LES PNEUS PLATS.

I was up early enough. For the second time this trip, I arose to a flat tire. Having learned from my first tube tearing, I now had two tubes in my inventory. As I inspected the tube and tire for discrepancies, a tiny thorn was located. After removing that, I was unable to locate a tear on the tube. It did not take long for me to toss that new tube in there. After dealing with the rest of the camp, I hit the road. 

You already know that the morning mist is magical. It surely was on this a.m. occasion, and this fog fell fabulously atop the growing corn. The cool morning madly motivated me. My morning pitstop was in Merino. I chugged an energy drink and smashed a cliff bar. Sterling was my next destination, but I just sped through. Now I was officially traveling on Highway 138. Pushing hard, I arrived in the tiny town of Crook. My front tire was feeling flat as I entered the town's only gas station. After purchasing an energy drink and some peanuts, I returned to my bike. The front tire had lost more pressure, and it was time for an inspection. 

Bright as day, I found several tiny thorns poking into the tire. The holes in the tube were sizable, and I could easily locate the punctures. I opted to use my patch kit, rather than using my last tube. After securing the puncture wounds, the journey continued. Not so fast, because my tire was slowly losing air. Every few miles, I would stop and refill it with my hand pump. With this tedious tactic, I successfully made it to Sedgwick. Feeling a little frustrated, I decided to take a break from biking. The only dining place in town was a bar in the middle of town. Their menu was a little light, and my best option was a bag of sour cream and onion-lays chips. Of course, I washed it down with a red solo cup of Coors. 

After the bar, I took my bike to a nearby picnic table and again got to work. There were more spikes in this goddamn tube. I put in my last tube and cursed these sinister spikes. It turns out that I am not the only person who feels this way. After some research on these troublesome thorns, I learned that they are named Tribulus Terrestris (also known as puncture vine and goatshead). In June 2014, a small town in Oregon announced it would pay a bounty of one dollar for each large trash bag of puncture vine that was collected. I would pay one hundred bucks a bag, that is how much I hated these things today. 

With my fresh tube, I carefully continued to Ovid. This was just a fly by, because my final destination was the next town. Seven miles later, I arrived at the gateway of Northeastern Colorado, Julesburg. Rumor has it that this tiny town used to be the sin city of the late eighteen-hundreds. There was no time for sinning this evening, and I quickly located my motel. After a quick shower, I wandered around the city and took some photos. Subway was the only food spot near the motel. My order was the spicy Italian footlong on Italian with everything on it. After that succulent sub, I got to work on my Chromebook. Ready for the route? Here you go.