Day Twenty-Nine: Blanding - Cortez, CO

Slate clomped clumsily out of our stuffy tent around 5:30 a.m. to say goodbye to Node, who we thought was heading out before sunrise. He was stationed at a wooden picnic table, writing peacefully in his journal under the glow of his headlamp. “It looked like an intro to one of those outdoorsy independent films,” Slate noted. Node decided to take his time that morning and left around 9:00 instead, so we slept a couple more hours before saying goodbye. We washed our scummy dishes in the campground bathroom and deconstructed the tent, then stopped into 7/11 for breakfast.

Just after 10:00, we checked out Four Corners Adventures to see if we could solve the tire problem. But just like every other bike shop in Utah (apparently), they only carried parts for mountain bikes. So Ace Hardware was our last shot at a bike repair—fat chance. Slate called them first to make sure we weren’t off track, and they told us that they did in fact carry bike parts, but were “unsure what kinds of bikes they fit.” Well, no surprise, they only fit mountain bikes. Again. We were SOL (shit out o’ luck), and knew that our next best option was to hitch a ride down the road. The woman working the cash register radioed the entire herd of employees to find out if anyone was driving toward Cortez, CO that night, but all responded ‘no’. There was a large bike shop in Cortez, she said, called Kokopelli (and I know this, because on my last tour I had to stop there!). If we could get there, we’d be golden—but first we had to dumpster dive for a piece of pristine cardboard. We purchased a Sharpie and created a sign that read, “Broken bike – ride to Monticello?” (the town before Cortez—we figured more folks were driving from Blanding to Monticello). After some magical minutes of sign twirling, a work truck for a concrete company in Monticello pulled to our side, and Terrill, the driver, chucked our bikes in the back and took us on our way. He was a quiet guy, but a man’s man; his truck was filled with tools and ropes and manly things aside from the bouquet of pink roses that laid atop the center console, begging to be asked about, but neither of us had the balls. Clearly, they were for his wife—an active woman, as he described, a lover of mountain biking and the outdoors. Or maybe for one of his five daughters, who were all-star athletes, artists, and students. Who knows. Mid-conversation, his work buddies bleeped over their radio system, joking, “What’d ya do, go on a bike ride in Blanding?” His co-workers were right behind us, following in their respective pickup trucks, and he was caught: carting hitchhikers—or rather, being a Good Samaritan.

Terrill dropped us off at yet another Ace Hardware, but this one did carry my tire, and we were sure of it—after all, we called and checked…

…Wrong. So we found ourselves on the corner once more, this time with the other side of our former sign reading, “Broken bike – ride to Cortez?” This time took a bit longer; we met helpful citizen after helpful citizen who informed us that they would be traveling to Cortez in just a few hours, so if we were still there, we were welcome to a ride. One called us over to her car to chat, and her Border Collie just about bit a chunk out of Slater’s face. A severe storm was approaching, and we were set on making it to Cortez before Kokopelli Bike & Board closed for the day. Luckily, we were saved once again, this time by a couple from Michigan on vacation. Their truck had broken down the night before, and they knew what it was like to be in desperate need of help, so we were in luck. We rode miles down the road, over rolling hills and through the pinto bean capital of the United States (what?), enjoying their conversation and escaping the looming clouds overhead. They dropped us off at Kokopelli and we thanked them for their kindness and trusting nature, then made our way into the shop.

I was just about ready to snap someone’s limb when they told me that they were all out of stock of 26” tires—and no, they didn’t have the right size rim, either (I needed a new one of those, too). But thankfully, the owner offered the used tire off of his bike, which was slightly thicker than mine, but it would make do. They swapped the tire and fixed a few spokes while Slate and I went to a restaurant down the street called Farm Bistro, a.k.a. best restaurant ever. It was farm-to-table, meaning everything was locally grown and fresh, which we never get to eat these days. Lunch went down quickly, and on our way back, we took note of the small movie theater across the street that just-so-happened to be playing, “Jurassic World,” which we just-so-happened to really want to see (guilty pleasure). So we paid for the repairs, grabbed our bikes, and sped over to the campground to get set up before returning to town for the movie.

The KOA was one of the nicest yet. It was lush and green, with absolutely lovely staff and friendly guests. As soon as we arrived at our patch of grass in the “Primitive Camping” section, a grey-bearded, heavy-set man walked over to our tent and handed us two beers and bags of chips. “Didn’t want you to think that all motorcyclists are bad guys,” he remarked, then told us that we had set up camp in the middle of a huge Kawasaki rally, with nearly 100 Kawasaki enthusiasts riding all over the West. Didn’t bother us, so long as we got beer and chips, am I right?

We killed time in the “lounge” area of the campground lobby, then rode back into town to see our guilty-pleasure-dinosaur-movie. When we arrived, we took a peek in the lobby, then asked if we could stash our bikes inside. “No,” the manager responded, “It gets packed in here, and quite frankly, I don’t think there will be room.” Let me add, the lobby was a huge, empty space, and there was not one other customer in sight. We huffed and rolled our eyes, walked outside, and contemplated every possible place we might be able to lock up our bikes, considering the manager told us they wouldn’t be safe outside—lock or no lock. Finally, after Slater went back inside to throw out the guilt trip, the manager brought us up to his office on the second floor and let us lock up the rigs in the safe space.

The movie was entertaining, predictable, fairly cheesy, and just what we needed to get our minds off of bikes. Ew, bikes. When we left, it was getting dark, we stopped at a gas station as quickly as possible to pick up soggy sub sandwiches and chips, then raced back to the campground for munching and an all-around pleasant night’s sleep.