Day 62: In which I am Laid Low by Heat Exhaustion (PHOTOS)

Boy oh Boise, readers, do we have a blog post for you! This because we are laid up in a motel and I am too weak to go downstairs, let alone outside, and so basically what little energy I have can be devoted to this report.

First off, Bonesy has uploaded many fine photographs. See them by clicking the link above!

Now to a description of the last 43 miles of yesterday's ride: grueling. We took off from Mountain Home feeling pretty fine, and were just zipping along the freeway for the first ten miles - actually, I should say that I, personally, zipped for 10 miles before stopping under the first overpass and looking back down the road to find no Bonesy in sight. Bonesy, it turned out, had only zipped for eight miles before getting a flat, and I was too busy playing drinking games to notice (we don't carry camelbacks because of the long days in the saddle, so I have to remind myself to drink water on hot days. Say every time a yellow car passes, or every mile marker. It can get pretty engrossing when we're in the desert). So I rode back with our only pump and patch kit to find an understandably distraught Bonesy just sizzling on the shoulder, two miles from shade and able only to wait for me. Evidently she had tried to flag people down so they could tell me what had happened, and no one stopped. 100 degrees, middle of nowhere, and no one stops for a cute young woman in distress? Outrageous. What threat could she pose? So obviously this situation had her a little rattled, and then by the time I fixed the flat the wind was figuratively out of our sails and physically in our faces.

We stopped at the one rest area on the way to Boise, and sat under an awning and the hills across the interstate reminded us of that Hemingway story:

"It's hot," she said.
The man brought iced tea. She shook the bottle. She drank. The iced tea was cold.
He looked at the hills. There were no trees. The wind blew up dust from the pavement.
"This reminds me of Hemingway," he said.
It was very hot.

Actually, literate readers, old Ernest shot himself in a cabin not 100 miles from that spot, now that I think of it. And yes, I know that neither he nor his characters ever had an iced tea without at least two fingers of rum in it, but there you are.

Asides aside, Bonesy seemed to really turn it around from there on, picking up her cadence and her head for the push into town. I, it should be noted for eventual dramatic effect, felt great. A little hazy, sure, but limber and energetic and certainly not "exhausted." All that given that we were riding a century in high heat, of course, which sort of throws off one's ability to assess these things objectively.

Alright, so we get to this motel (the campground we'd aimed for had zero tent sites - praise be to the creator on that one, as it will soon turn out - and the next one was another 10 miles) and Bonesy's feeling kind of nauseous and we're both a little loopy, but boy am I proud of her tenacity and ability to play through the pain. So we order Chinese, which doesn't sound all that good to me, not that anything really does at this point, and we shower (during which fatigue starts to set in for me and I pretty much just lie in the tub). The food shows up, and I can only force down a single spring roll - ten times fast! - before lying down and drifting in and out of sleep while Bonesy watches Fight Club.
Now, some hours later (it's all a blur, did I sleep? What time is it? Who am I?), I awake suddenly and make my way to the bathroom, where I kneel before the toilet for the first in a long series of violent convulsions that would entirely empty my system of food and water. For hours this went on, and in between I felt like I was going crazy: I kid you not, readers, at one point I was concerned that John Boehner and his thugs were going to interrogate me inquisition-style (I mean, I literally saw him looming over me in bed) and all I managed to say to an attendant Bonesy was "they're going to crucify me." During brief periods of fluorescent-aided clarity as I heaved myself dry, I ruminated intently on the subject of intravenous nutrient replenishment. I had trouble standing.

Mom and Dad and godfather Gary (he of Ironman accomplishment) are pretty convinced it was heat exhaustion. I can see why, though I wasn't aware the symptoms could be so delayed. Anyway, now regardless of what it was my body is pretty much devoid of energy and sitting up in bed is an effort. Worst part is that we're going to have to take a couple of days off. Parents were adamant about this; thing is, I couldn't bike if I wanted to (I don't want to). I wish instead of heat exhaustion (which makes me sound like Daisy Buchanan) it was called something more awesome, like "Heat Overdrive Throes" or "Compromised Hydration and Muscle Permormance," but I'm too tired to be embarassed. Except that Bonesy, after all that, is just a little sore today: her status gets updated from "trooper" to "warrior," I think. A warrior taking very good care of me, I'd like to end by saying. She is out buying chicken noodle soup right now.
Ride on.