As usual, I awoke after Matt. However for the second decadent morning in a row, surrounded by a comfy bed and motel room rather than our tiny tent. Mattress not gravel beneath me, it was too easy to languish awhile and not question Matts' absence. Unsurprisingly, he was scoping out the breakfast buffet in the lobby. I eventually joined him there - for dohnuts, coffee and as it transpired; political propaganda from the motel manager. We were awaiting the toasting of our bagels as Fox News reported outrage that Navy Seals had been branded un-patriotic by a pro-Obama advertising campaign. One eye on the toaster, I said to Matt 'They don't even attempt to sound impartial...Sexy Action News.' With that, the tv sound was muted and the motel manager launched his own campaign from behind the desk. 'Can you believe it - these guys, these Seals are the Best of the Best and Obama calls them unpatriotic, unbelievable...'
Our bagels were long toasted but it took much longer before we could literally back out of the motel lobby. Obama had made the country a poorer place; if he wins another term, this motel manager is re-locating to Costa Rica. I wanted to suggest 'Under the Sea' as another viable, utopian option. Nodding vigourously, we finally made it back to our rooms with cold coffee and bagels.
Finally back on the road, we cycled through the urban sprawl of fast food franchises, mechanics, car dealers and RV campsites. An old guy cycled past us on a beat up bike; a plastic bucket full of assorted crap on his handlebars. He yelled out; 'Where you guys headed?' (us);'-California!' (him) 'Right on! How you likin' it so far?' (us)-'Awesome!'; (him) 'Cool! Have fun!' I love the cycling community; this warm exchange taking place within minutes at the traffic lights on the outskirts of Pueblo.
We cycled onwards on US HWY 50, before 'strike one'; a broken spoke on my rear wheel. A conveniently abandoned gas station presented itself, where Matt was able to fit a spare spoke (we anticipated broken spokes, since we switched rear wheels back in Virginia.) Back on the highway, the same wheel started to falter... This time an entirely unrelated flat tyre; the fall-out from a quickly identifiable rusty nail. For the second time in less than an hour, Matt performed some roadside bike surgery.
Ahead of us, the Rocky mountains remained reassuringly shrouded in the thick atmosphere. We continued to slowly climb US 50, and the Sangre de Christo mountains began to sharpen into view. This vista was a magestic distraction from the famed 8-mile climb back into the Arkansas drainage basin. Past the town of Canon, we met the white waters of the Arkansas river, which we skirted beside for many miles. Over the past month, many days' rides have felt like a means to an end; our focus on getting to our destination camp-site. Today stood out as a shining example of 'the journey is the destination'. White rapids to our right and epic mountains surrounding us; todays' cycle felt like a pleasure-cruise!
Following a picturesque stretch of mountains and river, the town of Cotopaxie welcomed us. Outside the grocery store, I barely had time to warn Matt before the somberely uniformed Sherriff introduced himself. 'Just to let you two know, in the State of Colorado, you have to stop at a stop sign; even on bikes. I could have fined you each for $170. Each.' Matt beamed at the sheriff; 'Really? I'm ever so sorry; thanks!' Following on from asserting his authority, the sheriff was interested to know about our trip, where we were from etc. He nodded and presumably returned to his hiding spot behind 'the' stop sign. (I didn't want to make matters worse by confessing to the good sheriff that I'd not noticed a stop sign.)
Once the law had left us, another character introduced himself. A middle aged guy in a rainbow-tie-died T-shirt you rarely see these days strolled out of the grocery store. Eying our bikes whilst scarfing down a chocolate brownie, he cross-examined us on our trip. 'I'm here fly-fishing' then went on; 'You know the show, the SImpsons? Where's it set?' Wondering if this was a trick question, I answered 'Springfield, Illinois?' - Gulping down more brownie, he retorted; 'South Park! -Where's your route take you? Show me your map...' Matt showed him our map as he seamlessly finished his brownie and started digging into a pack of cookies. Having glanced at the map Matt offered him, our guy chortled 'Monarch pass? I've seen this cycle route before; I wonder what they were smoking when they sent you guys over Monarch pass?' I could barely supress my laughter, as I'd just been wondering the very same of him. Between mouthfuls of cookies, 'hippie dude' launched into a detailed and confusing description of a network of cycle paths we should favour over our map. We nodded and encouraged him politely, before he absoltely made my afternoon by producing his business card; 'Attorney & Councellor of Law'. He invited us to his place if we passed his town, as we should if only we follow his amended routing across Colorado. Lord knows if we were able to follow it, we would surely look him up.
Our local guide waved us on and picked up a hitchhiker on his way to his parked car. We watched from the grocery as he piled the pleasantly surprised hikers' gear into his 4x4. What a legend. We collected our groceries and beer, loaded up the trailer and set out a further tranquil 10 miles west-wards to camp.
Our picturesque day of cycling concluded in a befittingly lovely campsite. The Arkansas river chortled by, where we washed down and relaxed with some beers. After collecting some kindling for a campfire, we cooked up some divine cheese toasties in foil. The campsite was very quiet, so we chatted with the family camped out across the way from us.
A sound nights' sleep ensued, however we were awoken in the wee hours by the howls of coyotes. Better than Freigh trains and reassuringly distant.
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