For more pictures and stories, check out Ben's Tumblr blog! http://www.ridingforromp.tumblr.com/
Monday, August 27, 2012
Mountain Mike and other Great Faces
Hello, everyone! I'm writing to you from the Pierre, South Dakota public library. Turns out it's difficult to find internet access when you're biking across lonely highways in South Dakota. But I found a computer and half an hour of free internet time, so I'd like to tell you a few things about our continuing adventure!
Ben and I made it to Pierre last night after our loooongest day yet...88 miles. They say South Dakota is flat, but I'm starting to think that's all part of a big joke aimed to confuse bicycle tourists. This state is not flat by any definition I regularly use. Yesterday we had the pleasure of biking 88 miles over some pretty significant "slow rollers," on Highway 14. It was a fairly cool day...only 92 degrees...and we were on the "scenic byway," which basically meant there was some variety to the amber fields of grain lining the highway (hay, afalfa, hay, hay, afalfa, sunflowers, corn, corn, afalfa, hay). But somehow we made it, crossed over the Missouri River as well as a time zone early last night, and collapsed into an actual BED, courtesy of our lovely Warm Showers hosts, Tom and Ellen.
When we crossed over the Wyoming/South Dakota border a few days ago, we were met by a huge picture of Mt. Rushmore with the state's slogan, "Great Faces, Great Places." scrawled underneath. I'm happy to say we've experienced a little bit of both those things, yet we purposefully avoided Mt. Rushmore, thinking we'd seek out our own Great Faces. We spent our first South Dakotan night in a campground in Deadwood (luxurious!), and the next day spent a considerable amount of time climbing through the winding, hilly roads of the Black Hills. We hit up Rapid City, an adorable little town with several bike shops and a tempting water park, and made it 20 miles east of Rapid City to the general store in Caputa, where we didn't mean to spend the night.
We meant to just re-fill on water and ask some locals about different roads in the general store (which is, along with a handful of houses, all that Caputa consists of). Entering the store, we were immediately met by Ricky, the genuinely helpful owner of the store. He gave us a little history about the town (railroad pick-up point for sugar beets, the store had been in his family for 3 generations) and pointed us to the back of the store where they were having a little wine tasting. I'm never too proud to refuse free wine, so Ben and I helped ourselves to the dixie cups full of various wines and delicious spread of cheese and crackers layed out.
I was in the process of loading up yet another cheese/salami/cracker sandwich when someone came up behind me and asked if that was "thermophile or mesophile...." or something along those lines. I quickly found out he was referring to the cheese platter, and that he had assumed that since I was hovering over it so nurturingly, I must have made the cheese myself. I told him I had no idea, but that I liked his shirt (neon fishes with some obscure beer logo). I then found myself deeply engrossed in a conversation with him about the intricacies of producing raw milk cheese, and why the bleeping government won't let us sell it, etc., etc. I didn't know it at the time, but I had just entered into a lengthy interaction with Mountain Mike, a local oddity with scraggly long hair, fierce brown eyes and an enormous round belly that he kept rubbing like an expectant mother.
At this point Ricky-the-friendly-shop-owner had already offered us a place to camp (in the grassy spot behind the shop), we had already had several dixie cups of free wine and were eyeing the fat tire on tap, and the conversation with Mountain Mike was just getting more interesting, so we decided to stay in Caputa.
Somehow the conversation turned from raw milk cheese to politics (as these things often do) and Ben and I both bristled when Mike said something completely racist about how the Indians outta be grateful that white people came here and "gave" them industrialization. Normally we've been trying to avoid politcal discussions in our travels across rural America, but this was an outrage impossible to ignore, so we took the bait and ended up having a several hour long conversation about everything from immigrants to pioneerism to the government to welfare to the war in Afghanistan. As it turned out, Mountain Mike and Ben and I agreed on more than it seemed at first (what-the-hell-are-we-still-doing-in-the-Middle-East, we-should-learn-to-be-more-self-sufficient...) though there were still some big disagreements (when-all-else-fails-follow-the-ten-commandments, why-can't-those-damn-indians-just-leave-the-past-behind, those sorts of things).
It was about an hour into the debate that Mountain Mike asked us what the hell we were doing in Caputa, and we told him about our bike trip. He then proceeded to tell us all about his past, how he used to be a prosperous business man in the twin cities, had a wife that was a whore (his words), tried to convince him she wasn't a whore, then went off whoring around with the deputy sheriff. Well he decided he needed to leave that life behind so he packed up a few essential possessions on his horse and spent the next 2 years traveling through the west, sleeping in ditches and killing rabbits for food. He somehow landed in Caputa, married his third wife Linda (a sweet lady who had lived her entire life in that town and who only wanted to see the ocean before she died), and now spent his time trying to life off the grid as much as possible. Which is why the townspeople called him Mountain Mike. He spent a lot of time that night trying to convince us to come out to his place, but we declined on account of the numerous dixie cups of wine and ginormous beers Ricky had been serving us all night.
The next morning we decided we wanted to say goodbye to Mike and Linda, so we followed his directions out to his place. We found a delapited trailer covered in sheets of wood, some rusted out vintage trucks, a chicken coop, a huge garden and a horse yard. Ben started up towards the door, and a little cat poked its head out. "Oh, cute, a kitty!" I said. He took two more steps and a tidal wave made up of at least 20 cats exploded from the front stoop, descending on Ben with menacing hisses. There were kittens, young cats, old cats, cats with gooey infected eyes and cats with torn up ears. We waited for the tidal wave to disperse enough to reach the door, but just then Linda and Mike burst out into the sunshine, wearing the same clothes as the night before.
We spent the next hour getting the full tour of their place. Mountain Mike was just glowing (Linda explained they didn't get much company) and immediately divided us up by gender, sending me off with Linda to harvest some veggies while he dragged Ben off to explain the finer details of fixing antique tractors by hand. The cats just stood by and watched, licking themselves and fighting over a dead bird.
By the time we left, Mike and Linda had given us 5 pounds of freshly harvested potatoes and carrots, several stalks of horseradish, a jar of pickled beets, two ginormous cucumbers, a 3 pound bag of dried pinto beans and a bag of 5 pickled eggs. I think we were so stupified we forgot to tell them there was no way we could possible carry all that with us. Mountain Mike got all misty eyed as he shook our hands and sent us on our way, telling us he hoped their life was an inspiration to live off the grid more than depressing. He told us he had never slept so well at night knowing he could provide most of what he needed for himself. His parting words to Ben were..."I just wanna know one thing, son. How in the HELL did you convince a pretty lady to come with you? All the women I know would NEVER go on such an adventure." I think he forgot for a moment that we were bicycle tourists instead of run-aways on horseback sleeping in ditches and eating rabbits, but I still took it as a compliment.
And that's all I have time to share for today. Hope you enjoyed hearing about some Great Faces we've run into here in South Dakota. Happy Revolutions!
Ben and I made it to Pierre last night after our loooongest day yet...88 miles. They say South Dakota is flat, but I'm starting to think that's all part of a big joke aimed to confuse bicycle tourists. This state is not flat by any definition I regularly use. Yesterday we had the pleasure of biking 88 miles over some pretty significant "slow rollers," on Highway 14. It was a fairly cool day...only 92 degrees...and we were on the "scenic byway," which basically meant there was some variety to the amber fields of grain lining the highway (hay, afalfa, hay, hay, afalfa, sunflowers, corn, corn, afalfa, hay). But somehow we made it, crossed over the Missouri River as well as a time zone early last night, and collapsed into an actual BED, courtesy of our lovely Warm Showers hosts, Tom and Ellen.
When we crossed over the Wyoming/South Dakota border a few days ago, we were met by a huge picture of Mt. Rushmore with the state's slogan, "Great Faces, Great Places." scrawled underneath. I'm happy to say we've experienced a little bit of both those things, yet we purposefully avoided Mt. Rushmore, thinking we'd seek out our own Great Faces. We spent our first South Dakotan night in a campground in Deadwood (luxurious!), and the next day spent a considerable amount of time climbing through the winding, hilly roads of the Black Hills. We hit up Rapid City, an adorable little town with several bike shops and a tempting water park, and made it 20 miles east of Rapid City to the general store in Caputa, where we didn't mean to spend the night.
We meant to just re-fill on water and ask some locals about different roads in the general store (which is, along with a handful of houses, all that Caputa consists of). Entering the store, we were immediately met by Ricky, the genuinely helpful owner of the store. He gave us a little history about the town (railroad pick-up point for sugar beets, the store had been in his family for 3 generations) and pointed us to the back of the store where they were having a little wine tasting. I'm never too proud to refuse free wine, so Ben and I helped ourselves to the dixie cups full of various wines and delicious spread of cheese and crackers layed out.
I was in the process of loading up yet another cheese/salami/cracker sandwich when someone came up behind me and asked if that was "thermophile or mesophile...." or something along those lines. I quickly found out he was referring to the cheese platter, and that he had assumed that since I was hovering over it so nurturingly, I must have made the cheese myself. I told him I had no idea, but that I liked his shirt (neon fishes with some obscure beer logo). I then found myself deeply engrossed in a conversation with him about the intricacies of producing raw milk cheese, and why the bleeping government won't let us sell it, etc., etc. I didn't know it at the time, but I had just entered into a lengthy interaction with Mountain Mike, a local oddity with scraggly long hair, fierce brown eyes and an enormous round belly that he kept rubbing like an expectant mother.
At this point Ricky-the-friendly-shop-owner had already offered us a place to camp (in the grassy spot behind the shop), we had already had several dixie cups of free wine and were eyeing the fat tire on tap, and the conversation with Mountain Mike was just getting more interesting, so we decided to stay in Caputa.
Somehow the conversation turned from raw milk cheese to politics (as these things often do) and Ben and I both bristled when Mike said something completely racist about how the Indians outta be grateful that white people came here and "gave" them industrialization. Normally we've been trying to avoid politcal discussions in our travels across rural America, but this was an outrage impossible to ignore, so we took the bait and ended up having a several hour long conversation about everything from immigrants to pioneerism to the government to welfare to the war in Afghanistan. As it turned out, Mountain Mike and Ben and I agreed on more than it seemed at first (what-the-hell-are-we-still-doing-in-the-Middle-East, we-should-learn-to-be-more-self-sufficient...) though there were still some big disagreements (when-all-else-fails-follow-the-ten-commandments, why-can't-those-damn-indians-just-leave-the-past-behind, those sorts of things).
It was about an hour into the debate that Mountain Mike asked us what the hell we were doing in Caputa, and we told him about our bike trip. He then proceeded to tell us all about his past, how he used to be a prosperous business man in the twin cities, had a wife that was a whore (his words), tried to convince him she wasn't a whore, then went off whoring around with the deputy sheriff. Well he decided he needed to leave that life behind so he packed up a few essential possessions on his horse and spent the next 2 years traveling through the west, sleeping in ditches and killing rabbits for food. He somehow landed in Caputa, married his third wife Linda (a sweet lady who had lived her entire life in that town and who only wanted to see the ocean before she died), and now spent his time trying to life off the grid as much as possible. Which is why the townspeople called him Mountain Mike. He spent a lot of time that night trying to convince us to come out to his place, but we declined on account of the numerous dixie cups of wine and ginormous beers Ricky had been serving us all night.
The next morning we decided we wanted to say goodbye to Mike and Linda, so we followed his directions out to his place. We found a delapited trailer covered in sheets of wood, some rusted out vintage trucks, a chicken coop, a huge garden and a horse yard. Ben started up towards the door, and a little cat poked its head out. "Oh, cute, a kitty!" I said. He took two more steps and a tidal wave made up of at least 20 cats exploded from the front stoop, descending on Ben with menacing hisses. There were kittens, young cats, old cats, cats with gooey infected eyes and cats with torn up ears. We waited for the tidal wave to disperse enough to reach the door, but just then Linda and Mike burst out into the sunshine, wearing the same clothes as the night before.
We spent the next hour getting the full tour of their place. Mountain Mike was just glowing (Linda explained they didn't get much company) and immediately divided us up by gender, sending me off with Linda to harvest some veggies while he dragged Ben off to explain the finer details of fixing antique tractors by hand. The cats just stood by and watched, licking themselves and fighting over a dead bird.
By the time we left, Mike and Linda had given us 5 pounds of freshly harvested potatoes and carrots, several stalks of horseradish, a jar of pickled beets, two ginormous cucumbers, a 3 pound bag of dried pinto beans and a bag of 5 pickled eggs. I think we were so stupified we forgot to tell them there was no way we could possible carry all that with us. Mountain Mike got all misty eyed as he shook our hands and sent us on our way, telling us he hoped their life was an inspiration to live off the grid more than depressing. He told us he had never slept so well at night knowing he could provide most of what he needed for himself. His parting words to Ben were..."I just wanna know one thing, son. How in the HELL did you convince a pretty lady to come with you? All the women I know would NEVER go on such an adventure." I think he forgot for a moment that we were bicycle tourists instead of run-aways on horseback sleeping in ditches and eating rabbits, but I still took it as a compliment.
And that's all I have time to share for today. Hope you enjoyed hearing about some Great Faces we've run into here in South Dakota. Happy Revolutions!
Monday, August 20, 2012
This One Time, in Spotted Horse....
We've been slowly rolling our way across the great state of Wyoming over the past week. After two nights in Yellowstone, we stayed with a delightful couchsurfing family in Cody, Wyoming. From Cody we biked around 50 miles to Greybull, where we camped for the night next to a cheery old man riding across the country on his motorcycle to visit his kids. He blasted off a few hours before us in the morning blasting a Jack Johnson song and howling at the wind.
Then came The Big Climb. After crossing the Continental Divide, and a few more steep hills in Yellowstone, we were pretty sure we would be scotch free as far as inclines go for the rest of the country. Then we happened upon a topographical map of Wyoming at a rest stop somewhere along the line. Turns out there's a mountain range that dips down from Montana in northcentral Wyoming, called the Big Horn Mountains. Turns out they're Big. As in, 9,030 feet at the pass. We started at an elevation of just over 4,000 feet, so that means we climbed 5,000 feet, over a period of 18 lovely miles.
After having a mini-panic attack at the beginning of the climb, based on how non-existent the road shoulder was, how hot the day was and how many semi-trucks were coming screaming around every switchback, Ben calmed me down and told me we could take as many breaks as we wanted to. Goooo sloooowww. That's the name of the game here, folks.
Somehow, we made it. It took us all day, and I'm pretty sure it was the hardest physical thing I've ever done. My body literally started shutting down from exhaustion in ways I didn't know where possible. I couldn't really breathe deeply without laughing or crying or vomiting or some weird combination of all three, so I just giggled and looked at cows. But we made it! There was one final steep climb and we made it to the blessed green sign that announced we were at Granite Pass, 9,030 feet above sea level. And good lord, it was beautiful.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you about today. See, there was this one time, in Spotted Horse...
We haven't seen too many other cyclists along the way, probably because it's late in the season and this isn't a very popular route. But we did meet up with this lovely Southern Californian, Jessica, somewhere between Cody and Greybull. We've been riding with her off and on, and ended up staying with her in Sheridan. We rode mostly together yesterday, about 73 miles (which is a personal record for me) east of Sheridan, which put us right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
We saw on the map that there was a dot (which we assumed was a town) called Spotted Horse, so we thought we'd inquire about a place to camp and fill up on water there. When we finally got there, we quickly discovered that there was no town at all, just a bar with a collection of RVs behind it and a sign that said "Spotted Horse, Population: 2." We entered the bar, and 3 sets of bleary eyes turned to look at us. The woman behind the bar took one look at my empty water bottles and said, "I hope you're not looking for water...wait a second, did you bike here??"
We spent the next half hour or so explaining to the bartender as well as the two other people at the bar why on earth we would be riding our bicycles across middle-of-nowhere Wyoming. The bartender looked at Ben with squinty eyes and said, "You're not a tree-hugger are you?" Ben claims she was asking because of my hairy armpits, but I'm sure she was looking straight at him. She quickly got over any issues she had with our potential tree-hugging qualities, and demanded that we set up camp right there, in Spotted Horse. She told us we couldn't possibly keep going, because there was nothing for 37 more miles, and then we would get to Gillette. We kept trying to tell her that all we needed was nothing, just a place to pitch a tent, but the message wasn't getting through.
At this point she came around the other side of the bar, grabbed Ben by the arm and ushered us out the door. She was a tiny woman with flying blonde curls and crocs, and introduced herself at least 3 times as Colette. She dragged us happily over to the side of the bar, ordered us into her golf-cart, and started the engine. It was around this point that we realized she was rather intoxicated. There didn't seem to be a way to politely get out of the golf-cart, so we just held on a little tighter and smiled nervously. She drove us about 100 feet to one of the campers behind the bar, where she told us we could stay for the night, it would only cost us one hundred dollars, hahahahahaha. Just kidding. No, we didn't have to pay a thing, just as long as we got off the road before dark! We graciously thanked her and got back in the golf-cart to drive the 100 feet back to the bar door (no wonder she couldn't understand why we were biking across the country, these people don't walk anywhere).
Something confusing happened as this point. She was in the process of asking us our names for the billionth time, and introducing herself again, only this time she actually took her hands off the wheel and reached over to shake Ben's hand. Apparently golf-carts work just like cars and you shouldn't really take your hands off the wheel while driving. We somehow ran straight into a low cement wall, and in the confusion that followed, we realized Colette was no longer in the golf-cart but actually suspended in front of us with her legs straight up in the air!
Attached to the cement was a thick wire fence which contained a burn pile full of cardboard. Colette had somehow managed to fly out of the golf-cart, do a flip in the air and land upside-down on the wire fence. Miracle of miracles, she was completely uninjured but absolutely mortified and confused as hell. It was extremely difficult not to burst out laughing as soon as we made sure she was okay, and we spent the next 45 minutes going over again and again what may have happened with her. She swore us to secrecy and said she would never live it down if we told her friends back at the bar. She was also extremely concerned that we would have somehow filmed it and put it on "Veebo, or Beeboob or whatever that internet crap is..." (she was talking about YouTube.) We assured her nobody had filmed it.
This funny little lady took quite a liking to us after that incident (especially Ben) and kept slapping his butt and giving me huge wet kisses until she finally let us in on her secret water stash.
Moral of the story...don't drive when you only have to go 100 feet? Don't drink and drive? Don't take your hands off the wheel, even if it's a golf-cart? You tell me. I think it was my first drunk-driving accident, and I'm super glad we all came out okay. We'll always have Spotted Horse....
Then came The Big Climb. After crossing the Continental Divide, and a few more steep hills in Yellowstone, we were pretty sure we would be scotch free as far as inclines go for the rest of the country. Then we happened upon a topographical map of Wyoming at a rest stop somewhere along the line. Turns out there's a mountain range that dips down from Montana in northcentral Wyoming, called the Big Horn Mountains. Turns out they're Big. As in, 9,030 feet at the pass. We started at an elevation of just over 4,000 feet, so that means we climbed 5,000 feet, over a period of 18 lovely miles.
After having a mini-panic attack at the beginning of the climb, based on how non-existent the road shoulder was, how hot the day was and how many semi-trucks were coming screaming around every switchback, Ben calmed me down and told me we could take as many breaks as we wanted to. Goooo sloooowww. That's the name of the game here, folks.
Somehow, we made it. It took us all day, and I'm pretty sure it was the hardest physical thing I've ever done. My body literally started shutting down from exhaustion in ways I didn't know where possible. I couldn't really breathe deeply without laughing or crying or vomiting or some weird combination of all three, so I just giggled and looked at cows. But we made it! There was one final steep climb and we made it to the blessed green sign that announced we were at Granite Pass, 9,030 feet above sea level. And good lord, it was beautiful.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you about today. See, there was this one time, in Spotted Horse...
We haven't seen too many other cyclists along the way, probably because it's late in the season and this isn't a very popular route. But we did meet up with this lovely Southern Californian, Jessica, somewhere between Cody and Greybull. We've been riding with her off and on, and ended up staying with her in Sheridan. We rode mostly together yesterday, about 73 miles (which is a personal record for me) east of Sheridan, which put us right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
We saw on the map that there was a dot (which we assumed was a town) called Spotted Horse, so we thought we'd inquire about a place to camp and fill up on water there. When we finally got there, we quickly discovered that there was no town at all, just a bar with a collection of RVs behind it and a sign that said "Spotted Horse, Population: 2." We entered the bar, and 3 sets of bleary eyes turned to look at us. The woman behind the bar took one look at my empty water bottles and said, "I hope you're not looking for water...wait a second, did you bike here??"
We spent the next half hour or so explaining to the bartender as well as the two other people at the bar why on earth we would be riding our bicycles across middle-of-nowhere Wyoming. The bartender looked at Ben with squinty eyes and said, "You're not a tree-hugger are you?" Ben claims she was asking because of my hairy armpits, but I'm sure she was looking straight at him. She quickly got over any issues she had with our potential tree-hugging qualities, and demanded that we set up camp right there, in Spotted Horse. She told us we couldn't possibly keep going, because there was nothing for 37 more miles, and then we would get to Gillette. We kept trying to tell her that all we needed was nothing, just a place to pitch a tent, but the message wasn't getting through.
At this point she came around the other side of the bar, grabbed Ben by the arm and ushered us out the door. She was a tiny woman with flying blonde curls and crocs, and introduced herself at least 3 times as Colette. She dragged us happily over to the side of the bar, ordered us into her golf-cart, and started the engine. It was around this point that we realized she was rather intoxicated. There didn't seem to be a way to politely get out of the golf-cart, so we just held on a little tighter and smiled nervously. She drove us about 100 feet to one of the campers behind the bar, where she told us we could stay for the night, it would only cost us one hundred dollars, hahahahahaha. Just kidding. No, we didn't have to pay a thing, just as long as we got off the road before dark! We graciously thanked her and got back in the golf-cart to drive the 100 feet back to the bar door (no wonder she couldn't understand why we were biking across the country, these people don't walk anywhere).
Something confusing happened as this point. She was in the process of asking us our names for the billionth time, and introducing herself again, only this time she actually took her hands off the wheel and reached over to shake Ben's hand. Apparently golf-carts work just like cars and you shouldn't really take your hands off the wheel while driving. We somehow ran straight into a low cement wall, and in the confusion that followed, we realized Colette was no longer in the golf-cart but actually suspended in front of us with her legs straight up in the air!
Attached to the cement was a thick wire fence which contained a burn pile full of cardboard. Colette had somehow managed to fly out of the golf-cart, do a flip in the air and land upside-down on the wire fence. Miracle of miracles, she was completely uninjured but absolutely mortified and confused as hell. It was extremely difficult not to burst out laughing as soon as we made sure she was okay, and we spent the next 45 minutes going over again and again what may have happened with her. She swore us to secrecy and said she would never live it down if we told her friends back at the bar. She was also extremely concerned that we would have somehow filmed it and put it on "Veebo, or Beeboob or whatever that internet crap is..." (she was talking about YouTube.) We assured her nobody had filmed it.
This funny little lady took quite a liking to us after that incident (especially Ben) and kept slapping his butt and giving me huge wet kisses until she finally let us in on her secret water stash.
Moral of the story...don't drive when you only have to go 100 feet? Don't drink and drive? Don't take your hands off the wheel, even if it's a golf-cart? You tell me. I think it was my first drunk-driving accident, and I'm super glad we all came out okay. We'll always have Spotted Horse....
Thursday, August 16, 2012
A Yellowstone Birthday
Hello from the Cody Wyoming public library! Ben and I spent the last couple of nights in Yellowstone National Park, including, but not limited to....my 24th birthday! Don't worry, I have been mentally preparing myself for weeks now by referring to myself as being 24. So it's nothing new.
We woke up on my birthday in our super sneaky stealth camping spot, which we had discovered the night before after downing a pizza and a pitcher of beer and befriending some excitable old men from Boston in West Yellowstone, Montana. When we woke up the next morning, we discovered that not only was our chosen tent pitching location only about 50 feet from the road, the entrance to Yellowstone was just about 100 yards away from us. So we heralded in my 24th year of life by stumbling out onto the sun-baked road, dodging the long line of tourist-filled RVs and motorcycles on our way to find some coffee and cinnamon rolls.
I had the idea that perhaps we would take it a bit easy on my birthday, catch up on some reading, journal writing, basking in the sun....it quickly became obvious that that was not really an option for the day. Turns out Yellowstone is BIG. And mountainous. Two factors I didn't quite absorb fully on my last two automobile visits to the nation's first park. So we spent my birthday doing a "light" day of 47 miles. 47 happy miles.
Yellowstone is beee-yoo-ti-full. The rumors are true. But apparently word has gotten out, because the place was literally crawling with traffic. Mini-vans full of exhausted looking parents and squealing children waving their electronic toys around. Bands of motorcycles blasting AC/DC carrying chubby leather-clad couples. Massive RVs as big as buses with cute names like "Featherlite" and "Freedom." They weave the roads in droves, stopping at each lookout to take 5,000 pictures then crawl back into their air-conditioned vehicles. I couldn't help but get a little jealous when we started up the 50th hill of the day, dripping sweat and breathing in car exhaust, but I still maintain that we are more "free."
We stayed that night at the Canyon Village campground in Yellowstone, in specially reserved "hiker/biker" campsites. We biked down to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone just as the sun was setting and had a picnic of boxed wine, camembert cheese and triscuits. As it happens so many times on this trip, the sleepy satisfaction I feel at the end of each day makes every drop of sweat, every incline, every numb toe worth it.
In other news, my body seems to have given up the majority of it's daily protests about why I would be forcing it to do such a strange thing for so many hours a day. I can feel more feet for at least half of the day now, and even my butt seems a bit happier with the situation. Still feeling the heat. Getting a little nervous about the wind rolling across these wide open states. Still a little boggled about how nice these rural western people are. Still making revolutions, though not all of them have been easy :)
We woke up on my birthday in our super sneaky stealth camping spot, which we had discovered the night before after downing a pizza and a pitcher of beer and befriending some excitable old men from Boston in West Yellowstone, Montana. When we woke up the next morning, we discovered that not only was our chosen tent pitching location only about 50 feet from the road, the entrance to Yellowstone was just about 100 yards away from us. So we heralded in my 24th year of life by stumbling out onto the sun-baked road, dodging the long line of tourist-filled RVs and motorcycles on our way to find some coffee and cinnamon rolls.
I had the idea that perhaps we would take it a bit easy on my birthday, catch up on some reading, journal writing, basking in the sun....it quickly became obvious that that was not really an option for the day. Turns out Yellowstone is BIG. And mountainous. Two factors I didn't quite absorb fully on my last two automobile visits to the nation's first park. So we spent my birthday doing a "light" day of 47 miles. 47 happy miles.
Yellowstone is beee-yoo-ti-full. The rumors are true. But apparently word has gotten out, because the place was literally crawling with traffic. Mini-vans full of exhausted looking parents and squealing children waving their electronic toys around. Bands of motorcycles blasting AC/DC carrying chubby leather-clad couples. Massive RVs as big as buses with cute names like "Featherlite" and "Freedom." They weave the roads in droves, stopping at each lookout to take 5,000 pictures then crawl back into their air-conditioned vehicles. I couldn't help but get a little jealous when we started up the 50th hill of the day, dripping sweat and breathing in car exhaust, but I still maintain that we are more "free."
We stayed that night at the Canyon Village campground in Yellowstone, in specially reserved "hiker/biker" campsites. We biked down to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone just as the sun was setting and had a picnic of boxed wine, camembert cheese and triscuits. As it happens so many times on this trip, the sleepy satisfaction I feel at the end of each day makes every drop of sweat, every incline, every numb toe worth it.
In other news, my body seems to have given up the majority of it's daily protests about why I would be forcing it to do such a strange thing for so many hours a day. I can feel more feet for at least half of the day now, and even my butt seems a bit happier with the situation. Still feeling the heat. Getting a little nervous about the wind rolling across these wide open states. Still a little boggled about how nice these rural western people are. Still making revolutions, though not all of them have been easy :)
Saturday, August 11, 2012
To Bozeman!
This morning I woke up in Bozeman, Montana, on a lumpy pull out sofa bed with the bright orange sun in my eyes. I've never been so grateful.
Ben and I biked all the way from our camping spot at the I-90/hwy 247 junction to Bozeman yesterday (67 miles in total, or my biggest day yet!) I hadn't really had any major physical complaints yet, apart from the strange numbness in my feet and hands, but yesterday I got the joy of experiencing butt blisters for the first time. That's right. Butt blisters. Part of me naively thought I would be solid on the butt front, as I have a relatively ample one at my disposal. But turns out my extra padding does nothing but slump to the side as my bike seat gets right in there and finds the exact location of my Sitz bones. Apparently this is a common problem for bikers, as there are oodles of products out there to rub on sore buttocks' and prevent more chafing. Sorry for the graphic details, dear readers, but this is my life now.
We stopped in Norris, Montana for a lunch break. Norris consists of two intersecting highways, a handful of dilapidated houses in a sea of rolling farmland, the Norris Bar/Antique Store, and a surprisingly bustling outdoor furniture store. We dismounted in front of the furniture store, at which point a plump woman came scurrying out and insisted we "rest our hands and bums" and sit for a while. So we pulled out all our various snacks and ate under a newly constructed gazebo for sale just as it started to rain. We put away several sticks of string cheese, an apple and peanut butter, a bag of sea salt and vinegar chips, some radishes and snap peas from the farmer's market in Townsend, and some pastries from our obligatory Wheat Montana stop that morning. Delicious! Folks, quite possibly the best thing about biking all day every day is that you can eat whatever you want. I swear fitness gyms would increase their membership rates by the thousands if they changed their tactic and started advertising the amount of calories you can gobble up if you only burn 10,000 calories a day or so.
The last half of the day was beautiful, but challenging. We followed the Madison River downhill through charred canyons with black toothpick tree trunks reaching towards the sky (we found out later the region had suffered a big wildfire just a month ago). We went over loads of "slow rollers" as Ben calls them---rolling hills that don't seem like a big deal when you're driving, but are endlessly frustrating when on a bicycle. It started raining pretty heavy about 20 miles out of Bozeman, and we got to try out our rain jackets and fenders for the first time. We finally made it to Bozeman around 8pm or so, and rolled right up to the home of Emily Wallace, a friend of Ben's who spent the summer in Juneau last year, working at Gastineau Guiding! Exhausted, soaking and dragging our sore bums behind us, Emily greeted us with hugs and cold beers, shooed us into the shower and made us delicious curry.
So that's a little backstory to why I'm so incredibly grateful to be where I am right now. I was just telling Ben...if nothing else, bike touring makes you appreciate the little things so much more than you ever could otherwise. I don't think I've ever enjoyed peeling off wet biking shorts, standing under running hot water for 15 minutes, or waking up on a lumpy sofa bed so dang much. All these things we take for granted. They're incredible, really.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
The Ol' Up and Over
Hello, everyone! Thank you for joining me on this thrilling cross-country adventure fueled by "easy revolutions." Ha, ha.
So! Today is the 3rd day of the bike trip for me (something like day 11 or 12 for Ben) and I'm sitting in the public library in Helena, Montana. Which means, for those of you without a super savvy sense of the Montana map, we've already biked something like 140 miles, and we just made it over the Continental Divide.
This morning found Ben and I waking up in our super sneaky "stealth camping" spot...some random field, definitely owned by somebody, where we waded through hip-high marshy grassland until we found a small grove of bushes (and thistles) to make camp in. This morning we woke up, biked a few miles to the impossibly quaint village of Avon, Montana, where we ate our first diner meal of the trip: omelettes, biscuits and gravy, eggs, sausage, all washed down with an everflowing mug of diner coffee.
As we started to gain elevation a few miles out of Avon, Ben announced cheerfully that we were in for "the ol' up and over." And that's just what we did. As the temperatures climbed through the 90s, we climbed a few thousand feet on a skinny highway shoulder. Ben let me set the pace (seeing as how I'm not quite the seasoned ciclist he is) and I definitely elected to take a few breaks on the way up. But we made it! The Continental Divide proved to be fairly disappointing. We biked up a dirt road that advertised a "scenic viewpoint." We managed to see a bit of the dry rolling mountains all around through the wildfire-infused haze, and got a bored looking motorciclist to take our picture. Then we proceeded to head downhill for 6 miles plus a few more into the lovely city of Helena, Montana.
I only have a few more minutes on this public computer, so let me share a few observations with you. The trip so far has been wonderful. It's Day 3 for the adventure duo, and we're still getting along. We joked the first night about how it was like we were moving into together...except instead of an apartment we have a tiny 2 person tent (plus all of the American countryside) and instead of jobs all we have to do is bike all day. The scenery is outstanding. Montana is very dry right now, and the only lush green we see is a sure indicator that someone is sacrificing a significant portion of water on their manicured lawn. There's lots of fields of hay, cows, and some horses. The cows all seem to be the most curious about us, looking up sharply all in unison and giving us a good long stare until we bike past. The truckers seem to be our most kindred spirits so far (for whatever reason), giving us a good solid wave of a hanky, wink and a nod as we pass each other on the highway. People have for the most part been incredibly sweet. Several people have told me to "call our mothers frequently" and "be safe out there, pretty girl." The asphalt is littered with broken glass and butterfly wings. And I don't know that I've ever been so sore in my life.
I was anticipating the sore legs, but what nobody told me about was that my body would have to completely readjust to the bizarre position of bike riding before I felt normal again. My feet go numb about 15 minutes after every break. My hands are pretty consistently numb as well. I have definitely located my Sitz bones, as they are throbbing nobs located somewhere within my glutimus maximus (I have so much padding that doesn't seem to do me a shred of good!). But still, I'm trying not to complain. It's just too good. I've decided that I'll give it a week, and any weird pains that still exist I'll investigate further.
Well, I'm out of time. Here's to some more easy revolutions, everyone.
So! Today is the 3rd day of the bike trip for me (something like day 11 or 12 for Ben) and I'm sitting in the public library in Helena, Montana. Which means, for those of you without a super savvy sense of the Montana map, we've already biked something like 140 miles, and we just made it over the Continental Divide.
This morning found Ben and I waking up in our super sneaky "stealth camping" spot...some random field, definitely owned by somebody, where we waded through hip-high marshy grassland until we found a small grove of bushes (and thistles) to make camp in. This morning we woke up, biked a few miles to the impossibly quaint village of Avon, Montana, where we ate our first diner meal of the trip: omelettes, biscuits and gravy, eggs, sausage, all washed down with an everflowing mug of diner coffee.
As we started to gain elevation a few miles out of Avon, Ben announced cheerfully that we were in for "the ol' up and over." And that's just what we did. As the temperatures climbed through the 90s, we climbed a few thousand feet on a skinny highway shoulder. Ben let me set the pace (seeing as how I'm not quite the seasoned ciclist he is) and I definitely elected to take a few breaks on the way up. But we made it! The Continental Divide proved to be fairly disappointing. We biked up a dirt road that advertised a "scenic viewpoint." We managed to see a bit of the dry rolling mountains all around through the wildfire-infused haze, and got a bored looking motorciclist to take our picture. Then we proceeded to head downhill for 6 miles plus a few more into the lovely city of Helena, Montana.
I only have a few more minutes on this public computer, so let me share a few observations with you. The trip so far has been wonderful. It's Day 3 for the adventure duo, and we're still getting along. We joked the first night about how it was like we were moving into together...except instead of an apartment we have a tiny 2 person tent (plus all of the American countryside) and instead of jobs all we have to do is bike all day. The scenery is outstanding. Montana is very dry right now, and the only lush green we see is a sure indicator that someone is sacrificing a significant portion of water on their manicured lawn. There's lots of fields of hay, cows, and some horses. The cows all seem to be the most curious about us, looking up sharply all in unison and giving us a good long stare until we bike past. The truckers seem to be our most kindred spirits so far (for whatever reason), giving us a good solid wave of a hanky, wink and a nod as we pass each other on the highway. People have for the most part been incredibly sweet. Several people have told me to "call our mothers frequently" and "be safe out there, pretty girl." The asphalt is littered with broken glass and butterfly wings. And I don't know that I've ever been so sore in my life.
I was anticipating the sore legs, but what nobody told me about was that my body would have to completely readjust to the bizarre position of bike riding before I felt normal again. My feet go numb about 15 minutes after every break. My hands are pretty consistently numb as well. I have definitely located my Sitz bones, as they are throbbing nobs located somewhere within my glutimus maximus (I have so much padding that doesn't seem to do me a shred of good!). But still, I'm trying not to complain. It's just too good. I've decided that I'll give it a week, and any weird pains that still exist I'll investigate further.
Well, I'm out of time. Here's to some more easy revolutions, everyone.
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