Best Laid Plans

It’s not very big really. Well, actually it’s microscopic. That virus, bacteria, germ or whatever it is that causes what we generically call “food poisoning”. But despite its size, when it gathers together with others of its kind, well, you know what happens.
On my way to Iowa for my first attempt at traversing the state on my bicycle I left Bakersfield on Tuesday, July 20th. By Thursday I was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, right on schedule. Spotting a Holiday Inn along the highway, I pulled into their lot and luckily found a room for the night. I say luckily because the next day was the start of Frontier Days. It’s billed as the largest outdoor rodeo in the world. Asking the receptionist about local eateries, she cheerfully drew a blue line on a map showing the route from the hotel.
About an hour later, I’m in my car and looking for this locally famous dive (her words). Let’s see, she said to turn left and go under the highway then another left. I had to resort to memory since the map was on the dresser next to the TV in my room. About fifteen minutes and an equal number of turns later, no diner in sight. I had, however, spotted a fast food joint not too far from the hotel.
A local taco joint. Well why not? A Mexican fast food joint. A welcome sight so far away from home. That should fix me right up. But I know what you’re thinking. A Mexican fast food joint in Wyoming? In hindsight, you are absolutely right. But remember, this was supposed to be an adventure, my Road Trip. Just like the movies. So I pull into the parking lot in anticipation.
I should have known I was in trouble when the menu didn’t include rice or beans. But undaunted I order a combo plate. The girl behind the counter asked if the potatoes would be OK for the side dish. Well, why not? When in Wyoming, after all. I grabbed my cup and headed to the drink dispenser. And road trip history.
The food came fast enough. A soft taco, a beef and potato burrito with a side of potatoes. About those potatoes. Not exactly what was expected. They were what we Californians would call Tater Tots. But there was a very generous serving with cheese sauce for dipping. About that cheese sauce. It’s what we would call Cheez Whiz. I tried a couple. Not bad. Then on to the good stuff. Let’s see what Wyoming folks know about my kind of food.
The first bite into the taco just didn’t taste right. Neither did the second. Tried the burrito. The beef and potato burrito. Gotta tell you that when those are done right, oh yeah, I want to break out into dance. But alas, there would be no dancing that day. There was beef and potatoes or rather more Tater Tots. Two bites and that was the end of my dining experience. Oh well.
Back in the hotel it was time to check the next day’s route, watch a little local TV and hit the sack. Then at about 130AM there was that familiar feeling in my gut. Yikes. Let me spare you the details; you know what I’m talking about. By about 9AM there was nothing left inside me, but parts of my body thought otherwise. I tried to get another night at the hotel but the whole city was booked solid. Damn Frontier Days.
I booked a room in Laramie which was about fifty miles west, from whence I had come. Very methodically I packed, got dressed and made several trips to the car. In between all of this were trips to the bathroom alternately driving and sitting on the porcelain bus. At about that time voices of the housekeeping staff could be heard. Then whistling and singing. Singing? Really? How could anyone be so happy while I was so miserable?
I thought about calling the front desk and reporting this serious breach of courtesy. Or maybe taking matters into my own hands and opening the door and demanding silence. But sanity took over and I realized that maybe I was just a little jealous over the fact that someone enjoyed their job enough to whistle and sing while working. Never had that experience.
I made it to Laramie with one stop at a roadside rest stop. By the next morning I was exhausted. Drained. Thoughts of my sore butt on my bike’s saddle for seven minutes let alone seven days brought about pained looks on my face. I threw in the towel, quit, gave up. Turned tail and headed back to Bakersfield. Disappointed but not discouraged. There’s always next year. But next time I think I’ll fly. Oh, and stick to familiar places to eat.