Sunday morning broke with a surge of nervous excitement as 2,000 cyclists oozed out of Cortez, Colorado, bound for their first day's destination 46 miles distant. If stiff muscles didn't let them down, the group would pedal into Durango, Colorado, with one leg of the tour behind them. Only two communities separated Cortez and Durango; Mancos and Hesperus, and neither were memorable. Although the route was relatively flat by Colorado standards, Dean learned that a body unaccustomed to elevation in the 7,000foot range needed more oxygen to fuel its muscles. However, he was pleased to keep up a fairly respectable pace, at least a few notches above the embarrassing level.
The riders quickly spread out, but because of the numbers there were always at least several in view. To Dean's mind, it seemed everyone passed him but there were more remaining behind him as he maintained his modest pace. At least glancing at the passing riders gave him the chance to carefully look them over. The bikers wore helmets and most were in a low tuck position, making it difficult to get an identifying look at them. Dean still managed to pick out eleven riders he considered could possibly be Jeffrey Byrne. As all of the bikers were assigned numbers, Dean made a verbal note of each on a small handheld tape-recorder borrowed from his more official duties.
Dean met up with Fred O'Connor during the lunch break. The old man was dressed in jeans and a western shirt complete with a string tie, turquoise clasp and a Nero Wolfe paperback in his back pocket.
"I thought Hopalong Cassidy died," Dean said with a smile.
"When in the west, do as the westerners do," Fred answered. "Besides, the ladies love it."
The two men compared the cyclists' numbers each had listed as possible Byrne look-alikes. Surprisingly, Fred's list of twenty-four contained eight of the same riders Dean had recorded. Fred checked the numbers on a master list of the tour's advance registrations. None of the names sounded familiar, nor were the addresses in areas where Byrne was thought to have traveled. The tour seemed to have attracted most of its riders from Colorado, California, Texas or some part of the west. None of Dean's or Fred's listed candidates showed addresses in the east.
While Dean stretched his muscles and alternated between bites of peanut butter sandwich and a banana, Fred perused the rest of the master lists.
"Can't imagine this many fools want to half kill themselves on a bicycle," he muttered as he'd nearly finished. Then a name caught his attention. He let out a yell and slapped Dean on the back, nearly knocking over a Gatorade.