Clif Shots and Ke$ha

A potent combination to be sure. It's like that scene is Down Periscope (a film I'm sure you haven't seen but really really should if you like 90's era 80's-throwback screwball comedies) where the grizzled old engine mechanic pores a bottle of whiskey into the fuel tank of a diesel submarine to get an extra kick of speed. The point being, use sparingly but to dramatic effect.
Wyoming is a weird-ass place to ride a bicycle. Well, let me be fair. The Great Divide Basin (the Bermuda Triangle of the Rockies) is a weird-ass place to ride a road bike in a straight line. The land is so empty, but not exactly flat- in fact it's filled with bluffs and ravines and buttes and brush fields- and the road snakes over and around big rolling hills that obstruct the view of the approaching terrain. The quality of the light and the clouds change so much throughout the day. This makes it extremely difficult to tell if I'm going uphill or down. I swear I was going 22 mph uphill on one stretch and mashing on my bottom gear to keep moving downhill on the next. Psychologically, it's very disturbing, like when you're screwing with electrical wires and you KNOW the power is off, but you still get shocked so you're sitting there fighting every instinct to notfuckingtouchthatwireagain , but you KNOW the power is off so maybe you should try again. Sometimes I understand why the cat gives me that look of pitying superiority.
And the Wind. O Jesus, the Wind. A tailwind can give me a significant boost in speed and energy conservation, but a headwind can cut my speed in half. Half is a lot when you're expecting to have gotten to Berkeley from Davis and you're still in Fairfield. If I ever get into drawing comic books, I'll create a supervillain with the power of Inertia. The Inertiaddow will be a lurking supernatural predator that invisably freezes things and wreaks mayhem. It'll be super educational with Captain Gravity, Professor Centrifugal, and the League of Forces fighting in the name of perpetual motion. Then Entropy comes in and fucks everything up. What a dick.

Jesus, ANYWAY,
It's hard to bike against the wind. Yes? OK, moving on. In the middle of nowhere, I pass a bike tourist going in the opposite direction. He is 23 years old, lives in Oakland, and has biked 2,000 miles from Portland with $100 worth of gear strapped to a 30-year-old bike. One set of clothes, no paniers, less than half the volume of my cargo. His handlebars don't have tape. It takes me an hour to stop feeling embarrassed about my rig and realize that some people, like animals, have an extremely high tollerance for discomfort.
After pedaling for 60 miles, having done 70 the day before and 90 the day before that, I hit my first emotional breakdown. Six hours of direct sunlight, in 95 degree heat, at 6,500 ft, charging into a strong headwind after two long days and barely enough water has left me a little fragile. It's time. I slurp the syrupy caffienated Clif Shot, find the playlist I made for the winter climbing comp, and strip down to just my chamy (Chamois. Padded bike shorts?- we've been over this: turn on the Tour and listen to Phil Ligget talk about sweaty Frenchmen. You'll love it.) With Ke$ha blasting in my ear about poor life choices, I crush out the last 15 miles to Lander. If I have a limit, I still haven't found it.