged us happily over to the side of the bar, ordered us into her golf-cart, and started the engine. It was around this point that we realized she was rather intoxicated. There didn't seem to be a way to politely get out of the golf-cart, so we just held on a little tighter and smiled nervously. She drove us about 100 feet to one of the campers behind the bar, where she told us we could stay for the night, it would only cost us one hundred dollars, hahahahahaha. Just kidding. No, we didn't have to pay a thing, just as long as we got off the road before dark! We graciously thanked her and got back in the golf-cart to drive the 100 feet back to the bar door (no wonder she couldn't understand why we were biking across the country, these people don't walk anywhere).
Something confusing happened as this point. She was in the process of asking us our names for the billionth time, and introducing herself again, only this time she actually took her hands off the wheel and reached over to shake Ben's hand. Apparently golf-carts work just like cars and you shouldn't really take your hands off the wheel while driving. We somehow ran straight into a low cement wall, and in the confusion that followed, we realized Colette was no longer in the golf-cart but actually suspended in front of us with her legs straight up in the air!
Attached to the cement was a thick wire fence which contained a burn pile full of cardboard. Colette had somehow managed to fly out of the golf-cart, do a flip in the air and land upside-down on the wire fence. Miracle of miracles, she was completely uninjured but absolutely mortified and confused as hell. It was extremely difficult not to burst out laughing as soon as we made sure she was okay, and we spent the next 45 minutes going over again and again what may have happened with her. She swore us to secrecy and said she would never live it down if we told her friends back at the bar. She was also extremely concerned that we would have somehow filmed it and put it on "Veebo, or Beeboob or whatever that internet crap is..." (she was talking about YouTube.) We assured her nobody had filmed it.
This funny little lady took quite a liking to us after that incident (especially Ben) and kept slapping his butt and giving me huge wet kisses until she finally let us in on her secret water stash.
Moral of the story...don't drive when you only have to go 100 feet? Don't drink and drive? Don't take your hands off the wheel, even if it's a golf-cart? You tell me. I think it was my first drunk-driving accident, and I'm super glad we all came out okay. We'll always have Spotted Horse....
Then came The Big Climb. After crossing the Continental Divide, and a few more steep hills in Yellowstone, we were pretty sure we would be scotch free as far as inclines go for the rest of the country. Then we happened upon a topographical map of Wyoming at a rest stop somewhere along the line. Turns out there's a mountain range that dips down from Montana in northcentral Wyoming, called the Big Horn Mountains. Turns out they're Big. As in, 9,030 feet at the pass. We started at an elevation of just over 4,000 feet, so that means we climbed 5,000 feet, over a period of 18 lovely miles.
After having a mini-panic attack at the beginning of the climb, based on how non-existent the road shoulder was, how hot the day was and how many semi-trucks were coming screaming around every switchback, Ben calmed me down and told me we could take as many breaks as we wanted to. Goooo sloooowww. That's the name of the game here, folks.
Somehow, we made it. It took us all day, and I'm pretty sure it was the hardest physical thing I've ever done. My body literally started shutting down from exhaustion in ways I didn't know where possible. I couldn't really breathe deeply without laughing or crying or vomiting or some weird combination of all three, so I just giggled and looked at cows. But we made it! There was one final steep climb and we made it to the blessed green sign that announced we were at Granite Pass, 9,030 feet above sea level. And good lord, it was beautiful.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you about today. See, there was this one time, in Spotted Horse...
We haven't seen too many other cyclists along the way, probably because it's late in the season and this isn't a very popular route. But we did meet up with this lovely Southern Californian, Jessica, somewhere between Cody and Greybull. We've been riding with her off and on, and ended up staying with her in Sheridan. We rode mostly together yesterday, about 73 miles (which is a personal record for me) east of Sheridan, which put us right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
We saw on the map that there was a dot (which we assumed was a town) called Spotted Horse, so we thought we'd inquire about a place to camp and fill up on water there. When we finally got there, we quickly discovered that there was no town at all, just a bar with a collection of RVs behind it and a sign that said "Spotted Horse, Population: 2." We entered the bar, and 3 sets of bleary eyes turned to look at us. The woman behind the bar took one look at my empty water bottles and said, "I hope you're not looking for water...wait a second, did you bike here??"
We spent the next half hour or so explaining to the bartender as well as the two other people at the bar why on earth we would be riding our bicycles across middle-of-nowhere Wyoming. The bartender looked at Ben with squinty eyes and said, "You're not a tree-hugger are you?" Ben claims she was asking because of my hairy armpits, but I'm sure she was looking straight at him. She quickly got over any issues she had with our potential tree-hugging qualities, and demanded that we set up camp right there, in Spotted Horse. She told us we couldn't possibly keep going, because there was nothing for 37 more miles, and then we would get to Gillette. We kept trying to tell her that all we needed was nothing, just a place to pitch a tent, but the message wasn't getting through.
At this point she came around the other side of the bar, grabbed Ben by the arm and ushered us out the door. She was a tiny woman with flying blonde curls and crocs, and introduced herself at least 3 times as Colette. She dragged us happily over to the side of the bar, ordered us into her golf-cart, and started the engine. It was around this point that we realized she was rather intoxicated. There didn't seem to be a way to politely get out of the golf-cart, so we just held on a little tighter and smiled nervously. She drove us about 100 feet to one of the campers behind the bar, where she told us we could stay for the night, it would only cost us one hundred dollars, hahahahahaha. Just kidding. No, we didn't have to pay a thing, just as long as we got off the road before dark! We graciously thanked her and got back in the golf-cart to drive the 100 feet back to the bar door (no wonder she couldn't understand why we were biking across the country, these people don't walk anywhere).
Something confusing happened as this point. She was in the process of asking us our names for the billionth time, and introducing herself again, only this time she actually took her hands off the wheel and reached over to shake Ben's hand. Apparently golf-carts work just like cars and you shouldn't really take your hands off the wheel while driving. We somehow ran straight into a low cement wall, and in the confusion that followed, we realized Colette was no longer in the golf-cart but actually suspended in front of us with her legs straight up in the air!
Attached to the cement was a thick wire fence which contained a burn pile full of cardboard. Colette had somehow managed to fly out of the golf-cart, do a flip in the air and land upside-down on the wire fence. Miracle of miracles, she was completely uninjured but absolutely mortified and confused as hell. It was extremely difficult not to burst out laughing as soon as we made sure she was okay, and we spent the next 45 minutes going over again and again what may have happened with her. She swore us to secrecy and said she would never live it down if we told her friends back at the bar. She was also extremely concerned that we would have somehow filmed it and put it on "Veebo, or Beeboob or whatever that internet crap is..." (she was talking about YouTube.) We assured her nobody had filmed it.
This funny little lady took quite a liking to us after that incident (especially Ben) and kept slapping his butt and giving me huge wet kisses until she finally let us in on her secret water stash.
Moral of the story...don't drive when you only have to go 100 feet? Don't drink and drive? Don't take your hands off the wheel, even if it's a golf-cart? You tell me. I think it was my first drunk-driving accident, and I'm super glad we all came out okay. We'll always have Spotted Horse....
Greatest blog Ever! We are totally entertained as we pickle beans to give you for christmacah. Hope the butt improves and we're worried about the numbness, too. Could you adjust your saddle?
ReplyDeleteHappy travels and golf cart adventures-B,L,H,C A