Day 3 - Boise, ID - Vale, Or

Day In Numbers 

Miles biked 73.2

The day began at Dani and Troy's home where I thanked my hosts and was on my way. While my packing job on this particular day had reached a whole new level of weight distribution, and my body was rested and ready for the road, I didn't get out the door until 10:00. I located the nearest grocery store, a Fred Meyer just down the street. I walked around in search of food for the next several days, and made my way over to the self-checkout. I had just started typing in the PLU code for my cereal when a young, loquacious gal walked over and said, "HI!" I had my front panniers on either shoulder, so at first I assumed she had been charged with secret shopper duty. I asked her how her day was going, and again came a very enthusiastic, "OH, MY DAY HAS BEEN GREAT! You're doing a really good job with that." I thanked her and told her that self-checkout technology has come a long way. She quickly agreed before asking if I had a Fred Meyers Rewards card. I said no and paused for a moment before asking if Fred Meyer stocked Kroger foods suggesting that I use my phone number which is registered at Dillons. She bent over to get a better view as I typed in the number, and when it went through she let out the least inhibited laughter I had heard in a long while. Without a moment's pause she yelled, "that's great, HIGH FIVE!" This was to be the first of many friendly interactions as I found my way out of Boise that morning. I must have exchanged greetings with over 20 strangers on the Green Belt. 

The previous night, Troy had gone above and beyond in helping me fixing my bike for me. After half and hour in his garage, I peddled down the street and everything felt so solid; the bike road like a dream! Among his many tools, Troy did not happen to own a device which could repair abused rubber, so a decided to stop by George's Cycles for a second opinion. When I walked through the door I felt like I had entered a bicycle hospital. The place was immaculately ordered without dust, grime, or grease anywhere. Additionally, three of the four employees in the sales area (the repairs are all done in a private room...weird) remained completely silent and regarded me a look of suspicion. Ben, a young guy behind the counter made up for all of this. We discussed the tire, and in the end, decided that it wasn't worth risking a blowout going 30 miles/hour with a fully-loaded bike. He called another store to insure they had the proper tire and then drew me a detailed map of the most bike-friendly route to get there. He happened to be from Oregon and told me all about the route I would be taking. The conversation was personal and sincere from the start and he gave me a great boost of confidence before hitting the road. The visit to the next bike shop was largely uneventful aside from meeting the store manager who was the male equivalent of a Stepford wife. His manner and dealings were polished and refined to a fault, the opposite of authentic - I still think the guy is a robot.

My body felt ready for the ride ahead, after all, today I would be entering Oregon! My mind, however, seemed to be searching for ways to keep me in Boise. Next on the list of distractions: I had given much needed attention to the bike, but I needed fuel. I pulled to the side of the road and had a snack halfway in my mouth when Troy happened to drive by. He got out of the car and his look said it all, "what the heck are you still doing in Boise?" Troy is the best sort of guy so I was glad to run into him again for a final farewell. At this point I focused all of my energy on getting the heck out of Boise. And I did it. I had just escaped the gravitational pull of the city and entered the land of industrial agriculture when I saw a sign that said, among other things, "Watermelon!!!"
I pulled off at Wagner Farms and inquired about a slice of watermelon. The market was full of fresh produce ranging from cherries to potatoes and everything in between, but slices of watermelon where not for sale. The lady who had greeted me said she would give me a slice anyway and proceeded to cut a wedge the size of my face. As I relished the wonderful treat, she told me all about her experiences in Portland and Seattle saying that she, "miss(es) Seattle every minute!" After a little more conversation, I purchased a bag of cherries and proceeded out of the parking lot (where three different people said, "now that is a great way to travel!" 

This time I hit the road in earnest and biked westward until I hit the interstate. I stopped at a gas station to refill my water bottles and to ask a sheriff about the interstate mystery. Having biked out
into the center of nowhere in an effort not to break the law, I remained curious about whether bikes were indeed restricted from interstate travel. The officer gave the dispatch center a call, and like me, he was put on indefinite hold. He seemed equally amused by the persistence of the mystery and wished me well on my trip.

I nearly made it to the Oregon border before anything else of note occurred (I don't presume that any of this is noteworthy.) Without warning my right knee started aching to the extent that, for a mile, I only used it to pull rather than push. I kept thinking of all the climbing that lay ahead and how there would be no way to do it while favoring one leg. Coming to terms with my self-delusion, I pulled aside and did a number of stretches trying to focus on the major groups in my legs, hips, and lower back. The stretching did the trick and before I knew it I was biking parallel to the Snake River. 

Ever since seeing the iconic photos of Ansel Adams, which so beautifully capture the Snake at some of it's more picturesque moments, I've wanted to experience the river from the same vantage point. This moment of glory will have to wait. I crossed the Snake on highway 26 at Nyssa, Oregon. Though I was excited to finally be in Oregon, my excitement had to be redirected to what was down the road... much further down the road. This section of the Snake resembles the mighty Kaw. Mighty banks of dirt soar 15 feet above the muddy river below. A factory to my left and a row of homes with their possessions spilling onto the lawn added to the ambiance of my first moments in Oregon. I pressed west through Nyssa's lovely main street and back into the country side. Surrounded by buttes and cow food, I called my sisters to hear about their first days of school, a conversation which carried me nearly the remainder to Vale. 

First stop: grocery store. I asked if there were any alternatives to staying at the RV park and bought, among other things, three pounds of severely discounted bananas ($.75). After cruising around town, I concluded that there were not any ninja-camping spots which suited me. In the end I forked over the fee to stay at the RV park where I found a hot shower, and company among three motorcyclists (not in the shower). They hit the hay early, but as I cooked dinner, I was joined by Jonathan, a young Mormon who was helping to build a geothermal-power plant just down the road. (This was fascinating! Apparently hot water is drawn up from the earth and passes through radiator-like tubes where it heats freon, which in turn expands and drives the turbines. The water is then returned to the earth unaltered except for a three to four degree drop in temperature.) We hit it off and spent the next hour talking in the parking lot. A bit later than I had hoped for, I finally found myself in my hammock gazing at the stars as I recounted the events of the day (this usually lasts for about a minute.)