I finnally rode away from the Stardust Motel and across a 5 hours of the Wyoming countryside consisting of only ranches, praries with the occasional rock formation and a small, gas station town. I arrived in the evening in the capital of Wyoming, Cheyenne. I really needed to update the website so I found the nearest Library.
On my way into the library I saw a pack of what looked like homeless people. Not a rare site at libraries. I updated the blog, which took way to long, and left to find another very cheap motel or a nice park to sleep at. However, on my way out, I took a second look at the homeless people in front of the library. They were too young and happy to be truely homeless. Taking this and the type of luggage they had I mosied up to them and asked if they were travelers too. They were... in the rawest form.
These three emo kids, age 20 I'd guess, had been hoping frieght trains and living off of food stamps for the last three weeks. They had migrated from the San Fransisco area and had their 40 lb dog, Gumption, with them the whole way. After some conversation I deemed them safe to assume that they followed the an unwritten code between travelers: No steeling from eachother and always offer what you can. They gave me a contact in San Fran that would likely lead to a place to stay and I offered to split a room with them.
About an hour later I had found a cheap enough room with two queen beds that would cost us each $10. I relayed them to the motel on my bike and we all got a well needed round of showers. Did I mention that they were really stinky from hoping trains? Conversation was light as we shared stories about where we had been and where we were going.
The vagabond style has this unspoken association. Everybody is looking for deals, ways to save money, a fun place to go and, at times, help. When I find these people, the conversation is automatically started by the recognition of the large backpacks. The violation of this kinship is very, very rare. Bikers look after eachother as well but not nearly to the extent as vagabonds. When I push my bike to save the trouble of starting it, at least two or three fellow bikers ask if I need help.
The next morning said goodbye to the stinky emo kids on food stamps and went to see the rodeo I had heard so much about. Turned out that it didnt start the next day so I got some REAL barbeque instead (I had never had the real stuff before, I was burping smoke for hours... delicous). One of the cooks and I struck up a conversation about the difference between smoking and barbequeing, which lead to an in depth lesson in the art of "doing it right, Big Jim style". Keep the flames low, pay lots of attention, and use the right amount of smoke from good wood. That was all there was to Cheyenne that day, so off I went to Colorado.
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