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.