Day Forty-Nine: Fort Smith - Ozark

We wasted no time in the morning in our humble hotel room, and crossed the road to Denny’s, where the portion sizes were notably larger than they were in the Western states. I was desperate for a new tire on my back wheel, as I had gotten flat after flat in past days, so we searched for nearby bike shops and found one just a couple of miles away. The trip was unsuccessful, however; they were out of stock for tires my size (why does this always happen?), so we opted for tire liners, hoping that would do the trick for at least a few days. Next stop was the gas station, a dingy joint where a sleazy man outside cat called a woman across the street, Heeeeey, Sexyyyy, right in front of Slater. Some people have no shame.

We finally headed out to ride for the day, as the suffocating heat rose higher and higher in temperature, and the 80% humidity left us with a “glisten”, or should I say a dripping layer of sweat. The road was a gradual uphill until it turned into an ACTUAL uphill, and it wasn’t until we were about 30 miles in that we realized we were in the mountains. It was lush and green, and trees hovered over the shoulder, blocking any view that might have hinted toward the fact that we had climbed into the Ozarks (Google Maps isn’t topographical, so we had no idea). Overcome by an unexpectedly difficult workout, we took a break at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas. It was infested with fruit flies and had an underwhelming Indian buffet on the side wall that made the entire room smell of pungent curry and spices. We sat at a booth near a window and gazed outside at a woman in a small Nissan Rogue who pulled up to the diesel pump and proceeded to poke and prod at the machine, searching for the “Regular” gasoline button that did not exist. We narrated her thoughts aloud, killing a few minutes and wiping the sweat from our brows time after time before realizing that there was no point in cooling down when more heat awaited us. We stepped outside and hopped on the bikes once more, onward toward the town of Ozark, Arkansas.

The rest of the ride was slightly—and by slightly, I mean extremely—frustrating. We were passed by truck after truck waving an enormous confederate flag and driving a foot away from us, and it took every fiber of my being not to give them the finger and throw a rock, which is the most I can do on a bike, but also the fact that they most likely carried guns deterred me from doing that. It took an eternity to gain about 10 miles, and just one mile outside of the town, Slater got a flat. We came to a screeching hault at the bottom of a large hill, where luckily there was a woman and her nephew standing outside of their cars, snapping photos of the landscape. We yelled their way, “How far is Ozark from here?!” They told us it was only a mile, with a few hills in between, and in response to the word “only” we pointed at Slater’s flat tire. They ushered us toward their pickup truck, clearly understanding our struggle, and helped us out immensely by hitching us down the road to a small motel where we quickly checked in just in time to watch the Women’s World Cup final.

After a swift jaunt to the Subway next door and the gas station next to that, we were set for the game with sandwiches and beer, and the 6-pack of beer unfortunately went to Slater due to me feeling sick to my stomach. That passed, though, and the women won (YEEEEHAW!) and we spent the rest of the night celebrating by watching Modern Family, movies, and washing our dirty clothes in the motel sink… niiiiiiice.