Day 63 - Halfway, OR

I knew the day was going to be great when the waitress at the cafe reached down below the counter, pulled out a gun and fired at me. The projectile, a dart, sailed passed me landing on the floor. "Alright" she said, reached down under the counter pulled out bigger gun, loaded it with a marshmallow pumped it up and fired hitting me right in the chest from 20 feet out. The whole dinner broke into laughter. That's what you get for convincing the cook to ring the triangle when your order is up at Bucky's Cafe.

I headed out along 71 making a 1500 foot climb to summit a pass at around 5100 feet and than began a very long descent into, duh duh dahhhhh: Hell's Canyon. The waitress, who really liked me despite beaning me with a marshmallow, told me the Canyon is usually 5 degrees hotter than in town. I belated patted myself on the back for deciding not to ride through it in yesterday's heatwave.

The downhill was fantastic, twisting through stone passes along steep 7 percent grades. This is one of the few times on the trans-am bike trail where its better to be going the "wrong way," i.e. east to west.

After several miles I turned a corner to see the expanse of the Snake River flowing along the floor of Hell's Canyon. The road followed along the river passed the Oxbow damn where I crossed into Oregon, the 14th state of my trip. Oregon! The final frontier. The last state of my trip. I was so happy to see that sign.

I stopped at the only rest stop in the canyon to cool off. The thermometer read 100 degrees. They proprietor calmly told me that I wouldn't have made it through yesterday -- to damn hot. Steve caught up with me and in another 10 miles we were in the town of Halfway having a late lunch. Halfway to where? To another stagecoach stop in the olden days, which is how it got its name.

Steve had mentioned that Inga, his warm shower host, told him she had plenty of room and sounded laid back so I decided to show up at her door, having had no luck reaching her on the phone for past day. We rolled down a long dirt driveway two miles out of town up to an old farm house. A tall blond woman came to the fence saying hello and that it had slipped her mind to call me back but there would be no problem staying there. She immediately start shooting deadpan jokes our way, telling me she had a lovely ditch to bathe in and that the hay bales in her barn would make a lovely bed for us tonight. In the middle of the relentless joking she mentioned she used to race bikes in the past. I didn't think much of it.

After our greeting she went back inside to tend to some house guests and I took a walk around the yard. I stepped into an open barn off to the side and high up in the rafters were hanging 10 or so different racing bikes, most all with steel frames from the 80s. I walked under one bike to find her name embossed on the top tube. Across the rafters hung a team 7-11 eddy merckx bike. A light went off in my head. When she said racing she meant in the Olympics, holding world records, and winning national championships kind of way.

She fixed us some margaritas and we sat on her front porch as she told us stories of her career and what it was like raising horses and keeping an old farm. Steve and I were just giddy with the incredible luck of meeting someone as cool as Inga while on the road. We all drove into town for a first class dinner and wound the night up back on her porch, relaxing and trading stories.

After two months on the road I was mentally and physically exhausted and began to feel like i wanted to end my trip as soon as possible. This chance encounter completely revitalized me and got me excited again to be out on the road. Experiences like these are nothing short of magic.