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Nevada
As the day nods toward evening, I am way off the back of the group. Feeling light-headed, the road seems to be reeling out even further. The others are way out of sight. I chew on a handful of raisins. It’s an eternity, a never-ending uphill battle all the way into Austin. Shoving my bike against the side of the building, I stagger into the general store like a drunk. Up and down the aisles, I shove powdered donuts and small apple pies into my mouth while gulping Gatorade. I pay only for empty boxes and wrappers.
At four-thirty in the morning, we wrap our hands around our hot tin Sierra cups and wash down steaming oatmeal with Jon’s cowboy coffee, a black mud, thick with coffee grounds. Ironically, we come to love and depend on this to get us going each day before the ride. The high octane brew can be strained through almost anything, a paper towel, or even a sock, if necessary. The chilly morning calls for full riding tights, jackets, arm warmers and gloves. Half a dozen Shimano clipless pedals click! click! click! The team pulls onto the roadway.