We are in Rawlins at a very nice RV park with several other bicyclists. We crossed the continental divide for the eighth time. We will cross it once more in Colorado at almost 12,000 feet. Again, tailwinds prevail.
Our map lists the population of Jeffrey City in the hundreds, although I was assured by locals that it is in the low twenties these days. The city looked deserted, most of the buildings boarded up. We got a motel room, thanks to a bit of cash my grandmother gave us before we left. We checked in and headed down the street to the bar. We spent the evening with some bicyclists who were heading west. One gentleman, a local, who would buy me several drinks that night, walked into the bar from a long day of work with his cowboy hat on and spurs still on his boots. He challenged me to a game of pool, and we fought a long battle which I narrowly won. This cowboy was big and frightening enough that I was seriously contemplating the repercussions of beating him at eight-ball. I was relieved when he extended his hand after the match. I shook it and left for the motel room.