Bicycling beyond the Divide: Two Journeys into the West by Daryl Farmer

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By Daryl Farmer

On a trip all started 20 years previous, Daryl Farmer, a twenty-year-old two-time collage dropout, did what misplaced males have so frequently performed during this kingdom: he headed west. 20 years later and seventy kilos heavier, with the yellowing journals from that transformative five-thousand-mile bicycle trek in his pack, Farmer got down to retrace his course. this is often his tale of pursuing that far-off summer season and that far away dream of domestic, the place house is never-ending area, a roof of massive sky, and a mattress of dry earth. Just because the years altered the fellow, so, too, have they altered the West, and Farmer’s moment trip provides a different viewpoint on those changes—as good as on what lasts. no matter if stuck in a Colorado storm from snow or braving a Yellowstone herd of bison, kayaking with orcas in Puget Sound, buying and selling Ninja strikes with a homeless guy in San Francisco, or getting the lowdown on extraterrestrial beings on Nevada’s Extraterrestrial road, Farmer charts a relocating panorama of individuals and locations. this is often the West the place the wildlife and private personality are inextricably associated, and the place one man’s journey into the prior and current takes us to the center of that ever-evolving connection. (20080306)

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Extra info for Bicycling beyond the Divide: Two Journeys into the West

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No,” he said. ” He finished his meal and got up to leave, wished me luck with a tone that seemed to suggest I’d need it. I walked back inside. The woman looked up, and when she saw me, her face dropped. I wondered who she was expecting. ” I asked her. She shook her head. “It’s pretty much all private land,” she said. ” I asked. “This water is non-potable,” she said. So I rode to the convenience store–gas station at the edge of town. A middle-aged couple worked behind the counter. The man wore overalls over a flannel shirt.

I hadn’t eaten, and I was shivering. I’d ridden nearly eighty-seven miles, the last several in the dark without a light, and I had pushed myself to illness. I unrolled my sleeping bag on the floor and lay shivering until I had finally fallen asleep. Now at least, in the comfort and warmth of my motel room, I wasn’t sick. Sun-and windburned. Tired and sore. Out of shape and not at all acclimated to the altitude. But I’d made it through the first day without making myself ill. Maybe this was some of that wisdomthat-comes-with-age people were always talking about.

The orange glow from the few open restaurant windows gave the off-season solitude a ghostly charm. Following a sign and the sound of muffled music, I walked up a flight of stairs and into a bar, looking for conversation, if only to eavesdrop. But beneath the warm lights there was only the bartender. He brought me a Fat Tire beer. ” he asked. When I told him, he asked if it wasn’t too cold for long-distance bicycling, and I agreed that it probably was. In all, only a couple of inches of snow had covered Frisco, but I was worried about the trail over Vail Pass, and I asked the bartender about it.

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