"Easy enough to be a saint with a couple of million bucks in your back pocket. But let's look at the bright side," said Fred, "We're hot on his trail. We know he's here."
In spite of the scenery, the weather, and all the other splendid elements of the tour, Dean was experiencing a serious sense of trepidation. In spite of his lingering and totally unfounded doubts that it was Jeffrey Byrne he was pursuing, there were far too many coincidences pointing to Cynthia Byrne's husband. The more he considered the devastation this would wreak on this woman he cared for, the more apprehension he felt about finding the man. And yet he knew he couldn't turn his back on the quest-there were too many cop years and too much history in the make up of David Dean. In spite of his hesitancy he wasn't about to quit. He knew he owed Cynthia Byrne the truth in spite of what it would do to their fledgling relationship. The image of her smile and his memory of the way he felt when he was with her remained fixed in his mind. It forced him to forge ahead like some naive knight doing battle with a windmill to satisfy his curiosity and meet this fool who'd toss away a life with this woman for a few measly millions.
Physically, while the day had started well, his body thought 40 to 50 miles was plenty. If the course had been the same distance and level as yesterday, the ride would have been a breeze. By mid-afternoon both legs were feeling tight and his breath was coming in rapid puffs each time he tackled one of the ever lengthening climbs. He managed to keep his body fluids up by frequent gulps to replenish his rapidly diminishing energy. By the time Dean pedaled the last of the 60 miles into the small town of Pagosa Springs, he knew he'd had a full day's workout.
Dean's gear was now being transported by sag wagon like everyone else's. One day of hauling it had been enough. Fred, in a particularly kind mood, had not only picked up the gear but set up Dean's tent for him. After the obligatory shower, fresh clothes and a hearty supper, the tired body was beginning to revive, as long as the mind kept mum about tomorrow's 90 miles and the 10,850foot climb up Wolfe Creek Pass.
Later that evening, while Dean and his stepfather were filling their faces with apple pie and ice cream and feeling sorry for themselves about their lack of progress in finding Byrne, a young man strolled up to them with a smile on his face. Fred introduced him as the biker who was riding on the canceled reservation of Pat Corbin. Dean and the young man whose name was Lou Gibbons chatted about the day's ride. To Gibbons, it had been a piece of cake. He had finished the 60 miles by 1:00 and then did some sprints-just to keep in shape. He could hardly wait for tomorrow's challenge.