We hit the plains today, after climbing six miles out of St. Mary this morning on one last unexpected pass. We had a half-horizon view of Glacier National Park, and then the horizon opened up around a corner to the vast plains before us. We sat at a viewpoint for a while and discussed the glacial origins of the mountains and valleys, and how the first westward explorers must have marveled at the sight of the great mountains after so much flat land.

I love the plains. I love the flatness, the endless farmland, and the steady biking.

This is my favorite kind of riding. We are slowly dropping elevation on roads which stretch for miles in front of and behind us. We get into good rhythms that last for long stretches. My mind wanders, I daydream, I reach new conclusions, I fall more in love with Sara. I stop to pick roadside purple wildflowers for her. My throat gets dry from the wind while my body stays hydrated, and after a while I take long draughts of sweet tasting warm water. Alone I could do 130 miles out here, but I also like taking it slowly. I love the patterns in the wheat, the waving tall stalks, the fruit of the plant up close, the more golden barley. I love the unknown yellow fields, and the larger patterns that the planted and fallow fields make. I like the straightness of the roads, the perfect right angles of the crossroads, the sight of a long straight dust trail stretching out behind a truck speeding towards the main road. I love seeing entire trains approaching, and seeing the conductors returning my wave from high in their perch, sometimes blowing an extra horn blast to push me on. I love biking in the middle of the road safely because I can see cars from miles away, and when they do approach they can so easily go around me. I love seeing Sara half a mile ahead of me, about to drop over another hill into the next ocean of plains. I love rounding a bend finally and looking back to catch the last lined-up glimpse of the ten-mile straight section I just finished. I love meeting farmers in stores, hearing their talk of this year’s harvest and past years’ troubles, and having them stop to ask about our trip. I like waving to them on their monstrous tractors and knowing they will wave back. I like seeing only one house in the entire horizon of unending, geometric fields. I love camping beneath the only tree in sight, and seeing stars from horizon to horizon. I love biking 72 miles in a day and being 68 miles further east than I started, as the crow flies. I love seeing a real town once every thirty to sixty miles, and discovering the dots on the map in between them.

On the plains, the towns appear from maddeningly far away. We were riding a long, straight stretch of empty road today in the midday heat, with nothing around us as far as we could see in any direction. Suddenly a grain elevator appeared on the horizon, and our spirits lifted at the thought of cold drinks and a rest. We pedaled with new energy, but the silo got no closer. It grew a little bigger and shimmered in the heat, but it did not get any closer. Finally we saw other buildings and even some trees off to the side of the road, clustered around the elevator, but still it seemed no closer. We lost the extra energy, but kept pedaling. It took us a full hour and a half to reach the town after first catching sight of the elevator. It is especially hard to leave a town when we look behind us to see the buildings visibly receding, still unable to even see the next town in front of us.

There is a myth about the plains. People think that you can see forever on the plains, but it?s actually one of the most claustrophobic places I?ve ever been. On perfectly flat land, you can see about eight miles in every direction. It is an extremely isolating feeling to look around you and see absolutely nothing for eight miles in every direction, or maybe see one house far off in all that space. In the mountains, you can see peaks fifty or a hundred miles away, and from the higher peaks you can see even further. There is also no place to hide on the plains, so there?s a feeling of vulnerability along with the isolation. Western Kansas is the flattest place I?ve ever been, and the whole time I was there I had an unconscious feeling of tension in the back of my mind. But I love it for its uniqueness. There are few places where you can look around at miles of flat farmland and know you are the only person in the entire landscape.