Talkeetna

Day 6--Tuesday, July 24, 2002

Yes we are at a standstill. It's pouring, I'm still battling this horrible cold, I have no voice at all (even my cough is silent), and I'm fighting the self pity and depression that come with being sick.

Several of you have asked questions in your e-mails, so let me try to answer some in this "down" period:

1.   Yes, we found gas for the stove, but the only gas available was in a gallon can, so after filling the stove and the fuel bottle, we gave the remaining half can to the campground host rather than burdening BOB with it.

2.   Except for our night in Nenana on the motel lawn, the mosquitoes really have not been a problem. We burn a mosquito coil on the picnic table and use repellent when necessary. Oddly, in the cottonwood grove here, we are plagued with what I assume are red spider mites. Never knew they could bite, but one bit me on the back of my hand last night.

3.   A good time to ask about the progress of the Midnight Ultra Challenge (not the Wheelchair Olympics as I think I called it before). The whole contingent and their support crews were in town early this a.m. and started the day's race off to the sound of a starter's gun right in front of Jess and me who were sitting on stools looking out the window of the Roadhouse, a little bakery/cafe/hostel while we ate breakfast. There are 15 of them—13 men and 2 women—from around the world. Their equipment is marvelous and sleek. One racer was a double amputee and it appeared as though he was spared only his upper body— really did not look as though he even had any rear. I wanted so badly to talk bikes with and congratulate these racers (and talk birds with a guy in the Roadhouse), but I have NO VOICE! Maybe if I shout a little on this machine, it will help.

It's very frustrating, though Jess is probably enjoying the rest her ears get. I know she is enjoying mothering, fussing, and bossing me into good health. "Mother you WILL get in the tent and rest." By the way, that reminds me. Jess has again cut out reflective "Mutha" and "Dauta" ID's for our helmets. The only place for mine is on my visor. Jess's fits on the back of her helmet.

At 2 p.m., after looking in all the little stores and gift shops (which contain soft, wonderful fur hats and gloves that I covet), I got in to see Dr Yeats, the only physician between Fairbanks and Palmer/Anchorage. For a mere $139 dollars he gave me a shot in the rump for my laryngitis, some antibiotic for my pharyngitis, and some heavy-duty cough syrup/decongestant for my cough and congestion. Told me I should be able to find my voice in 8 hours (tomorrow!) and that I should be feeling better in 3 days.

Jess fixed me a cozy nest in the tent and here I am. Tomorrow, come hell or high water, we're off to cover at least half of the distance from here to Palmer.

P.S. Forgot to tell you that last night, Jess's beer was labeled Moose Drool. A lot of the kitschy tourist stuff consists of something moosey, particularly moose droppings. They paint the droppings—which are smallish and oval—gold, and silver, give them human characteristics and faces, attach them to trinkets and key chains, and even have a Moose Dropping Festival.