Carry on my Wayward Son

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The wind in Kansas is like your neighbors senile old dog. Some days it greets you with a sloppy kiss; you know it means well. Some days you can sneak by while it's sleeping. And somedays you'll swear it's out to kill you. Today riding into the wind was like trying to swim against the current. As each semi passed in the opposing lane I had to brace myself for the crash that closely resembled catching an ocean wave.

I don't know how I made it 100 miles. I'll attribute it to the 25 hour day. That's right, I'm playing in the Mountain Time Zone now. My home for the night is the Tribune city park, just 16 miles from the state line.

Even though I've had some troubles with the wind, I've really enjoyed Kansas. What it lacks in landscape it makes up in quality people, everywhere I went. The Sun Flower State is A-OK.

The last twenty miles tonight felt like I was on a bike path, headed home. I rode into the sunset, on a road that seemed to go right off the edge of the world. The wind had gone to bed. Riding between corn fields on a summer night, along a stretch of road in the middle of nowhere Kansas, was unforgettable.

There's free cyclists only lodging 117 miles from here. I might try and get there tomorrow. I might cut it down to 80, who knows. Pueblo is 170 miles away. When I get their I plan to return to my 60 mile a day ways. I really enjoyed Kansas, but part of the reason why was because the length of my stay was just right.

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