Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Today was my first day off the bike since Spokane, and though I've been antsy and
brooding all day, I needed the rest. My legs (and especially my ass) can use the break,
and I'm glad to have a respite from dealing with the occasional rumble strips on Route
2—those indentations in the shoulder pavement that are meant to make cars rattle and
to wake up their drivers when they begin to nod off and wander from the road. They're a
misery for cyclists to ride over and often difficult or dangerous to circumvent. On Route
2, the strips are intermittent and not of uniform width, but on some stretches they per-
sist for miles and often they don't leave room enough on the shoulder for a cyclist to get
around them, so now and then I've been forced to ride the edge of the traffic lane. Traffic
hasn't been onerous, but the approach of every vehicle from behind is tension-inducing.
I've been coughing a great deal, too. I've cut out all carbonated beverages, tomato
products, citrus fruit, and coffee, but I have to eat. This afternoon I had a late lunch at a
diner across the road and nearly threw it all up afterward in a it of cough-induced retch-
ing. It's disconcerting, to say the least. Jan is worried about me; I can't seem to carry on
our daily conversations for very long without an eruption.
Two days ago, late in the afternoon, I actually stopped on the shoulder of Route 2 in
a spot where there wasn't a sign of civilization in sight—okay, maybe a telephone wire
in the distance and the railroad tracks—and called the county sheriff's department. I
wanted to make sure there would be a place for me to stay in Chester, which was still
twenty-five miles away, and if there wasn't going to be, whether I'd be allowed to camp
in the town park. I'm not sure why I made the call, actually—I didn't have any alternat-
ive but to keep going toward Chester—but I guess I was feeling physically worn enough
and isolated enough to reach out and let someone know I was out there.
The woman who answered the phone—her name was Ellen—told me there were two
motels in town, but because of some local construction going on, they had to accommod-
ate out-of-town workers and beds might be tight. She took my name and number, said
she'd find out for me and call me back.
Three minutes later, she did. It was a peculiar sensation answering the ring tone on a
handlebar phone in the middle of the prairie and having a businesslike voice say: “May
I speak to Bruce Weber, please?”
Ellen had found me a room. What she actually said was, “Judy's got one place left at
the M X. I made the reservation for you.” Then she asked if I wanted her to send a police
car out to bring me in.
“We do that all the time,” she said when I expressed amazement. “A lot of cyclists
through here, and it's a long way between towns.”
I didn't take her up on the offer, though it did make me feel better to know I wasn't
the only one to have felt exhausted and abandoned out on the Hi-Line on a bicycle. I also
