Today was my first 90+ mile day. Twenty miles into the ride, I crossed my final climb of the Rockies just west of Pueblo. It was 9:00am, the temperature was relatively cool and I was looking at a 20 mile descent into Pueblo. One hundred miles would be cake today.

Then came 10:30 and the heat started to kick in. It was already 95 degrees, there wasn't a stream or tree in sight and I was drinking one water bottle every 15 minutes. Clearly 100 miles would be a little more difficult than what was originally thought.

Pueblo is a really nice city. I didn't have much hope for it as I rode into town, because I saw nothing but sagebrush and dried up creek beds. Roger grew up in Pueblo and raved about how neat of a city it was, but I just couldn't see it's charm from a distance. As I got closer, I saw the Arkansas River angling into town and began to have more hope. The outskirts of town really weren't any different from the small towns of Canon City or Florence in that it was dusty and the streets were all lined with gas stations, garages, and warehouses.

Then I took a turn off the main road and entered the city park. Wow. It had lush green grass, water fountains, tennis courts, a zoo, ball fields, public bathrooms and lots of water fountains. I filled up my water bottles and slowly rode through the park then through the side streets to stare at all the houses. Pueblo has a great southwestern flare, with tree lined streets, unique architecture, and large houses with vine laced-terraces to offer a shady relief to its residents. If I weren't so eager to cover my miles, I would have liked to spend the day to take in the sites. Instead, I stopped at a Subway, earned another free sandwich and went on my way.

Upon crossing the Arkansas and riding out the east side of Pueblo, I said goodbye to the shady oasis and back into a world of heat, sun, wind, and sagebrush. There was nothing ahead of me except the mind-numbing, brown, flatness of eastern Colorado. I took one look back and said my final good-bye to the Rocky Mountains and then headed on into the desolation of the plains.

I can now say Wyoming is paradise compared to eastern Colorado. As much as I complained about Wyoming, at least there were rolling hills and antelope. The plains of Colorado have nothing. In Wyoming, there was a town or a store every 40 miles, in Colorado, there are towns every 20 miles, but when you get there, there is nothing but a couple of houses and a bordered up gas station. The only towns with stores are 60 miles a part. Before leaving one town, you need to make sure you have enough food and water to last you for at least 5 hours of bike riding through some of the most inhospitable heat and winds you can imagine. Perhaps there is a tree or a large bush big enough to offer shade every 15 miles. The land is so flat and open that you can spot that one tree at least 15 miles away, or one hour of biking off in the distance.

Around 4:00, I reached the town of Olney Springs. My map said there was a general store, but when I got there, it was boarded up and the neighboring cafe was closed. Fortunately, on the front porch of the cafe was a shaded bench, where I decided to sit, relax, and cool off. While I sat on the bench with my eyes closed, I heard the sound of metal rattling about 30 feet to my left. I opened my eyes and saw 3 kids riding their bikes, coming close to me. The oldest boy rode right up to my feet, stopped and said "are you waiting for the bus?" I looked around, looked at my bike, looked at the sweaty biking clothes I was wearing, and then looked for some sign that I was sitting at a bus stop. I didn't see anything and couldn't imagine that there is a bus in existence that came through this town.

"No, I'm just taking a break from riding my bicycle."

"Oh," the boy answered. The two other kids got off their bikes and started walking around my bike to examine it from top to bottom.

"How much did your trailer cost?" asked the middle-aged boy who was about 8.

"With the bag, about $300." The children all looked at each other and gave a collective sigh.

"Where are you coming from?" asked the little girl.

"Oregon."

"Where's that?" she asked.

"Do you know where the Pacific Ocean is?" The girl nodded yes. "It's one of the states right on the Pacific Ocean, just above California.

"Wow, what's that, about 200 miles from here?" she asked obviously quite interested.

"Just a little further. So far I've ridden 2,000 miles."

"Holy Cow! I thought it was something like that. My dad's a truck driver and he goes all over."

"Does he drive to Oregon?"

"No, I don't think he knows where that is." Apparently satisfied that they got all the details of this stranger in their town, the oldest boy told the others that they had better get going, so they mounted their bikes and continued riding down the street. I soon followed.

That night I rode into Ordway, about 95 miles from where I started. I was beat. The sun was brutal, the heat unbearable, and the wind was devastating. If Ordway hadn't come soon, I was half tempted to pitch my tent on the side of the road and call it a night. There wasn't too much to Ordway, but it did have two cafes, a store and a hostel called the Hotel Ordway. I decided to stay at the Hotel Ordway, a grand hotel and the largest building in this smalll town.

Inside the lobby, three couches, 5 leather chairs and one reclining chair circled a large coffee table covered with several 6-month old issues of Time Magazine and Field and Stream. There was a pay phone and a bulletin board displaying the weather forecast for the next day, sunny and 105. Nobody was manning the reception desk, so I rang the door bell on the side of the counter. A minute later, a man with long dark hair and a matching tan wearing green shorts and a black t-shirt walked through the door behind the counter. "How's it going? My name's Marty. Suppose you want a room, huh?"

"Sure, do you have any?"

"Got a whole bunch. Only people come in today were a bunch of bikers, you're the fourth one today. Which way you headed?"

"East, started in Florence, Oregon."

"Cool. You're getting here late, must have been a pretty hot day?"

"Gruelling. Your showers work, right?"

"Oh sure, rooms are clean, but you got to use your own sleeping bag, towel, and soap. Bathrooms are down the hall, so everyone shares. I charge $10 a night for bikers. Sound good?"

"Sounds perfect." I dug out my wallet and handed Marty a $10 bill. "Do you have somewhere I can put my bike or should I carry it up to my room."

"Usually, everyone puts their bike in my garage. I get up at 5:00 everyday, so shouldn't be a problem getting it out when you want to leave. You gonna head out around 6? That's when the others are going."

"Not sure, probably head out fairly early, just depends how tired I am."

"No problem, just take your bike whenever you're ready." And with that, Marty walked me around the hotel to show me where to store my bike, where the bathrooms were, and where my room was. It was a small, clean room with a bed, a dresser and a sink. Throw in a tv and it was one of the nicest rooms I've stayed in since the trip began.

After unpacking for the night, showering and laying on my bed for 30 minutes, I headed next store to the little mexican restaraunt to get some food. When I walked in, I was greeted by two fellow bikers. They were a couple from the Netherlands named Fedde and Lijanne, heading west. We spoke for a while and agreed to meet at 8:00 in the hotel lobby to go out for drinks, as they were done with dinner and I had yet to begin.