My journey from Denver, Colorado, to Chadron, Nebraska--325 miles--lasted all day. And oh, was it hot hot hot. Temperatures rose from a pleasant 75 degrees at 9 a.m. to a sweltering 91+ degrees in the afternoon. Obviously I don't have air-conditioning or cool drinks at hand; imagine cruising through an enormous blast oven...for six-plus hours.

But I digress--the epic heat shimmying in oily waves from the everlasting asphalt, the pools of sweat matting my hair inside my helmet, the leather jacket sticking to my bare shoulders, the suffocation of sticky feet in shearling-lined boots--all of that is not the point. I knew heading into this trip that it was going to be super uncomfortable at times. Great memories are often made in times of extreme discomfort and personal challenge, right? Right?  Bueller?!

Speaking of personal challenge, this is how each day begins:

After I wrestle what little gear I have to the backseat into a tensely bungeed Chinese jigsaw, I'm off.

My first stop out of Denver was to a cycle shop to purchase some extra luggage. Though only a half hour into the trip, it was a welcome break in a massive, chilly warehouse. The enthusiastic teenage associate escorted me outside to test some items on my bike before I made a decision, which was helpful. (The clear map pocket is touch-screen friendly, but the blazing sun baked my iPhone to the point that I worried it might start to melt.)

By 10:30, I was back on the road.

In Fort Collins, I saw a parade of giant blades for wind turbines:

and hung out with some cool dudes in the bike lane:

Eventually, I crossed into Wyoming:

Woohoo. The heat, the sun, the wind, the desolate country roads that seemed to stretch until eternity...I was starting to feel broken down.

And by the time I got to Nebraska, I didn't feel like posing. Rather, I felt like collapsing. In fact, a pair of bikers stopped to see if I needed help needed them to take this picture for me. Not wanting to stand in the brutal sunshine for small talk, I mumbled a nothankyou,Igotit and sped off.

Somewhere in between those two self-portraits, I saw hundreds, maybe thousands, of sheep. They reeked of manure and desperation, and they wanted nothing to do with me:

Just up the road, there was an identical pen...in which one of the sheep was face down, ass up in the dust...not reclining on its hind legs, surrounded by comrades like those just taking a break from standing. It was a sick scene, I just knew it. Yet I wasn't about to stop, again, to document it. What kind of creep does that?

23 miles from my final destination for the evening, I hit 500 miles! Which is much more than halfway, but a good benchmark for me as a solo rider.

I found the 1887 Old Main Street Inn in Chadron, Nebraska, in a road trip guidebook a friend gave me for my trip last summer. It's cheap, on the National Register of Historic Places, and has a strictly enforced house policy to drink a complimentary beer after signing in to the ancient registration book:

My kind of place. Naturally, the owner, Jeanne, is a biker babe!