https://www.facebook.com/share/v/19TxkAQm2X/ Rested and full of energy, I rolled out of Laramie, Wyoming with a big smile and some excitement for the road ahead. I took Roger Canyon Road northeast, winding through a beautiful canyon with a steady, moderate climb. The morning air was crisp and the riding felt smooth. As I crested the top, I was greeted by endless rolling hills and mile after mile of champagne gravel. The surface was perfect, fast, hard-packed, and quiet under my tires. It was one of those days where the bike just wants to move. The scenery opened up into wide vistas, dotted with buttes and antelope scattered across the landscape. Peaceful and picturesque. After a few hours, I pulled off for a snack break and devoured an entire package of strawberries I had been saving. Sitting there on the roadside, eating strawberries with a cool breeze in my face, it felt like a perfect bike touring moment. The gravel continued for miles and I soaked in every bit of it. Eventually I descended a steep canyon, dropping onto the plains below. The dirt road kept going and I kept pedaling, fully content and loving the isolation of the Wyoming countryside. Eventually I reached a paved highway. A local I met the day before had recommended this stretch, saying it had no shoulder but almost no traffic. They were right. It was smooth and quiet. But the Wyoming weather had other plans. As I rode north, small puffy clouds started to build and darken. Within an hour, the clouds had grown into a full-on thunderstorm. I could see lightning crashing to the ground behind me and knew I needed shelter fast. Just before the storm caught me, I spotted a small bridge over a creek and pulled underneath just as the hail started falling. The lightning was close and loud. The hail was the size of nickels. I boiled some water and enjoyed coffee under the bridge while waiting for the storm to pass. When the rain finally let up, I started riding again… but the adventure wasn’t over. The deluge had turned the dirt road ahead into sticky, clumping clay. Not deep, but heavy enough that it clogged the wheels. After less than a mile, I couldn’t even turn the pedals. The wheels wouldn’t spin. I ended up dragging my bike through the mud for miles. I kept checking the map, eight miles until pavement. I hoped the mud would break, but it never did. The entire way, I pushed and dragged my bike through Wyoming kitty litter. It reminded me of the sticky mud near Fruita Colorado where I used to live. By the time I finally reached pavement, I felt physically spent but emotionally relieved. I hopped on the bike and pedaled another ten miles to I-25, stopping at a roadside café for a much-needed calorie refill. The mud slog had cost me precious daylight and I knew I wouldn’t reach my original target of Guernsey. I made the call to hop on the interstate for the last stretch of the day and squeezed out the remaining miles before sunset, rolling into Wheatland just before dark. It was one of the toughest days of the trip so far, but exactly the kind of struggle you look back on and smile.