Recap

Houston: Wounded Duck has hard dock over. Apologies to all those out there for the delay in communication over the last week or so, but upon my return back to home port the duck has been both exhausted and thrown back into society like a blaze of fury.

Where I left off was in Rigby, Idaho, I believe. After having a fabulous visit with the cuz, I continued the trek westward across the vast span of sagebrush and sand that is southern idaho. Unfortunately, tragedy struck as I neared my destination of Arco, Idaho when my chain exploded while trying to ascend a wee hill while battling debilitating winds. Absolutely left with nothing but a free wheeling crank spinning into nothingness, I was forced, for the first time in my life, to stick the thumb out in hopes to find a little help. Fortunately, as cars were very few and far between, a couple from Island Park came rolling down the road in a full-sized dualie pickup where the broken nag took shelter in the rear and I in the rear seat. As it turns out they were retired Navy folks whom had never themselves picked up a hitch hiker and after telling them that I too had never hitched we all figured that it was a day of firsts. The next possible place to find a bike shop turned out to be in Hailey, Idaho, where the big rig and all of us in tow rolled on to meet. After managing repairs to the nag's warp drive, we all decided to take shelter in Hailey where they had to pick up a corncob blaster to strip off the stain off their cabin. Taking refuge in the Americinn, we all ventured out on the town to grab a bite down at the brew pub and had quite a night of swapping stories and sharing adventures. The next day we all went our own way with a little better appreciation of what life may throw in your path on any given day.

From Hailey I continued to dance into the devil's breath as winds crept up to 30 mph of sustained headwinds so after about 40 miles of filth I decided that Fairfield was a good choice to hole up and prepare for the final approach back to home port. Angie my sister, and Greg her beloved beau, were kind enough to come out for a visit to the ol' Prarie Inn. And after dinner and a picnic in room number #102 they took off the next morning with kind waves and much needed support to help the duck suit up for the final plunge. They also managed to grab a couple of pounds of gear to lighten the burden the nag had been suffering all these many weeks. After shedding the bulge, I set off for what was to become the only century ride of the trip. The winds had been predicted to be light and helpful by the local meteorologist, but alas the prediction was to be only a falsely guided myth of equalizing barometric pressures. The reality turned out to be another chapter of the same sinister story of the southern breezes ripping their way across the desert plains. After a couple of rollers I managed my way into Mountain Home where I took refuge in the expansive green acres of grass outside Walmart where i threw down a banana or two, a couple of drinks, and settled down for a long summer's nap. Upon stirring from my slumber on the slippery sweet grass, I opened my eyes to conditions that had changed very little. Briefly I pondered continuing my comfortable position while looking up at birds of flight suffering their own flights of angst but home was calling and the duck hadn't flown this far to be shot down on the final stretch. So saddling up atop the ol' nag one last time, off I set towards 2019 Euclid Ave in hopes to roll in before the pitch of black set in. I could go into what it was like rolling directly into the 30-35 mph howlers but by now I have faith in all of your imaginations to deduce the pleasantries that were undertaken that afternoon.

Fast-fowarding to cresting the last hill at Black's Creek exit, the long forgotten emotions from a similar cross-country trip came back searing through the mind and soul. On one hand the culmination of such a trek is inexplicably rewarding to finish, however on the other hand the purity and simplicity of life on the road is rather addicting (after the preliminary stages of utter suffering) and a moment of regret too washes over that it is all coming to an end. And an end I did find late last week riding into town at dusk utterly wiped out after traveling 108 miles on that final day and enduring 9:01 hours on the well-worn saddle to reach my little casita in S.E. Boise.

I want to thank all of you, especially Dan Christiansen, Ron Shawn Brooks, my sis Angie, my beloved family - Mom and Dad: couldn't have done it without you, for all of your support over the last two months during the Race from Responsibility part deux "from barstool to bike saddle". The trip provided much more, as they usually do, than I had expected... from blazing sweat-laden heat and humidity to the frozen tops of the colorado mountains and everything in between. The trip of '08 has come to an end and the beginning of a new job and continued quest towards my master's degree has begun. Apparently life doesn't slow down much in this camp.

Houston, Wounded Duck has landed on the home pond, the nag is secure, this is Wallace signing off.

Final tally on the odometer from rolling out of substation Dixie in Pensacola, Florida to the waving farewells of Ron Shawn to the home station here at 2019 Euclid Ave: 2009 miles
days on the road: many
Memories from the journey: too many to list but all will last a lifetime.

P.S. pictures will be uploaded soon in case you would like to witness the debriefing footage. Cheers.