I was delighted to find the stormy clouds from the previous day had given way to brilliant sunshine as I headed over to the cafe at Eagle Guest Ranch. The breakfast waitress, Lucy, arrived just as I did and greeted me with a cheerful smile. We had one of those "small world" moments when she mentioned she's from Newton, right outside of Boston. She says after living out here so many years, she feels claustrophobic when she goes back to Boston. I can certainly understand that, but at this point I'd welcome the noise of a crowded Irish pub, the press of a subway car at rush hour, or a cozy couch in a Harvard Square cafe.

What felt like a light zephyr (yes, I've been waiting this whole time to use that word) when I first stepped out of my motel room had turned into an icy gale blowing in the wrong direction once I got on the road. I couldn't tell if the wind was entirely responsible for my slowness, or if the road was deceptively hilly too. It's hard to tell, as the surrounding hills and mountains distort your perspective of the road. It can appear to be perfectly flat, but the burning of your quads tell you you're climbing a hill. Alternatively, it might look like you're going uphill, but the speedometer reads 25mph. It's odd, and can be frustrating.

But the sun had put me in good spirits so I didn't mind slowly and patiently chugging along in the cold, at least not at first. The snow-covered landscape that had looked so bleak and depressing the day before now glinted in the sun with a crystalline freshness against a freshly polished blue sky.

But as I emerged from the hills and onto wide flat plains the wind gradually intensified. I struggled to maintain composure, only muttering profanities during some of the stronger gusts, but by mile 19 I'd started to take full advantage of being miles from anyone who could possibly hear me, wailing at the top of my lungs, "I don't want to beee heeeere anymooooore! I want to go hooooome!"

To be clear, the issue was not one of physical limits. No, I am stronger than ever. Somehow, my legs seem to be able to keep pedaling no matter what kind of conditions I face. This was about the limits of sanity. I would never guess that something both inanimate and invisible could have me so infuriated, but there I was. "I haaaate yoooou!" I screamed at the wind.

Just as this little tantrum was starting to abate, I came to what was quite literally the high point of my day: the Continental Divide, 7796 feet. I had forgotten all about the existence of the Continental Divide. This cheered me up a little.

But the real pinnacle of my day, the one thing that had kept me going all morning, was the knowledge that I would soon be in Pie Town, an aptly named town whose primary purpose is to provide pie to weary travelers. It's exciting enough that such a town exists, let alone that I got to travel through it and sample their offerings. I couldn't remember which of the two pie shops Rebecca in Socorro told me was better, so I intended to try both. I rolled up to the first one, the Pie-O-Neer, a cute little brightly painted turquoise and white shop with pink flowers and flamingos in front. Closed! A sign said, "New Fall Hours: Friday - Monday, 11am - 4pm." It was Tuesday.

All of a sudden I was gripped with a special blend of panic and fury: would Pie Town be a repeat of Magdalena, where everything was closed by mid-afternoon? I did not want to think about what atrocities I might commit, to myself or others, if there were no pie available, after dreaming only of pie for a cold, grueling, and demoralizing 21 miles. All I knew was there would be a very ugly scene with me at the center if I did not get pie.

Thank goodness the other pie shop in town, the Daily Pie Cafe, was open. I sat down on a stool at the counter near the only other customer in the shop. I started with a coffee, served in a mug whose slogan I desperately hoped were true (Pie Town, New Mexico, at the Great Divide: It's all downhill from here.") and perused the bulletin board which listed the pie flavors available. "Remember: pie is a food group," it read.

As I ate my first slice of pie, the key lime cheescake, I chatted with the waitress and the one other customer in the shop, Phil. I asked how Pie Town came to be. There are a number of theories, but supposedly a family came out and put a gold claim on the area, found out their was no gold, and instead started selling pies to travelers. This road had been a major thoroughfare along which cowboys drove cattle back and forth. Everyone started calling it Pie Town.

For my second pie, I chose the stawberry rhubarb, whose slightly tart filling was nicely balanced by a sugar-sprinkled crust. I asked Phil what had brought him out to this area. He and his wife had traveled through the area quite a bit and liked it, and brought property. After he retired from working for the Navajo reservation in Arizona as their cheif financial officer, they moved out here permanently. He was very interested in my trip, and shared a few of his past travels and future long-distance trips he wants to do, including a motorcycle trip to Baja California.

Phil got up to go, leaving me to ponder whether I wanted a third piece of pie? Why, yes. Yes I did. This time it was the blueberry, which the waitress assured me was an excellent choice and the first bite, and all subsequent bites, confirmed. Wow. I don't believe I have every eaten three pieces of pie as a meal before. I had ventured into exciting new territory, made entirely possible by burning massive numbers of calories biking against the wind all morning. I guess it wasn't all bad.

I looked at the clock. I had spent a good hour sitting there shooting the breeze and consuming ludicrous amounts of pie. It was time to get going and ride the remaining half of the journey to Quemado, so I picked out a few Pie Town postcards and went to pay the bill. How did all that pie, coffee, and 4 postcards come to only $11? That couldn't be right. . . it turned out Phil had paid for my coffee and first two pieces of pie before he left—what a nice treat! I wish I'd gotten a chance to thank him in person.

It turns out pie is both excellent bike ride fuel and a mood enhancer. The rest of the ride was not quite "all downhill" as promised. The wind was just as strong and just as cold, and there were still a decent number of hills to climb although overall I'd be losing 1200 feet of elevation as I rode into Quemado. But I felt much better. This is the power of fruit-filled desserts and the kindness of strangers.

I would like to see the term "pie town" become a generic expression for a small oasis of relief in the midst of a long and arduous journey. For example, "We were about to run out of gas, but thankfully we came to a pie town with a gas station." Or it could be used more figuratively: "Frank's still going to need the surgery, but for now he's enjoying a pie town with the new medication he's taking." I can see its utility in the corporate world: "We know everyone's been working very hard this quarter, but we expect to reach a pie town after our November product launch." This is my dream. If we all work together, it can become a reality.