Day Twenty-two: Aladdin, Wyoming to Spearfish, South Dakota

July 1, 2019

I was tired this morning, and it took me a while to get going. Finally I got everything on the bike and went outside. The motel lady was walking outside, and was as chipper as she'd been yesterday evening. She asked if I'd heard the incredibly loud rain in them middle of the night. I had, in fact - it had woken me up around 3:00, and was shockingly loud on the metal roof of the motel.

The cafe next to the motel was closed, but the old store (either 115 or 125 years old, depending on which roadside sign you believe) was open. I went in to find an odd collection of miscellany. A lot of it - random clothes, "antiques" - held no interest for me. I was on the hunt for snacks, the selection of which at the store was sort of limited. Finally I located and purchased a honey bun from one of the two elderly ladies at the counter, the other one so deeply engrossed in some gossipy conversation with a customer that she didn't notice me.

I walked back to my room, ate the honey bun, took some photos outside the old store, and rode away.

It was a nice day, but I was moving slowly. At some point in the first few miles I decided I'd get as far as Spearfish, the first town in South Dakota with any services, and stop for the day. Spearfish had a couple of bike shops. Maybe one of them could finally help me with my rear brake.

After a while I turned onto a quiet road that paralleled the interstate. Wyoming has a welcome center / rest area that is accessible from the "old" highway I was on, so I pulled in. It was one of the nicest interstate "welcome centers" I've seen. I purchased a Sunkist soda (something I've literally never drank except on bike tours), and sat outside on a low wall observing all the people. A nice lady from Kansas walked up and asked about my trip. She pointed at the sort-of-average-for-Wyoming scenery and said "We don't have anything like this in Kansas!" I told her that I actually liked traveling through Kansas by bike. For me, friendly small towns trump magnificent scenery, almost all of the time.

A middle-aged father read one of the informational signs, and proceeded to paraphrase for it his wife and children, as if they couldn't read it themselves. "And that's why the soil is red: Iron!"

I was perhaps unreasonably irritated by the site of a teenager walking around in a ridiculous outfit.

However, I myself probably looked ridiculous to most of the travelers, with my tight little cyclist cap and bright yellow bicycle jersey. I didn't even look like a "real" cyclist, since I was wearing loose "touring" shorts instead of the padded Lycra shorts that virtually all other cyclists wear.

I left the welcome center and rode back onto the pleasantly empty highway. There wasn't much happening in tiny Beulah, except for an interesting old school, and a bar.

The bar was advertising something called the "Testicle Festival." Even if I wasn't a recent convert to vegetarianism, I would certainly not attend such a festival.

I soon entered South Dakota, but the sign was on the opposite side of the interstate that my road paralleled, so I didn't get a great picture of it.

I did get a good view of some motorcyclists taking a picture in front of the Wyoming sign.

The funniest taking-a-picture-in-front-of-a-sign events are when motorists get out of their cars at the top of a mountain pass and take their picture in front of the sign listing the elevation. Driving your car up a hill hardly seem an accomplishment worth documenting. But I see it happen.

Spearfish, population 11,609, was a bustling town. I located the first bike shop, Rushmore Bicycles, but they said they were too busy to help me. The guy said he "hated to do it", but he directed me to his competitor a few blocks away. That was off-putting; obviously I could find the other bike shop myself; and why "hate" to help a traveler? Dumb.

The other bike shop, Two Wheeler Dealer, was much more friendly and accommodating. They agreed to look at my rear brake immediately, and seemed like cool guys. One of them had done some touring in the past.

While they looked at the bike I walked across the street and obtained a room at an old mom-and-pop motel. The owner recommended a Mexican place down the street, so I went there and had a late lunch. The guacamole was literally the best I have ever had in my life. I'm not exaggerating. I'm still kicking myself for not going back that evening and getting more of it.

Days later, the regret lingers.

The bike shop replaced the rotor on my rear disc brake, and gave me some gentle advice to clean my chain more frequently while on the tour ("You might gain 3% efficiency!", the shop guy who'd done some touring told me.)

So I took the bike across the street to the motel, and, among other chores, cleaned the chain. The motel apparently caters to the motorcyclists who frequent the area - this is the area around Sturgis, where thousands "rally" every year - because there were "bike towels" already sitting out.

While I was cleaning the chain, I struck up my second conversation of the day with traveling Iowans. My wife, an Iowa native, says that Iowans "will talk to anyone", and I have certainly found that to be the case. Inevitably, because I was on a bike, the Iowa Bicycle Question was asked: "Have you heard of RAGBRAI?"

My answer to that question is well-practiced by now. I went to bed at a reasonable hour, and so did the Iowans next door to me, apparently. It was a quiet night.

Today's ride: 31 miles (50 km)
Total: 1,742 miles (2,803 km)

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