An Old Road Dog escapes his chores and hits the gravel for a bit of Winter Solstice wheeling. Thanks to global warming, on the second shortest day of the year, I escape the doldrums of my wintertime tasks to go pedaling about on the High Plains. The weather forecast for today is mid-sixties, with wind down in the single digits.
I’ve been taking advantage of the unseasonable weather lately to scrape and sand the south side of Winona, preparing her for a new coat of paint. It’s tiring and tedious work and when the idea came to mind that I need to take advantage of this weather and do something a little more fun, my alter ego, the Old Road Dog said, yeah man, let’s go.
So I got everything ready, while I waited for it to warm up and now that the temperature has eclipsed 60 degrees, it’s off I go on my gallant steed to enjoy a beautiful day on the High Plains. 60 degrees is pretty warm when you’re out of the wind, in the sunshine, scraping and sanding on a hundred year old house. On a bike though, ripping along at 15 mph, it’s still cool, so at the start of the ride I was bundled up, with stocking cap and wind suit.
Out to the edge of town and down Gun Club Road with the triple set of hills. Dropping off the Emerald City massive out onto the High Plains, under a big sky. The wind’s down as expected and I push hard on the uphills and rip the downhills, tears forming at the corners of my eyes. Then it’s onto the gravel. I haven’t been out here lately; life has a way of catching me up in what I need to do, (at least that’s the perception) instead of what I want to do.
Riding gravel is different than riding pavement. You just never know what to expect. It depends on the weather and the county road department. It can vary from nice firm hard pack with the perfect amount of sandy grit to soften the ride or it can be nasty rippling washboard bumps that rattle your teeth or the worst; soft sand filled with large rocks and goat heads.
As I turn onto the gravel, the first hundred yards or so are the washboard variant, caused by the big work trucks braking hard at the intersection. After that it’s a mix of all three. The breeze is from behind, so I focus on the best line and head north, towards the alien white windmills on the horizon; the Cheyenne Ridge Wind Farm.
A Harris hawk drops off a power pole and paces me down the road. I whistle a hello but he’s not interested in an Old Road Dog and made a left turn out over the dry, parched, golden brown prairie. We haven’t had much precipitation for the last few months. Like a lot of the Wild West, we are experiencing a nasty drought.
I drop down into the Smoky Hill River and have to ride the brakes because the road is sandy without a good line. When the road is good I have ripped this section at well over thirty miles per hour but not today. The risk / reward just doesn’t add up, better to err on the side of caution. It’s just as soft up the other side and I shift all the way down into the lowest gear and spin up the road, my breathing becoming labored as I feel the sweat building inside the wind suit.
Turning right I parallel the river until I get to the Old Wells. A favorite camping spot for the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers before the European Immigrants took it for their own and built a stage stop here on the Butterfield Overland Despatch. The 10th Calvary of Buffalo Soldiers were also stationed here off and on. They were dispatched from here to aid the Forsyth Scouts in 1868 in the fight with Roman Nose’s Cheyenne Dog Soldiers in the Battle of Beecher Island, (Link to an article I wrote on the 150th anniversary).
Butterfield Overland Despatch
I take the wind jacket off and continue west along the Butterfield route towards Kansas. The road on the ridge between the drainages is in good shape, the wind is right and I fly down the road at close to 20 mph, feeling strong and free in the warm December afternoon. I’m at about the halfway point in the ride and I spot only the second vehicle I’ve seen. A Fed Ex van, in the middle of nowhere, delivering Amazon Christmas presents to a farmstead.
I stop at an old oil well down in a drainage that feeds the Smoky Hill, where I forage wild prairie mushrooms in the spring and shed the wind pants. I spent nearly 30 years living in South Texas and the winter was my favorite time for riding there but on the High Plains most of my Winter riding gets done down in the dungeon on a trainer or the occasional trip to the beer store. But thanks to global warming I’m spinning the pedals in shorts a few days in front of Christmas, it’s still hard to believe.
As I head south and west back towards the Emerald City the breeze starts picking up and sadly it’s in the wrong direction, right in my face, ugh. I could be scraping and sanding the house though, so I just smile and shift down a couple gears and spin down the road, then down into the Smoky Hill bottom again and granny gear up the other side through the loose sand.
I can see the spires of Emerald City on the horizon, on the High Plains hilltop. They beckon me on, getting closer with each spin of the pedals. The breeze is getting stronger though and taking the wind out of my sails. A big semi loaded with hay bales barrels by, casting a stream of dust and exhaust fumes. I hold my breath and close my eyes but the wind clears the air quickly so I can breathe again.
I make the last climb up the soft sandy hill and I’m back on the pavement in town, feeling some joy in the effort along with the tiredness in my old legs. I check the Garmin; 25 miles and a couple hours. Not bad for an Old Road Dog in the middle of December. Time for nap.