Morning Prayers, a Red Bull, and a Not-So-Lonely-Road

Day: 49 (Baker, NV to Ely, NV)

Average Speed: 9.8 MPH

Miles Cycled Today: 64

Miles Cycled Total: 3,286

Mood: Spiritual 

On Display at The Prospector Casino in Ely, Nevada. Is that a Motor?! Hmmm....

I woke up this morning to a loud prayer session in the room next door. It was very similar to the one I fell asleep to last night. 

You see, the Silver Jack Inn in Baker, Nevada is a special kind of place, and you have to be a special kind of person to appreciate its wonder. It embraces its own shittiness, and demands that you embrace it as well. A sign in the room reads “You’re not in Paris… you’re in Baker,” which translates to “Don’t bother complaining. We already know we suck.” 

Take a second to scroll some of the reviews. Some are really, really funny. You’ll see two distinct groups of people. I’m in the group that would (honestly) give it a five-star rating. 

The Decor in Front of Our Room

Where else are you going to need a step stool to get into the shower? Where else is the front lawn going to be intentionally littered with broken appliances with phrases like “TV Or Not TV” carelessly painted across the front (no… there’s no TV)? Where else are you going to wait an hour and a half for a bowl of pasta (and don’t even think about asking where your food is...)? 

From the NY Times Crossword a Couple of Weeks Ago

And I know “paper thin walls” is a motel cliche… but this place redefines that. 

The neighbors left little to the imagination… all night… and all morning. That must be one hell of an altar in Room 5, because the Lord’s name was being praised loudly and passionately.

 In our tiny twin beds in Room 6, Jamie and I just blinked a lot. 

The Lumberjack of the Silver Jack emerged from Room 5 as I was outside typing my blog this morning. The Usual Questions. Followed by the Introduction of Names… which always leads to a handshake…. yuck. 

Nothing I hate more than shaking hands with someone after they’ve been clasped together in prayer for 12 hours straight. Too sweaty. 

Jamie left early, and the motel owner stared at me with a deadpan. “I’ve never seen a cyclist start as late as you.” I told him it’s not the first time I heard that. Or the second. But I think he just wanted me to leave. I tried to butter him up and tell him how much I loved the motel. 

He tried to sell it to me. 

I set off on Route 50 today… this is the road that I will be on for the duration of the trip. It’s famously called “The Loneliest Road in America,” which is advertised heavily. There’s even a tourist passport available that has spaces available for stamps as travelers visit each town on the highway. 

The ironic part is that, due to this marketing, the road is quite busy. At least for now. Yesterday… now THAT was a lonely road.  

The Bar at Majors Junction

Two Major Climbs today, the second of which I would categorize as “brutal.” Especially since I almost passed out in the middle. I was hoping to get a bite to eat before the climb at a place called “Majors Junction,” which my map said had food. But it’s just a bar. With pork rinds. And hundreds upon hundreds of dollar bills tacked to the walls... which I don't quite understand as a business tactic. 

I ordered a Red Bull.

 Mistake.

View from Connors Pass. Hello, Sierras!

My legs have not ached since Kentucky… those suckers are strong. I honestly feel like I can climb any mountain. But no matter what, I'm slow. And it takes time. And something happens when you’re baking in the desert sun high on an energy drink with no food in your system and moving at 4.5 miles per hour. It's called an out-of-body experience.

 And not the Room 5 type.

 I almost fell, and I stumbled to the side of the shade-less mountain where I talked myself back into my body. 

Me, Crossing Connors Pass

Luckily, my snack supply wasn’t depleted, and freeze dried apples (thanks, Holly) washed down with lava hot water did the trick. I crossed the famously steep Connor's Pass, and enjoyed the benefits of a long, lazy descent to the town of Ely, where I am now… at a casino… that serves great Mexican food… and good beer… at a decent price. Take a page from Nevada's book, Utah.

I'll Pass on the Slots... But I'll Take the Cheap Cuisine!

Also, Ely is Kentucky-esque with the number of churches. 

I’m worried. I have a big day tomorrow with four summits to cross, and I need to sleep.

I can only hope the prayers in Ely are quieter than they were in Baker.

P.S.

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And yes... I'm aware that it's pronounced "Byoot" but still....