The pace was civil, and the thin clouds spared us from the often brutal heat of Poudre Canyon, but it was always going to rain. At the store in Rustic a sheet of paper taped over the handle read “Soft serve closed for winter”. The sky darkened. Aside from a wet road, ten minutes of rain, and a moment that stung like hail, during which I pulled the bill of my cap low to shield my face, the storm quickly passed. I attribute the lack of precipitation to the talismanic nature of the rain jackets we’d donned in anticipation of a soaking. One hundred kilometer from our last visit, we arrived back at Ted’s Place, the filling station at the entrance to Poudre Canyon. The food situation was grim. The same sad breakfast sandwiches sat waiting, save for the one I’d eaten before the climb. None of the remaining breakfast burritos called to me. Three varieties of hot dog turned silently next to a novel option. I scooped up the two remaining “chicken and waffle” rollers, good for two hundred calories apiece. Paired with a hot dog bun they would fuel me to our next stop easily. Jenn, not a fan of a sweet and salty breakfast combination, declared the maple syrup topped concoction “disgusting” Departing Ted’s, it was clear that we should enjoy the journey north as we’d battle the typical headwind, if not worse, south from Rawhide, and we did. Mercifully, the storm had largely subsided by the time we finished up dinner, or whatever that was, in Wellington. At the 7-11 in Platteville the crowd was this year’s usual collection of weirdos. I can’t be sure what happened in this town. There appears to have been no meaningful change in the surrounding area. I can’t articulate how, but the characters that frequent the service station have taken a turn towards the bizarre. A light tailwind propelled us the final one hundred kilometers back to Louisville. Jenn and I headed home for light dinner, midnight being a bit late for big meal.
