I lay in my sleeping bag, drowsily contemplating two strongly conflicting urges: the urge to stay in my sleeping bag, warm and cozy, and drift back to sleep, and the urge to pee. A rustling of plastic bags on my picnic table abruptly shifted the balance. "Ohhh. . . you are so busted!" I thought, quickly grabbing my headlamp and jumping out to chase off the furry thief. ". . unless you are a bear." "Or a skunk," I mentally added as I saw a furry tail retreating into the woods. Shining my light around, I noticed a pair of reflective eyes blinking at me from the undergrowth. Definitely a raccoon. A skunk wouldn't sit there and stare at you, as if to say, "That's okay. As soon as you get back in your tent I'll steal the rest of your food."

The losses were significant. There was no sign left of my apple or homemade brownies, and I discovered what remained of my beloved papaya chunks on the ground nearby, covered in dirt and raccoon spittle. Fortunately, I chased the raccoon away just before he managed to rip into my oatmeal bag, so I still had something to eat for breakfast. Besides, I was too excited about seeing Cascade Cave, a cave with a 30 foot waterfall inside it, to let it bother me very much.

Sadly, all the caves are closed down due to an outbreak of White Nose Syndrome which is threatening the endangered Indiana bats, and the two that are still open are accessible by guided tour only. I had even gone so far as to set my alarm clock to make sure I caught the 10:30 AM tour, but on my way I remembered I still had to register at the campground office, and once there got into lengthy discussion of my travel plans with the two long-winded old guys I'd met the night before. It was 10:25 when I made it to the Welcome Center to buy my ticket.

The ranger looked at me and my bike, and gravely informed me that Cascade Cave was 3.4 miles away. Clearly there was no way I'd make it in time, and the next tour of the not-nearly-so-awesome-sounding X Cave was not until 1:00. The ranger handed me a park map and schedule and I went off to sulk a bit in the sunshine and decide what to do.

I decided to at least check out a few of the off-limits caves, one of which was accessible from the main road, and two others off the 2-mile Horn Hollow Loop Trail. I admit I was a bit of a bad girl and ventured into each of the caves, not far enough to disturb the bats or anything, just far enough to frighten myself a bit with the experience of being in a cave. It is scary. There is a dusty earthy smell that feels a little suffocating. You hear drips of water and strange rustling sounds echoing around you, and can't tell where they are coming from. And then of course, there's the pitch blackness that was barely perforated by my wimpy camping headlamp.

Even if I'd had a better light and the cave weren't off-limits, I would not have gone much further in by myself. Biking alone is one thing: if you have an accident, it's just a matter of time before someone sees you. In a cave it seems statistically more likely that you'll injure yourself slipping on wet rocks that you can barely see, and statistically far less likely that anyone would notice your maimed body in passing. And of course there is no cell phone reception at all, even a few yards inside.

When I got back to the Welcome Center it was almost time for the X Cave tour. Since I was quite happy with the cave exploration experiences I'd had thus far, I was on the fence about spending $9 and another hour of daylight on the X Cave tour. That is, until I sized up the other tour participants gathering in the parking lot: a listless-looking family reunion, an obese couple in baggy sweatshirts, and a mom with a gaggle of unruly kids. "Walking sticks are for WALKING. Walking sticks are NOT for fighting, hitting, or stabbing." All this reminded me that I don't even like guided tours anyway. I hit the road.

The sun was shining and Route 60 treated me just as nicely as the previous day, until I came around a sharp curve, felt my back tired wobbling a little, and noticed it had gone soft again. Aargh! I knew even before I looked that the culprit was the valve I'd bent while installing this tube the day before, and sure enough the valve broke off altogether when I tried to pump it up again. Seeing as this was the third time I'd had to change a tube in 3 days, my enthusiasm for fixing flats was really starting to wane, but I pulled over to a grassy patch by the side of the road and got to work. I didn't need any help, but I found myself getting annoyed that nobody stopped to ask. Finally someone did, a retired police officer who's now running for county sherriff. After talking for a bit, he asked where I'm from. "I knew you wasn't from around here. We've got slang we use here, we don't talk proper like Northern folks." For some reason, that cheered me up.

In Morehead, KY I pulled over to watch a marching band practicing and to make a decision. Option A: continue on Route 60 toward Lexington, get 20 or so more miles in for the day, and look for a place to camp (there were no campgrounds I knew of along the way). Option B: take a 10 mile detour to Twin Knobs Recreation area where I'd be guaranteed a campsite and a hot shower. Earlier in the day I'd leaned toward Option A, but after the tire setback I was now more interested in Option B. Besides, I reasoned, since it was only 10 miles away I might even have time for a sunset swim in Cave Run Lake. I went for it.

I was quite happy with my decision, which led me to some quite spectcular views along the aptly-named Pretty Ridge Road. I flew past a turn onto a gravelly side road thinking it could not possibly be the road to the campground, but to my dismay it was. SEVEN MILES of gravel road! UGH. Between the particularly bumpy stretches where it felt like my brains had been put in a blender and set to "Pulse," I cycled between three thoughts:

• This campground better be AWESOME.
• I'm absolutely not biking this road again in the morning. I'll find a knight in a shining pickup truck.
• Is this a good idea for someone with no spare tubes left?

As it turns out, the answer to that last question, in case you were wondering, is NO. I had almost made it to the end when I had one of those slow-motion moments, where you know exactly what's going to happen just before it does, as my front wheel jack-knifed and my bike toppled over. Fortunately, the same gravel that made the ride so treacherous also cushioned my fall and I was not hurt at all. My back tire, the one with the brand new tube I'd JUST put in that day, was not so lucky—ANOTHER flat. And no more tubes left.

Daylight was fading fast by this time and I knew I was only a couple miles from the campground so I thought it better to hustle and get to camp before dark rather than stop to assess (let alone try to repair) the damage. Such things are better left for morning, after a hot shower, a good night's sleep, and a bowl of oatmeal.