A fierce and unrelenting headwind resisted every pedal stroke as we attempted eighty miles of flats, climbs and rollers enroute from Ririe, Idaho to Hoback Junction, Wyoming. After fifty miles I was fatigued and famished. At sixty I struggled to recall why I started biking. At seventy I was beginning to think that “sagging” (jumping into the Support And Gear vehicle) was the only way out. At eighty I crossed the finish line, made a bee line for the chocolate milk dispenser and plunked myself into a lawn chair to inhale a sandwich. Michael pitched the tent without an ounce of help from me. I had only “Thank you” to give. The ride went down as one of the toughest I have ever done.

But here is a paradigm shifter I overheard at the chocolate milk station: “The worst bikes rides make the best memories”. The wisdom came from the oldest rider on our bike tour, an eighty-something year old man. His rationale: you never forget them and they give you the best stories to tell your friends.

The only story I care to tell is best shared by the photos that captured the beauty along the route. This rugged loveliness propelled me forward when all I wanted to do was stop and sell my bike.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What was your worst ride – or perhaps, your best memory?