I'm sitting on the leather loveseat at Chateau Balough, trying to breathe in the thin mountain air and still vibrating from the 450-mile ride from Gillette. It was insanely hot coming into and through Denver and I was glad to have my Camelbak full of McDonald's ice from Cheyenne.
Our riding group consisted of the Baloughs, Dave Bernhardt and me.
Alma's Festival of the Clouds is going on this weekend, so dinner at the South Park Saloon isn't a good idea. There's talk of pizza from a new place in Alma.
We went to bed without dinner last night because Papa John's in Gillette can't find the campground at the Cam-plex - the monster venue the community built to host some national rodeo every other year.
I placed the order at 9:08 p.m. and was told to look for the delivery girl in 45 minutes. She was supposed to call my cell phone as she approached. She called, the call rolled over to my voicemail and she said she couldn't find us and was taking our three supreme pizzas back to Papa John's.
I called Papa John's and told them to call Crystal - the helpless delvery girl - and send her back our way with our dinner. It was 10:30 p.m. by this time.
I gave up and went to bed at 11 p.m. I think Crystal threw our pizza into a dumpster and went home.
The moral is: never order a Papa John's pizza from the Gillette, Wyo., Cam-plex campground.
We headed south on U.S. 59 this morning after a hearty Pekins breakfast, served with pleasant alacrity.
We rolled in to the Baloughs' driveway at 5:06 p.m. and don't plan to ride again today.
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