New Mexico has been kind of fucking us. Vigorously, emotionally. Because the following videos do a good job at portraying my mental state during the rides I'll focus mainly on what all I've seen. Our first New Mexican morning was in Clovis. I woke hella early for no good reason. Anxiety, I believe, was the motivating factor. I was nervous about the winds and the length of our ride from Clovis to Fort Sumner, which - consequences of a communication station destabilization - was wrongly assumed by the group at large to be 60 miles with mild winds.
We had 87 miles and severe headwinds stretching into the late evening. Huzzah. Hooray. I woke well before dawn and contemplated faking diarrhea for the day. What came of my early musings was not a folding of the wet brown sack, rather an ramrod steel will to take the day by the crotch and twist it to my will. Grrr!
Part of this resolution included capturing the sunrise, which by all accounts was much prettier in person than seen on my poorly placed timelapse.
Thus pleased with myself and the situation at large, I ate a tremendous amount of sausage and wondered if the loading of more meat on my distended belly would push through the 72 oz steak, which up to this point remained a solid rock in my colon.
We took to the day. Within 10 miles Megan's pedal broke and so her and George were on the fast road to Albuquerque, having cut their losses on a rental minivan and were so speeding towards the bright lights of the big city to fix a truly impressive problem.
Well, as the winds began pillaging my body with their ravaging gusts my mood turned sour. This video was likely the last time I was calm for the next six hours.
Then, five minutes later, I cracked. A song sprung to mind, OH! New Mexico!
I was understandably alone. Nobody wanted to ride with me and fuck it, I didn't want to ride with them. I put on Lord of the Rings audiobook, strapped the speaker to my ear, and so let the sweet sounds of Rob Inglis carry me to Hobbiton, where by all accounts Bilbo Baggins was being a big fat turd on his eleventy-first birthday.
LOTR,FOTR (Lord of the Rings, Fellowship of the Ring) improved my mood. Tolkein is a poet. Premier text of the 20th century. I stand by it. What's that, Treaty of Versailles? Nope. You don't have any elven, so suck it. I, singing the sweet tune of a hobbit walking song, welcomed myself back into the Freezer gang as we entered Fort Sumner.
Fort Sumner is famous for the death of bandit badboy Billy the Kid.
There was a Billy the Kid museum, expectedly underwhelming. I didn't take any pictures.
There we were. Out of the Billy the Kid museum, dazed, confused, and dehydrated. My lips, blistered and cracked. My nose, dry and full of blood. We were headed to Sumner Lake State Park, a good old 15 miles of headwind away.
The final seven miles was a disgustingly slow affair - a 30 mph full frontal sustained wind force face-fuckery - and I almost choked on baby carrots during the production of our final piece of videography that day.
The best part of this day was getting off my bike and making the thickest mac & cheese dinner this side of the Mississippi has seen. We almost broke a spatula churning the pot. It was delicious. I strung up a hammock such that I was able to pee out of it without getting out. I was happy, and full, and not going anywhere the rest of the night. Surely the next day would prove more fair.
I dreamt of Lady Goldberry licking my chapped face, little believing that the next day we'd be faced with wind gusts up to 45 mph ...