Oh, and as we were flipping through the cyclist log book at Cooky's, we stumbled upon this fascinating entry:
Feeling great with flat lands ahead of us, Callum and I raced toward the Kansas border (hoping we'd beat Dowds across the border). We came across signs noting that our route was closed in 6... 4... 2 miles. We were warned of this detour and were told it's best to just walk the 200 yards and cross the highway. We promptly got off our bikes and quickly noticed the wet mud/clay mixed together to create a quicksand concoction that stopped out bikes in their tracks. It became nearly impossible to push the bikes along and we were forced to press onward with periodic intervals of picking up the bikes and dragging them along in the mud. After we reached a certain point, we noticed that the mud pile had a drop off leading onto the highway. We had to backtrack to the side and then we noticed Chris and Dowds had caught up with us.
We spent a good 30 minutes trying to get the gunk from under our fenders, forks, and brakes. We then noticed there was a 20 yard ditch/run-off between us and the highway. Seeing no other alternative, we sucked it up and pushed forward through the waist-high brush. I went first and blazed a trail for my friends, but I took on the brunt of the pricky bushes and I emerged with bleeding legs. We then jogged across four lanes of fast moving traffic and cleaned off our bikes yet again. What should have taken us 60 seconds to ride across 400 yards of road, ended up taking us over an hour. It was quite the ordeal.