MisSOULa

Well, let’s face it. Montana has not been kind to us. Montana has done us no favors. Okay, I can honestly say that leaving Montana behind as a not distant enough memory of a place I will never ride a bike through again has been really fun. So, at least we have that, Montana.

I’m being dramatic here. But our tour of Montana did start off badly, but actually our rest days in Missoula were fantastic. So, it must just be that bicycling though Montana is a tad draining, but otherwise it’s a perfectly fine state. And, I’d be willing to bet if you are a sane person with a vehicle driving through wide open “Big Sky Country” it’s marvelous. I can say the beer in Montana rocks. As a testament to this, Brooke allegedly-allegedly- doesn’t like beer, however I had to pry the pint of Cold Smoke from her hands at the end of the night at the Kettle House. Really, the beer here is outstanding.

Also, to be fair I must mention that we did have some really good luck here! A nice gentleman I met in West Yellowstone, Montana paid for us to spend a fabulous night at the lovely Courtyard Marriott where we drank up the TV like it was 1950 and we’d never watched one before. I met him while I was hunched over on the side of the road mid stomach cramp, desiccated from the good ole’ Montana wind. He approached me because his son and daughter-in-law do bicycle tours, and he wanted to hear all about our trip. He offered to take us out to dinner that night, but because I was having trouble inhaling due to the cramps, and had irrationally already begun calling all the people I know asking them to google various things such as “appendicitis” and “kidney stones”, we had to pass on dinner. (Turns out, dehydration can cause some wicked cramps!) So anyway, being the awesome guy that he is, he offered to get us a room in Missoula since we couldn’t have dinner that night.

Also, we lucked out again, and got to stay with a friend of a friend in her cute apartment right in downtown Missoula. Perfect! and, free! So, Montana...we’ll always have the memories of your torturous miserable winds which caused me to down too many of your wonderful tasty beers!

Melissa

Bad bike tourist

Every so often (well . . . okay, EVERY morning) one of us utters this statement, “We’re bad bike tourist.” You see, a good bike tourist gets up at 5 a.m. They are on the road by 6 a.m. and done riding by noon. Way far on the other hand, our day looks like this: up a 6 a.m., eating breakfast by 7 a.m., still drinking coffee at 9 a.m., on the road at 9:30 a.m. That combination of numbers usually leads us to still be sitting on our bikes during the late afternoon.

First of all, we are both very okay with riding later in the day. We’re both okay with starting whenever we want in the morning, sight-seeing along the way and stopping whenever we want. Until . . . . today.

Today Melissa and I left Jackson Hot Springs at noon. Noon! We spent our morning talking to a waitress about Henry Miller and Anais Nin and books and music and life. And we lost track of time. And we got to Sula, MT at 6:30 p.m. -- the place we had planned on camping for the night. Only, everything was closed. Yes, the whole town was closed. So we had to get back on our bikes and pedal down the road to find food and shelter, which ended up costing us a lot more than I would like to admit.

Today, we were bad bike tourist.

Brooke

Keeping my head on straight

Today, Brooke and I plowed, slogged, and inched little-by-little our way across a long stretch of desolate Montana on what must have been the windiest day of the year. Just turing the pedals over was a feat. Because of the headwind, we were resigned to spinning in our easiest gear through the gusts, and just that simple unambitious plan took a Herculean effort.

I don’t know exactly what our expectations of Montana were before we arrived, but to say the least, we were expecting an easier go of things. I think because we are getting close to Eugene, Oregon where we will take some much needed time off to rest and hang out with our friends Jill and Ryan and their new son Henry, we somehow wanted to believe that it would be smooth sailing all the way to their front door. Needless to say, that hasn’t been the case, it’s been rough both mentally and physically. Rough in a good way though, rough in the way that makes accomplishments meaningful.

Completing the miles, getting to the coast, riding it all, means more than it has up until this point. Before, I really didn’t care that much about actually finishing. It was too overwhelming to think about, too far off in the distance to even acknowledge, but now, we’re so close! So, I know I can handle physical pain on my bike, I can handle working hard, being winded with my heart thumping hard in my chest. I can deal with the ebb and flow of muscle cramps escalating and receding. I can handle all of that, I even like it sometimes. But when the physical pounding starts to penetrate my inner strength, my morale, that’s when things go downhill.

Sitting here, drinking a much needed beer (Moose Drool by Big Sky Brewing Company) beneath a humungous buffalo head shot on Ted Turner’s ranch, I feel fine. I feel pretty great about things, actually. I’ve got myself under control mentally and I’m thankful for my health, thankful for the opportunity to do this-to have the chance to experience this boundless freedom. But, out there on the road today I was in a different frame of mind. Today’s ride was so hard physically and mentally, that it brought back memories of Kansas. Need I say more? Kansas was almost the end of our tour, though we’ve never really told anyone that before.

Thoughts of Kansas still have the ability to make me shutter and shake my head in disbelief. Disbelief that we didn’t quit or kill each other. Memories of Brooke and I riding through Kansas, still kinda new to bicycle touring flooded my head and heart today while I was moving at a snail's pace with no end in sight. We were so vulnerable back then, so inexperienced in the world of bike touring. We were both so afraid, and hilariously, and to no avail, we both tried to conceal from each other how frustrated and nervous we were, how much we were second guessing the bicycle tour. We were second guessing back then because we were worried we couldn’t do it. Now, we know we can do it, but sometimes I question why we are doing this. Why are we doing this? And, I worry about how will it be when we stop and settle down someplace. I feel out of the loop with my friends, I miss my family, I have no job, no home, and it’s no consolation that all I could hear today was the wind furiously ripping through the lonely landscape around me. I’m so far away from everything I love, and for what --to ride my bike through windy boring Montana eight hours a day. I know it’s just my reaction to constant change, and the uncertainly of the future. But, still bicycle touring gives you an awful lot of time to think, and if you're are not in the right frame of mind, you can really bring yourself down.

At the end of our ride, we ended up at Jackson Hot Springs. It was cold and grey outside, the wind was blowing, and a storm was forming off in the distance. We each drank a beer, and jumped in the perfectly steamy hot springs, and it was the best payoff to a tough, challenging day in the saddle.

Melissa

Flats

This is flat #10. An approaching truck (with ample room in the bed, may I add) slowly rolled up to us from behind. I put on my most desperate yes-we-are-in-need-of-help face. And then he slowed down just slow enough to yell, “Get your damn bikes off the road!” Sigh . . . .

Brooke

On the other side of the pass

On the map, it’s simply called “Pass”. The locals call it “The Virginia City Hill”. It’s 2,000 feet of climbing within eight miles. It’s hell. It’s eight miles that took us over an hour and a half to climb up. We’d stop intermittently, gasping for air, lungs bursting, only to stare up at the climb remaining in front of us. I’m pretty sure there was a great view of the Madison River Valley behind us, but I was too tired to even look back at it. It seemed as though the Pass would never end.

But 37 miles after the crest of the hill was the pay-off. It’s a sleepy little town that proclaims itself as ‘Appalachia with a View’. Immediately upon enter the town of 400, we were greeted with bike lanes -- something completely unheard of during the bike tour thus far.

We followed the magical bike lane to the town park, where we saw a small building with a sign proudly draped across it, reading “Twin Bridges Bike Camp”. Melissa and I wheeled our bikes up to the building and for the next fifteen minutes shouted back and forth to each other, “Look at this!” “I can’t believe this!” and “Have you seen this?!” It was like Christmas morning.

Twin Bridges Bike Camp was built by the citizens of Twin Bridge, Montana. The facility is solely for the use of touring cyclists and the amenities have been designed and paid for by cyclists. It has a bathroom, a shower, a bike washing stand, as sink, books, band-aids, bug spray . . . everything we could possibly want.

The best part of the bike camp are the towns people that stop by for a visit. There is nothing else like this on the Trans-American bike route and they know it. They’re proud. And they should be.

Brooke

At the top of "Pass"

Welcome to Twin Bridges.

Welcome to the Madison Valley

Ennis, Montana -- the home of 800 people, 10,000 trout and one beautiful sunset.

Can I return my $50 can of bear mace?

So we got out of Yellowstone without seeing a bear. Oddly, I’m a little upset about this. It seemed everywhere we went, I heard a passer-by’er talking about their encounters with a bear-- usually from a distance and usually in a car. They would talk about it like a badge of honor. I have mixed feelings about this.

Growing up I vividly remember watching the movie The Bear. Curled up on my parents couch, tears rolling down my face, I would periodically choke out, “I love bears!” Bears were cute and cuddly and no one could resist their cute little paws. I imagined myself in the wild, skipping along a path and coming upon a cute little bear peacefully eating honey. He would purr and I would pet him. We’d become friends and we would cuddle while falling asleep in a field of daisies. They are just like cats! I thought to myself.

Fast forward 20-years to Kinsman, Ohio. While spending the weekend at Melissa’s mom’s house, we stumbled upon the television show, I Survived. Sweet mother of Jesus, it was terrifying. While hiking through Yellowstone (where we just came from!), two men were attacked by a (no drumroll needed here) bear. Or should I say, BEAR!!!! It was full out mayhem. Big giant paws with big giant claws everywhere! . . . Clawing at their faces. And legs. And arms. And torsos. Bears are not like kitty cats. The point was made and well received, thank you every much Biography – bears are scary.

So I went to Yellowstone armed. Armed with a $50 can of bear mace. I carried this huge can with me for days (in fact, it’s still in my bag right now). At night, it was always within reach. I plucked down the money for it and I didn’t even get to use it! I’m upset I didn’t get my boy scout patch for this one.

So . . . I paid to see the bears!!!! Like any normal blue-blooded American would do. Thank you Grizzly and Wolf Discovery Center!

Brooke

I think this bear was purring as he smashed his paw into the bear-proof dumpster.

Yellowstone!

OLD FAITHFUL

Old Faithful was scheduled to go off at 3:08 p.m. At 3:06, there were hundreds of people gathered around the geyser, cameras in hand, quietly anticipating the blow. The clock ticked to 3:07, everyone was waiting on baited breath, fingers at the ready. 3:08 . . . a few spurts of water went up in the air. 3:09 . . . it’s a little late. 3:10 . . . must be blowing any second now . . . Ya’all, we stood there for 20 minutes waiting for Old “Faithful” to go off!

Ten minutes in Melissa’s arms got tired, so she handed the camera off to me. Everywhere around me people would shout, “Thats’s it!” after a small shot of water flew in the air from the geyser. Even after the 50th person said it, everyone still chuckled.

And then it went off! And . . . I watched the whole damn thing from the viewfinder of Melissa’s camera. She was shouting behind me the whole time, “Get it! Get it! OH, you’re missing it!” So what you see in these pictures is exactly the same thing that I saw.

We ended up getting a ride to Mammoth Hot Springs from Old Faithful from a really nice couple from Missouri who are on a retirement trip. Kay, the woman, said it best -- “Water goes up, water comes down.” She didn’t even witness the actually eruption. She saw a few spurts of water fly about five feet in the air. But I guess it’s all the same, right?

Mammoth Hot Springs & Elk Preserve

Don’t touch the water. It’s hot.

There are signs posted all over the hot springs which sport a cartoon drawing of a boy-scout looking kid being singed in a hot spring, his mother is in the distance, eyes and mouth wide-open. These signs did little more than make me want to actually test the water temperature out with my fingers. Don’t worry I didn’t.

Norris Geyser Basin

The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone

The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone was breathtaking. The shear power of the waterfall was outrageous. What also was outrageous was the path down to the viewing area for the falls. It was a zig-zagging half asphalt, half gravel steep path down 600 feet. And we were, um, walking down it. Yes - walking.

I’ve suddenly become a klutz. Melissa wouldn’t even let me walk near the edge. I was a little scared I would fall until I saw an old man, with a lame leg, walking in front of me. I half expected an old woman on a Hoveround to come zipping around the corner. Sigh . . . I’m a klutz and a baby.

RVs (Because if you are a cyclist, this is your #1 cause of death in Yellowstone)

Surprisingly, we haven’t had much trouble with RVs running us off the road in Yellowstone. They’ve really kind of become a sort of entertainment. They have names like, Endeavor, Condor, Raptor, Arctic Fox, there has even been a Desert Fox. If I ever own a recreational vehicle company, my RVs will sport names like these: F U Mother Nature, Get Out of My Way, More Gas Please, and Where Can I Dump My Shit?

But, the best ones are cruiseamerica.com. These are rented RVs. The people behind the wheel have probably never before driven something so big. And you can tell. They’re always to close to the white line or over the yellow line. Whenever one of us sees one, we shout out to the other, “Cruise America!!!” And then we get as far to the side as we can. The sides of the rented RVs are covered in photo murals of happy families riding horses, or hiking or snorkeling.

These murals are not the reality. As everyone of these RVs pass us, we can see into their lives in the RV. There is always a small foot proudly displayed in the windshield, belonging to a woman passenger, un-shoed, of course. Beside her, the driver is usually a male - white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, face frozen in a grimace. If we are lucky enough to come upon one of these parked, the sound of screaming children vibrates in our ears for miles to come. And, the cherry on top is a small white yipping dog, usually named “Princess”.

Brooke

Saved by Arctic Fox and some old hippies

Sometimes the bike tour looses it’s luster and today, the thrill is long gone. Today Brooke and I had a bit of a setback, and we spent some time becoming acquainted with what I remember from undergrad Intro to Psych class as the five stages of grief. Remember those? Yeah, I actually don’t really remember them either. But, I do remember thinking the whole idea sounded a tad simplistic when applied to real, heart wrenching, uncontainable grief and thankfully, we weren’t dealing with that type of grief.

Today, we were merely dealing with the type of grief that accompanies a colossal mechanical failure of your bike which leaves you stranded in the woods 10 miles from Yellowstone National Park. And, I do believe this type of grief can be lumped into distinct categories beginning with our familiar friend Denial.

The Denial phase of this predicament definitely came first, and it lasted quite awhile. That part was easy, as denial can be so delightful sometimes. I went to shift my bike into an easier gear as I started to climb a hill, and my derailleur cable snapped, sending my chain flying down the rear cassette into the hardest gear I have. Well, I certainly wasn’t going up this hill any time soon, so I thought, eh, might as well turn around and sit by this beautiful lake and stare at the Tetons for awhile.

I didn’t miss a beat. I wholeheartedly embraced denial by sitting on the side of the road appreciating the beauty of the Tetons and not even glancing over at my strewn about gear and busted bike. It’s like I’d been fearing this moment for so long on this trip, that I didn’t even want to register it now that it was happening.

So, to further cement my casual coolness regarding the situation, I sent off shoulder shrugging text messages about how I wasn’t that worried at all. It was quite pleasant actually, siting there believing that the bike mechanic fairy would arrive any minute. Alas, someone did come, and he winced at my snapped derailleur cable, then he tied it in a knot and said, “well, now you have two gears, that’s better than one!” Then he merrily skipped off to his RV aptly named Intruder, and pulled away.

Hmmm. That got to me a little, and led right in the Anger stage. To be precise, I’ve entitled this stage ‘Unmitigated Anger at all RV Drivers’. It’s not pretty or rational, but they are such an easy target. Even when you aren’t experiencing the frustrations of a broken bicycle in the middle of a national forest, making fun of RVs and blaming them for ruining your day is so easy.

Life while bicycling the country gets boring sometimes, so Brooke and I had already begun entertaining each other at the end of the day by comparing the ridiculous names of the RVs that have passed us by. Usually, we just laugh. But, today I hated them all. Their lives were so simple, with their motors, air conditioning, satellite dishes, and SUVs in tow. I sat there smirking, Oh, here comes Viewfinder, followed by Endeavor, and oh look Suncatcher is pulling up towing his SUV! They all are emblazoned with stupid names suggesting their ability to conquer nature, or become one with it. But, as we know, anger rarely gets anyone anywhere. So, I moved on to the bargaining phase.


To be accurate, I like to call it ‘Bargaining with Complete Strangers’ and only as a last straw, God. All of a sudden, I had renewed strength to deal with this situation, I was going to be proactive! I took charge! First, I called some bike shops, only to find out that they were 50, 70, and 90 miles away. But, I would not be discouraged!

Next, we called a ranger, who was helpful and gave us a short 15 mile ride back the direction we came, towards the nearest bicycle shop 50 miles away. As we were unloading our gear from the ranger’s truck, and simultaneously wondering how on earth I was going to ride 35 miles in an unrideable gear to the bike shop, I made somewhat pathetic eye contact with the driver of an RV called Arctic Fox. His name was Buck, and he offered to give us a ride to the bike shop, after all, he was just out driving around, he said. I admit, after my afternoon of badmouthing all RVs I held my head in shame as I gladly accepted the ride. Buck, his sister and her husband were coming back from Sturgis, and were just killing time before heading home. They offered to drive us all the way to the bike shop!

40 miles later we arrived at the bicycle shop. I honestly thought the bicycle repair would take about 10 minutes. I was wrong. The cable broke off in a terrible place, and it fell into the shaft of my STI shifter. It was virtually impossible to fish it out. The bike mechanic cursed, muttered to himself, blatantly announced that this was his idea of a real pain in the ass as I stood beside him holding the flashlight, trying my best to show my appreciation and support. When it was all said and done, the mechanic was able to fish out the piece of cable and fix the bike, all for $12! Brooke and I loaded up the bikes, and set off to find a place to camp. We were back where we set off from two days before, which was discouraging but at least the bike was fixed!

Melissa

Hiker/Biker!

Hiker/biker sites are the best thing since sliced bread. A lot of the campgrounds fill up before 9 a.m., so these make it possible to camp in the Tetons and Yellowstone.

Our food is stowed in a bear box and we are safely hidden from the bears!

(Melissa tried to fit inside the bear box for the night, but she couldn't fit . . . so she is reluctantly sleeping in the tent.)