Catching Up: June 21st & 22nd

Day Eight: Libby to Marion, MT, or, "people tell me slow my roll." 70 miles.
The only day of this trip that I want to redo. It was supposed to be a shortcut from our map, but didn't end up getting us where we wanted. Our alarms forgot we were in Mountain Time, our tents had puddles indifferent to the trenches dug around them, my driest top layer was getting soaked as I packed it up and the freaking bunnies just pranced around to mock us in their simple contentment. We grabbed enough BenGay at the Rosauer's grocery that I now have more 'pain relief' lotion than all of my hygiene products combined. I finally ditched my deodorant because bicycles don't have the aura of a motorcycle that magnetize women; I don't foresee impressing anyone. And anyway, one man tents have never been successfully incorporated into pickup lines.

20 miles of shoulderless road and a stormy headwind later, my speedometer dial fell and broke (which prevented me from knowing how terribly we rode, pace-wise). We struggled the next 30 miles to keep a decent gait, and wondered if it was a deceivingly long hill. When we hit a campground at mile 70, my knees wouldn't unlock (front of knee this time) and I moaped about because we weren't making the time we wanted. Dave was okay with the decision to cut the day early, as he worried how the next day would go with me having just spent the last five miles grunting.

Why the pain? Likely because I was favoring my big chainring over the last couple rides, never bothering to gear down for a stopped start or a bigger climb. Rookie mistake, I'm sure. I never said I was a cyclist, I just got strong-armed into this trip, I know so little about this sport it's pathetic.

We bear-bagged our food, ate pesto'd rice and spam with a round of checkers, and turned in early.

I should add a highlight: while riding in that shoulderless patch of road, some movement in a pasture to the left caught my eye: two whitetail deer had caught up to me and matched my speed. I kept turning towards them and back to steer my course; they were doing the same, trotting along and keeping us neck and neck. It only lasted 400 meters before they peeled off to go back and entertain the next sappy sucker, but I'm pretty sure one of them smiled at me.


Day Nine: Marion to Essex, MT, or, "It is happening. Again..."
94 miles.

I was cooing the above words to my knees early on in the morning, as they tend to take a couple hours to realize that I need them to cooperate. Since my right knee, below the cap, was worse and likely quad-related, I kept this foot unclipped while my clipped-in left overcompensated with its upswing. I love that I get to experiment on my body over the course of a few days and act like I know what's going on.

We were correct about the previous day's apparently endless uphill (I only had two elevation points on the map to work with), since we got a solid 15 of cruising before meeting up with a 'rails to trails' section (a movement in Montana that my dad donates to). Because he also went swimming with his cellphone a few days prior, we wasted some pedal time at Verizon in Kallispel. To get even, I convinced him to catch half of the greece/argentina game in Whitefish, a town that I could probably describe by copy and pasting my thoughts on Sandpoint. I could see myself living there, for sure.

As my knee was showing improvement with less stinging and tweaking, my dad stopped for an A&W float as I stretched outside. A man small-talked about my trip and in a matter of 90 seconds we had a mental treasure map to get to his property on the Flathead River and the hide-a-key should we need a shower in the cabin he was finishing. His hands were full of meals for his family so he was slowly backing towards his truck. It was a tad awkward, because we were too tired and slow to show our gratitude, but we did manage to slip him our card with info about our trip and FHSSA. His name is Henry, and we're pleased that he'd try to support us, even before he knew why we're doing this. Do we look THAT dismal and dirty? Perhaps.

So we booked it through West Glacier, which I don't recommend. One could spend weeks along the trails of this national park, but our entire goal of going to this region was to ride up Logan Pass (the going to the sun road) which is still snowed in from winter. I've been lucky to visit in winter and summer, and my dad used to coach a running camp here, so please don't blitz this park if you get the chance.

Essex lies at the chain-up area for Marias Pass.
The unfinished cabin was a mile down from the highway, the water that cloudy glacial aquamarine. Our tents were set on the porch, and the shower was glorious. I wore everything I had to bed (except my extra skivvies). We didn't freeze.