Colby, Kansas

  

Turning south into Kansas hasn’t brought warmer temperatures.  Cold and snow has, in fact, forced me into motels the past two nights. The snow wasn’t predicted to hit until two in the afternoon on my second day in Kansas, so I made a seven a.m. pre-dawn start from Norton to try to make it to Colby 74 miles away, the first town with a motel in these sparsely settled parts, before the snow hit or got too heavy.  

Ordinarily when I’m riding in dim light it is at the end of the day and it is getting dimmer.  This was a pleasant contrast with the light gradually brightening.  I had to be wary of black ice, as it was just 24 degrees, the coldest of this trip, and what made me motel it that night.  I had ridden in cold all day with it never warming up enough to melt the snow that caked road signs.  I had been chilled all day.  Spending a night in a tent barely keeping warm had no appeal, though I did check if there were a town park with a heated rest room in Norton, where I ended up after 82 miles.  There wasn’t, but there was a bargain-priced Indian motel that Janina and I had stayed at last September on our way back from Telluride when Janina feared she was coming down with Covid and rather than camping wanted to be in a motel, preferably within range of a hospital, which Norton had. 

I had to keep my rest stops out along the road short before the cold started to penetrate.  At one a state trooper pulled over to ask if I was all right.  He seemed motivated by concern rather than suspicion, asking three times in the course of our brief conversation if I needed anything.  Before leaving he advised I wear something brighter than my dark blue jacket. 

A few flurries hit at noon, but the genuine snow didn’t begin until two, just as predicted.  I had turned onto route 24, and was within six miles of Colby.  If this snow was as light as the day’s earlier dusting I would have continued on to Goodland, another 34 miles, for a 110-mile day.  But this was a heavier, wetter snow. It wasn’t accumulating, so I didn’t need to let up too much, but it was sticking to my glasses, obstructing my vision, and beginning to soak into my shoes and pants.  

I needed to abort, nearly six hours before dark.  I had the choice of a Motel 6 along Interstate 70 or a local Indian-run motel on the outskirts of town.  Priceline quoted a price of $49 for the latter, but a rather gruff guy helping the Indians run the place, thinking I was desperate covered in snow, and would pay anything, asked for $75.  When I expressed surprise, he quickly dropped his price to $65, then $55 and finally $50 when I showed him a screenshot of the $49 price, all while the Indian owner and his wife stood meekly in the background.

Charlie missed out on the ride in the snow, as the 150-mile westerly haul to Goodland and its Carnegie, almost to the Colorado border, had no appeal to him, preferring to return to the sand hill cranes.  We rode a final nine miles together from Franklin with the temperature just above freezing and a light dusting of snow along the road.  He’d gotten a good introduction to the touring and already had in mind places he might wild camp with his bike along the Platte.  It had been his wish for ten years to partake of the sand hill crane migration, so he wanted more.

He was a stalwart companion.  I had to remind him from time to time not to ride too hard, as he needed to parcel out his energy making it last all day and then days afterwards, but he is an athlete who likes to push himself.  He was the captain of his Murray State University football team, playing linebacker at 215 pounds.  Even more impressive was his transfer to Syracuse, where he started at linebacker as well.  He has a picture on his phone of himself tackling Tony Dorsett, who won the Heisman Trophy and was the second pick in the 1977 draft by the Dallas Cowboys who he starred for the next eleven years. 

Charlie is forty pounds below his playing weight, but has lost none of the drive and dedication to excel at whatever attracts his interest. He will make a fine touring cyclist.  He has the salesman’s gift of easing into conversation with others, so is a natural at engaging with strangers who the touring cyclist is perpetually encountering and always enhances the travel experience.   I will be happy to tour with him any time.

Turning back, he fell eleven miles short of the Carnegie in Alma, which was a little more stately than the other two we had seen, adorned with ornate brickwork and other embellishments.  It was now the residence of the town banker.  When I stopped to give it a look, a guy passing in a pickup truck stopped to tell me it was no longer the library, even though “Public Library” still adorned its front, and gave me directions to the present library.

I didn’t need those, but rather directions to a cafe with hotcakes.  He enthusiastically recommended KayJayes.  When I ordered the full stack the waitress warned me off, saying she couldn’t even eat a single one.  She was right.  It was huge.  I could only eat half of it, putting the rest in my Tupperware bowl for later.  If I had gotten two or three, they wouldn’t have fit, as the half barely did.  Several people came by my table to comment it was cold to be biking, but inexplicably did not linger for more, not even asking where I was headed.  If Charlie had been seated with me and they’d seen us talking, they no doubt would have lingered for a genuine exchange.

Charlie also missed out on the “Strengthen the Arm of Liberty” Statue of Liberty in Alma. I’d mentioned them when we met the couple from Cedar Rapids along the Platte, as their town has one at the tip of an island in the Cedar River.   Oddly enough, the guy wasn’t aware of it, though his wife was.  This one stood vigil in front of the courthouse across the street from the Carnegie.  It was the first I’d come upon that gave credit to the Girls Scouts along with the Boy Scouts for raising the funds for its installation. It was one of eleven in Nebraska, which is one of six states with more than ten of them.