"Holy shit! My crotch hurts just thinking about it!"

We woke up late, very late. With the time zone change it was 9:30 but it was hot and humid already. My face was all puffy like I'd been in a fight the night before. Could've been. Those damn youngins were up till two in the morning creating all sorts of raucous in the campground. I slept with earplugs.

Josh had two flat tires, meaning both wheels. Alas, the Interstate had its debris field on the shoulders. My route was much more quiet and clean. We spent some time repairing those, got showers, and I had a cold can of beans as I departed West into the Badlands.

The day was pretty quiet. We rode through silent prairies with the occasional oil sites and trucks but Old Highway 10 continued to be reliable. We stopped at an Interstate gas station and had a regretful lunch at Dairy Queen. It was awful.

I did meet a friendly older woman named Cheryl who was having car trouble along with her husband. They were on route to Medora coming from Alexandria, MN. They came from the small town of Brandon. Josh and I met Lonnie there a few weeks ago on the bike path. 

She began walking away, car fixed. 

"Hey, don't worry so much. It'll work out fine," I reassured her.

"Oh, worrying is all you do at my age," she told me as she hobbled toward the exit.

"Hey! If you break down along the road, I'll give you a lift!" I joked.

She thought that was funny.

Another man who had initiated the conversation with the couple, talked to me as they left. A burly man with a red cowlick in the back, Carl worked septic and had done a lot of work around Theodore Roosevelt National Park; where we were headed.

Later, miles down the road and hours later, he passed by on the Interstate heading in the opposite direction. He tooted his horn frantically. I only caught a glimpse of the driver but I knew it was him.

Eventually, we arrived at the Painted Canyon Rest Area... and we haven't left. The Badlands are much too beautiful to leave. So... we're sleeping here.

"The river flows in long sigmoid curves through an alluvial valley of no great width. The amount of this alluvial land enclosed by a single bend is called a bottom, which may be either covered with cotton-wood trees or else be simply a great grass meadow. From the edges of the valley the land rises abruptly in steep high buttes whose crests are sharp and jagged. This broken country extends back from the river for many miles, and has been called always, by Indians, French voyageurs, and American trappers alike, the "Bad Lands"..."

-Theodore Roosevelt

As I was writing this at 9pm, Josh goes, "There's some kids coming."

A swarm of pre-teenagers came flooding around our shelter laughing and giggling. They came to look at the stars with their Church but within minutes, Josh and I found ourselves surrounded by inquiring minds. They laid down to watch the stars by us but the counselor shooed them to another spot. They were lovely company, albeit intermittent.

"Why are you biking across the country?"

"Just something to do."