The road has lots of sand in it so riding it is a bit like riding on wet sand at the beach. And, of course, there are potholes... lots and lots of potholes. And there's lots and lots of washboard to go with the mud and potholes. There is hardly any traffic so I rode wherever I could find the smoothest surface, which sometimes was in the oncoming lane or, in this case, right down the middle.
And, of course, what's a horrible road surface without ridiculous numbers of steep hills to go with it.
I had to walk the bike up a few of the hills, something I rarely ever do, but the mud was so deep, I didn't have a choice.
Both Sam and I ended up pretty dang filthy. My shoes used to be black.
I thought I was really getting tired, that was why the hills were so much harder to pedal up. It turns out it was mud built up in my fender.
Once I cleaned out all that muck, the hills got way easier.
Yup, it was a tough ride but the scenery was great and I really enjoyed it. They don't call it the Top of the World Highway for nothing.
Yesterday, I only rode 40 or so miles but with the mud, potholes, and hills, that was plenty. I had heard from other cyclists that the owner of the now closed Boundary road house rented out cabins. Well, when I got there the place was deserted except for three other travellers. There was Stefan, a German travelling by car, Geneie, a Swiss hitch hiker travelling with Stefan, and Travis, a motorcyclist from LA.
The border, a few miles up the road, is closed at night so we were all stuck there. We ended up building a nice campfire and sleeping on the floor of one of the cabins that had been left unlocked. It was fun hanging out with the Boundary Boys. One of the best parts of travelling is meeting interesting people in unexpected places.
Today was supposed to be easier. To quote a British cyclist I met a few weeks ago, 'Ha, bloody, ha!!' The day started with a four mile climb to the border. For almost all of the rest of the day, the road went up and down over ridges and hills. The road was supposed to be paved but most of it had reverted to dirt. The hills were ridiculous with several long climbs approaching 12% grade. I'd come down a hill, not very fast, mind you, because I had to weave between the potholes, and I'd see the next hill which led to my very loud cussing at everything from road engineers, the idiot (me), who decided that riding this road was a great plan, to the geologic processes that put those damn hills there in the first place. After the third or fourth of those insane knee grinders that I climbed at around 2mph, my legs were shot but I still had something like thirty miles to go. I stopped to eat several times, slathering butter on bread and crackers to get more calories.
I still felt like my legs were running on fumes and it was only the thought of a nice dinner, a long hot shower, and a night in real bed with a bathroom mere steps away that got me through those last miles.
I passed another cyclist, Chris from Germany, on a recumbent. It was great to commiserate about the hardships of the road with someone who really understood.
I finally rolled down to the Yukon River ferry and ran into some motorcyclists with whom I had shared a campsite back in Burwash Landing about a week ago. Because there are relatively few roads up here, I tend to run into people I've met earlier or who know people I've met. I saw three people I knew just on one street.
Dinner was a huge serving of Chinese food and after hanging out with Stefan and Geneie at a bar for a bit, I headed back to my room at the Bunkhouse hotel and slept like the dead.
-- Post From My iPhone
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