Once again Heath and
I had set alarms at 4:30
and were on the road soon after 5, fully layered, in my case with down jacket
under heavy shell, to protect from chilly air. A
couple of hours later we were in swanky Whitefish, looking for a cafe as we
crossed paths with Peter, already breakfasted and heading out. Smooth
operator, that Peter. We
eventually found a cafe. I
opted for what I thought was the rough equivalent of an egg and bacon roll and
got something quite different altogether. It
was an oddball construction with a slab of fried processed meat and a solid
cheese-like layer of God-knows-what sandwiched between what were effectively
two halves of a sweetish muffin. "Everything
about that is wrong", chuckled Heath, as he tucked into his farmers
breakfast. To
make matters worse I'd ordered two of them, and did my best to at least down
half the second one before leaving. A
couple of cafe goers made a point of coming up to us and suggesting we were
doing well, which was nice, although I wasn't so sure, given the state of my
achilles.
Heath picked up some
heavy duty gloves at the local bike shop and we were out of there. We soon
caught another rider, another Australian, Paul Lester, from Cooma, who had done
this race the previous year and was back for another helping. There
were only a handful of Australians in the race and here three of us were,
riding together. After
a bit of a chat Paul let us go and we enjoyed the bitumen while it lasted. Well
Heath was enjoying it, time trial bars and all. I
was feeling increasingly crook in the guts, and eventually had to attempt to
expunge whatever had disagreed with me in a local patch of woods. It
wasn't to be the last time.
Feeling temporarily
relieved I again passed Paul and eventually caught back up to Heath. We
stopped at the small restaurant that was Swan River, just as Peter was leaving,
again having topped up his reserves. My
arriving at an establishment whilst Peter was leaving was a pattern that was to
repeat many times over coming weeks. Rather
than fill up at Swan River, Heath and I decided we'd hit up the next town of
Ferndale, even though the resupply shop was slightly off route. We
rolled out with Peter and despite his best instructions we shot off without him
and somehow managed to bungle the turnoff, adding another few extra kms to the
tally before resupplying at the general store. Idiot
Australians, he must have thought. Speaking
of which, Paul, Heath and I crossed paths probably half a dozen times that day. Paul
was the type of rider who could seemingly go all day, just tapping out the same
rhythm without the need for stops. Heath
and I would burn a little hotter, then stop for whatever reason, only to have
Paul file past again, and the whole scenario repeat - classic hares and
tortoise. He
must have thought we were idiots as well.
The main obstacle of
the day was a climb that for the first time in the tour involved a bit of heat,
coupled with minimal shade and a terrible gravel surface. The
sort of climb you'd go out of your way to avoid, especially the descent. Coupled
with my increasingly complaining ankle and crook guts i was not happy. Heath
seemed to be having a rough time of it as well, and we separated on the descent
and I pushed on through what turned out to be a much more pleasant shaded
sector of ancient woodland complete with lovely buff surface that at times
reminded me of Rotorua. My
mood improved, so I kept tapping away on a gradually climbing road through lots
of interesting single and narrow double track lined by tall grass and concealed
corners with stunning vistas periodically showing themselves through avenues of
trees. Definitely
bear country I thought, although all I saw were the occasional elk and
white-tailed deer.
Somewhere through
this sector I stood for another rise and felt my left Achilles go
"twang". Not
a reassuring sensation. Something
down there had failed that shouldn't have. I
sat by the road to eat a sandwich, feeling dejected, as Paul and Heath filed
past. On
reflection I'd been stuffed physically ever since day one and now my emotional
state was fraying as well. I
was covered in filth and desperately needed a room and a shower to lick my
wounds and give me space to consider options given my deteriorating state. I
caught Paul, then Heath, and ground out the last painful hour on some awful
gravel roads to gain Holland Lake. The sight of the restaurant at the far end
of the lake was enough. Blow
the expense, that's where I was eating and sleeping that night, despite there
being time to get some of the following pass knocked off.
Upon arival there
was another rider whose ankle was way more inflamed than mine and whom had
decided to take a few days off. I
didn't have a few days to spare. I
had counted on averaging 220 km/day to complete the route in 20 days for my
rendezvous with Anita and was already considerably behind schedule. My
ankle was puffier than normal and on closer inspection I was shocked to find my achilles wearing a painful lump, presumably the result of the "twang"
I'd felt earlier in the day. Surely
my goose was cooked.
The weather was
predicted to turn bad during the night so quite a few riders, including Peter,
Paul and Nic Brown (a kiwi), had opted to pony up and stay the night. When
asked by the waiter what he'd like for dinner, Paul replied, "I'll have
the lot!", in classic Aussie drawl, which cracked me up. He
looked at me seriously and added, "there'll be nothin' left of you at the
end". Heath
baulked at staying and decided to head off and bivvy for his 4th night on the
trot. Over
dinner and a beer I delicately raised options for quitting. The
only problem was that one does not simply hop on a Greyhound from Holland Lake. It
seemed the only way out was over a few more passes first. In
any case, and I can't remember who said it, but when you're on the Tour Divide,
you don't talk of quitting when you are tired, cold, wet or hungry. That
leaves little option for bailing.
In any case, the
taste of another beer eased my disposition, and I filed up the stairs for what
must be said was a disappointing shower, but at least the bed was up to
scratch. I
slept like a baby till the alarm chimed.
(229 km, 2354 m)
Holland Lake
Peter and Nic discuss options
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