My next designated
stop is the town of Buffalo, Wyoming, solely for the reason that I grew up in
Buffalo, NY, and have never before visited any other place named Buffalo. It’s
only 65 miles to the rural town, but in between here and there are the Bighorn
Mountains and the Powder River Pass that stands at an elevation of 9,666 feet. The
grade is 6% and the road never seems to end. I power my bicycle five miles, all
uphill, and then ten, and then fifteen. I spot a car parked off to the side of
the road with a New York State license plate. Two guys, only a few years
younger than me, are outside taking pictures. “New York,” I say, “that’s where
I grew up.”
“Really, where
abouts?” they ask.
“Buffalo.”
“Buffalo! No way.
We’re from Buffalo. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes.” I say. “Though today, coming over this mountain, it feels awfully big.”
They take a picture
of me, on my bike, wearing my Buffalo Bills hat. I continue up the hill,
thinking what the odds could possibly be, to not only run into somebody else
from Buffalo, but to be on my way to another Buffalo when it happens. I hit the
twenty-mile mark, and then twenty-five, and can’t recall ever riding up a hill
quite this long. After about thirty miles I finally reach the top—over a mile
higher than where I started this morning—and find myself in an absolute
blizzard, snowflakes as large as half-dollar coins blowing in every direction.
I think back to the town I grew up in and can’t help but laugh, because it seems no
matter what, in order to get to Buffalo, you have to go through a snowstorm…
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