"What's YOUR buffer day wish? I want a pony."
"I want a new butt."
I sympathized.
Sonia, Deanna, and I left shortly after the highschoolers, because we have our shit partially together. We climbed a small hill that some locals had described to us as a small mountain, which must be a relative term around here. The mild ascent brought us into some thick early morning fog, which was a blessing. With lights on, the visibility wasn't too terrible, and the cooling effect was much appreciated. Water droplets formed on all exposed surfaces including my beard, giving everything a spooky feeling while we rode through a ghostly landscape. Deanna and I bugged Sonia to put some lights on so she wouldn't be invisible to the occasional traffic that appeared from nowhere.
I half expected a self-driving big rig to materialize in the middle of a cornfield or something, and started crafting its backstory: Ol' Betty, ghost-truck of the plains, whose driver was killed by a roving band of corn-hustling bikers. Driverless, she roams the plains to this day, never stopping for gas, and exacting revenge on anything with two wheels. On foggy mornings just like this, if you listen real hard, you can sometimes hear her mournful honk.
It's a little weird realizing that automated "ghost trucks" will be a reality soon, improving transportation efficiency and (hopefully) safety while putting thousands of people out of work. Maybe the story should be a Ned Ludd / John Henry / Paul Bunyan kind of thing about the last human trucker: Granny O'Hara was conceived in a truck, born in a truck, made her first delivery at the age of 4, left her cab only once a year, and died of a heart attack after driving for 143 hours straight in a desperate last stand against the auto-trucks. Death didn't stop her, though; she's still out there, somewhere, defying speed traps and using human ingenuity to deliver supplies for spirits from beyond the grave, faster and more reliably than any machine or spirit ever could.
Anyway, back on topic. I lagged behind Sonia and Deanna today, but I briefly ran into a group of older cyclists going our direction. I realized that I recognized all five of them from different places: there was Troy the Green Machine and a German couple that I had passed way back at Togwotee Pass in Wyoming, along with a couple guys that had camped with us a few days ago in Ennis, KS. Most didn't recognize me, or at least didn't mention it if they did. Given that this meeting occurred in the middle of a heat and humidity wave about 30 miles from anywhere with water in any direction, though, I can understand why no one was feeling particularly talkative.
Afterward, I met a westbound cyclist that was a lot more chatty. He said he also failed to talk with the group of five, which was reassuring. He was an older, heavier guy from the Philippines who was way behind his schedule and very eager to discuss the things we each had to look forward to along the route. I gave him what tips I could remember, and listened politely while he told me about the things that I would have to deal with assuming I followed the Trans-Am route. He was so excited to share useful information that I couldn't figure out how to tell him that I would be abandoning the route to head north.
Finally, I should come clean about a minor cheat. Sonia arranged with her friend in Hutchinson to come pick us up in Nickerson, several miles outside of Hutchinson. I feel really conflicted about this. I don't want to be the asshole that has to outdo the people around me, especially considering the gender dynamics involved, but I also don't want to feel like I'm lying when I say that I biked across the country. Fear of being an asshole won out, though, and I took the ride into Hutchinson. Going south mostly added mileage, anyway.
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