Jackie’s average speed: 8.2 mpg
Scott’s average speed: 10.5 mph
Weather: 45-55 degrees, morning clouds, warm sun by 13:00
Wind: from the east and south, depending on how the road turned.

The title of this entry could be “Head Wind III,” but Scott said it was really the fourth day of wind. But what was even more important was letting go of our contest with the weather and accepting whatever the conditions we faced. 

We tried to trick the weather with an earlier start. After breakfast of instants - coffee, tea, oatmeal, and cake donuts for dessert - we were on the road at 08:15.

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So much for plans. The little town of Hinsdale was only 13 miles away, but it took almost two hours to get there because of the head wind. The gas station and convenience store looked fairly recent, with smooth new concrete pads. The picnic table where we leaned our bikes was also sitting on new concrete. Scott went in to get some coffee and I used the restroom. The place was spotless. I complimented the clerk on how clean his store was and apologized because I didn’t need anything. “That’s okay,” he said. “Next time.”

Mornings with wind force one kind of attitude adjustment. We woke up rested and ready to greet the day, then wham, the wind put a brake on our pedaling and on our enthusiasm. With no particular deadline or time when we needed to be someplace, we gave ourselves the opportunity to stretch once an hour. That kept us focused on the long game.

Just so readers know, wind is a huge downer to other cyclists, not just us. One blogger wrote about a ride years ago across southern Wyoming. He was riding from east to west and gave up the ride, he could not take the wind. Granted, the wind in southern Wyoming is magnitudes worse. Scott and I drove a VW camper van to visit my brother in Laramie in 1990. The wind was blowing so hard, I had to hold on to the handle of the pop-top to keep it from popping open in the wind. 

I looked at the odometer every couple of minutes, wanting to smack it and make it advance faster. Then I focused on highway mile markers. Three more miles to the half way point. I remembered a woman with multiple sclerosis we met last summer riding through the Cascades. She was carrying extra pounds, but was out there on the road, making her way along that difficult terrain. Her father was with her, and together they were raising awareness of MS. And what about the woman who just completed the Marathon des Sables, a 140-mile, six-day race across the desert in Morocco, running with a prosthetic left leg and foot? Her leg had been amputated below the knee after a motorcycle accident decades ago. She had always loved running and refused to give up. Those women inspired me.

After 23 miles, we stopped at a dirt driveway leading off to a farmhouse in the distance. A pickup stopped at the mailbox, took the mail, then turned around and parked parallel off the road. The driver and passenger rolled down their windows, they wanted to hear about our ride. These guys, who looked to be in their mid 20s, said they try to make way for cyclists on the highway, but the narrow shoulders and oncoming traffic sometimes limit their ability to make room. Last summer they were hauling an extra wide and heavy truckload of hay. Just as they passed a group of cyclists, another truck was coming toward them, so they eased over to the center the best they could without endangering oncoming traffic. Still, the wind their truck made blew over one of the riders, something they regretted but couldn’t help. They wished us well and said, “Safe travels.” Long distance touring requires a positive mental attitude. This short conversation swung the attitude needle back toward the positive side.

Other cyclists might like to know, there’s a rest area 12 or 13 miles west of Glasgow. Spring is tick season, so these facilities offer a better alternative to stealth relief in the grassy pullouts on the side of the road.

The early start brought us into Glasgow about 14:30. We stopped at the La Casa Motel, which got four out of five stars for having decent rooms at a fair price. The elderly owner said she had only one room left, upstairs, and it would not be ready until 15:30. Sixty-five dollars plus tax. She said maybe we would want to stay someplace else. Scott and I checked the rate at another place, which was $85 and got two out of five stars. We booked La Casa and ditched the panniers in the room. Another guest, mentally ill, had started a fire and the owner had not quite finished renovating it. The beds and carpet were new, paint was fresh, but she couldn’t find the curtains. No biggie, ours was the last room on top. No one would be walking by and the window looked out onto the parking lot of a plumbing business. 

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We had a late lunch/early dinner at the Dairy Queen. It was packed with high school students who had just competed in a track meet and were getting ready to board buses to hometowns nearby. The youth are the pride and joy of all the small towns we ride through, as you can see on billboards posted right on the highway. But, youth seek their fortunes in the bigger cities and the population declines, graduating class by graduating class.  

With some time to kill, we pedaled around town a little bit. In small towns on the Hi-Line demarcated by the railroad and Highway 2, you cross under the railroad to get to the center. This is where residents shop for hardware, groceries, appliances, etc. Glasgow sported faded dusty banners with a Scottish tartan hung off masts along the downtown streets. The railroad magnate James J Hill, who determined the fate of many towns along the Hi-Line, chose the name Glasgow with a random spin of the globe. 132 years later, the residents are gamely flying the colors, even without any direct link with Scotland.

In bed by 21:00.