The last few days in Wyoming have required earlier starts to beat the wind. Once the afternoon comes, my day is either over or becomes ridiculously miserable. Battling the wind on a fully loaded bike is a physical test but the most insulting pain seeps in between the ears, whirls down the eustachian tubes, and whispers weakening thoughts to the brain. I find myself looking for a better gear ratio, even though there isn’t one, or constantly checking my computer to see how far I have gone since the last time I checked.
1.3 miles. Good work, Hincapie.
It’s a relentless battle, but it’s not enough for me to conclude that I chose a bad route or am “going the wrong way,” which I have heard endlessly and is enough to drive me up a wall. There is no right way to bike across any country. There are routes and places that require more planning and a little bit of grit to make the day more feasible, but definitely no wrong way. However, there are always things that you just can’t plan for—storms, mechanical problems with the bike, rude little rich German boys who are far from home and insult your country, and your every day morning bowel movement. Some may argue that those last two are splitting hairs and, to be honest, I would be inclined to agree with them. The only difference is one you can flush down the toilet and the other you just want to.
But, no, you can’t control the first poop of the day. You can try to coerce it out with coffee or a bran muffin, but, bless its heart, it will do as it pleases. Which can be a real pain in the ass when you have to start waking up at 4am to knock out some early miles before the winds pick up. Even worse when you know you’re going to be biking along a highway all day where the trees are as rare as places to refill your water bottles, because the morning poop is coming down the pipe, like it or not.
So, no shit, there I was ready to leave Rawlins early in the morning with some stubborn stohl. I was hesitant to leave that morning because I knew it was going to be forty-five miles before I saw another bathroom, but you can only sit on the toilet for so long after your legs have fallen asleep before you start to question some of your decisions in life, which usually means the next one will be impulsive, and it was: I left my hotel room and started my ride.
Dawn’s rosy red fingers had yet to break the horizon, but I was headed down the road to the highway that cut through town. In the early hours of the morning there is a special tint of blue that is painted on to everything. It’s almost as if the cool crisp air emanates it to match its mood.
With no wind and heat, I felt strong. I sang to myself and welcomed a thin layer of sweat under my jacket which swaddled my body in a refreshing cold breeze. The sun began to crack over the horizon and sent rays of warmth to the mountains in the distance first, then the tall blades of grass beneath them, and then to me.
People rave about sunsets but there is something powerfully moving about watching a sunrise, to see its light and feel its warmth after the coldest hours is empowering, so I had to stop and admire the beauty. Unfortunately, stepping off from my bike was like unkinking a hose—things started to flow again. A deep grumble from the depths of my bowels and I felt death’s icy fingers dance up my spine. I knew it was time, but there was nothing but “not high enough” grass and sage bushes. Okay, there was one sage bush, and suddenly I regretted wearing my bright red long sleeve.
I did the only thing I could do, I got back on the bike and started pedaling. I know this sounds like a ridiculous idea but it has worked for me before at a time when there were even less great options than I currently had.
My body wasn’t fooled. The mass had already made its journey across the great transverse colon and had a pleasant sojourn down my descending colon, where it probably got jammed up, but found its release during that high left leg dismount and came rushing down with the density of a neutron star to the stoop of the back door.
I may have made it a mile down the road before I came to grips with the severity of the situation. I rolled down a few more yards to where there were more sage bushes, but it was still the equivalent of walking around naked in your backyard and taking comfort in your widely spaced picket fence.
That entire morning, maybe five cars passed me. I had had the entire highway to myself, but now that I am about to drop my knickers and pretend that no one can see me fifteen feet off the highway, there is a steady flow of eighteen wheelers and tourists presumably making their way to Yellowstone.
Now, I’m not shy. I have done my share of public defecations in dire situations (remind me to tell you the story of when I was on a ten mile run on Panama City Beach when food poisoning struck five miles from my car), but this current predicament presented a whole new dilemma: Do I face the road or away from it? If I face the road, there is the chance of unwanted eye contact when a curious passerby wants to know why the guy in the bright red long sleeve is “hiding” behind the sage brush that only covers his knees, but if I face away from the road…. ...well, you can figure out the complexities there.
I decided to face away from the road and enjoy the sunrise. I felt like given the circumstance I was entitled to be a little selfish and focus on something more beautiful than the act itself. I lowered my bike shorts and quickly squatted down.
Ouch! What the…!
I squatted too fast and dry grass poked and lanced my tender little arse and bits. I tried to ignore the sounds of passing cars and trucks as I did my business, but honestly I couldn’t help but laugh at “Wyoming Bob and Brenda’s” bad luck that morning, or the fat RVers who were probably hoping to see an antelope.
I finished up and used the toilet paper that I was smart enough to take from the hotel (like I said, not my first time in this situation), pulled up my bike shorts and made my way to the bike, but I could tell I had yet to be released from Death’s icy grip and there would indeed be a second act, and just as I put everything away the intermission ended and I entered the stage from the right to another sage bush.
With a little more care to my unspeakables, I mashed down the dry grass and brush and began my crescendo, but this time, like a true scientist on a pursuit for knowledge, I faced the road. I still kind of feel sorry for that old lady. The unbroken eye contact with my pale white thighs out is probably going to follow her for the rest of her days.
In the end, I think I prefer facing away from the road with my hood up. Then I can at least pretend that they never saw a thing, whereas I know that old woman saw everything. Bless her heart.
