Long and filtered update from North Dakota

6/23: Day 10: Essex to Shelby, MT 105 miles (& continental divide)
6/24: Day 11: Shelby to Havre, MT 101 miles
6/25: Day 12: Havre to Nowhere, MT 112 miles
6/26: Day 13: Nowhere to Wolf Point, MT 110 miles

Corresponding Quotations:
"up and over we go"
"cause i'm a high plains drifter"
"and the heat goes on"
"i was born to drive steel"

My eyelids are far too heavy to be typing right now, but I've used this excuse for a couple nights already. I'm in day four of saddle versus host, but I've found that my chamois is to blame, so we'll be stopping soon for a new set of shorts. Being able to alternate is obviously important, and I intend on doing some sort of product review and 'list of essentials that weren't in our touring books' when this trip ends. Many of you will tune out more than usual.

We've put in a fair amount of miles on Highway 2, which you can imagine a majority of by doing these mental gymnastics: first notice how large the space is between horizon lines, somehow always 200 degrees. Yellow green or brown fields, repeating. A grain elevator. Silos. RVs passing. Look into distance for the next green mile marker. Look further along as two lanes converge on the next grain elevator. Move forward while nothing changes. Feel the sun burning, sometimes the wind.

I could stop there and completely belittle this state, because it does leave an impression at the end of the day that goes beyond the overwhelming yet monotonous landscape. And many of the locals I've met so far are perfect method actors for dark comedies, yet they're in a realm that wouldn't recognize this.

The first person I noticed to be riding a lawnmower oddly was barely clothed, barreling down the side of the highway to the local bar, with a fragmented smile and waving at us wildly like tom hanks from a shrimp boat.

Our barkeep in Harlem entertained us while we waited for a match to start by procuring a pick from nowhere and breaking into a 'jj cale song with a bo diddley backbone.' Although unfamiliar at first, I found myself singing along, "I just dropped in... to see what condition my condition was in..." About halfway through, an elderly man with a tarnished buckle and a ten gallon waltzes in doing a little a heel-toe jig. I thought my afternoon plans had just been reset, but this guy's entrance meant the guitar was put down so the old man could get a throat coolant. Oh well.

The second lawnmower abuser was last night, when we slept at the most depressing RV resort/campground we had both ever seen (and having now camped in the majority of the states, I count my dad as an authority on the subject). I never learned his name or why he was so fascinated with the machine, as he only stepped off briefly to get more gas, probably an hour into the three before I fell asleep to its hum. Even after the sun went down, he just buzzed around the 'campground' in areas that appeared to be sheared close already. Odd characters make the day more enjoyable. And this is just a sampling of folks that my dad and I rode away from, trying to pinpoint the details that made them memorable.

As for the grounds of the RV resort, I'm not ready to discuss the gag-inducing bathrooms, our theories on meth use, the eighteen horseshoe pits, the dilapidated water slides and drained pools, or the fact that we were the only paying customers on a Friday night and the proprietor still wondered aloud to herself if I was one of those tent guys when I walked by. The whole place reeked of a harmony korine film in ways Ill just keep in my journal.

And the mosquitoes. There was an argument at breakfast the next morning between a local and a North Dakota gentleman over where they were more rampant. I'll soon report back, but my summers at Camp Reed, which has a fair amount of stagnant breeding grounds for the beasts, never came close. We're talking a cloud surrounds you as you climb from your tent. And when you're inside it, the pitter-patter sound of rain is constant as they stubbornly smack into your rainfly. All today we had people in convenience stores or street corners laughing at us for camping where we did. I heard, 'that's the mosquito capitol of the country' by three people in towns spread across 100 miles. Some sort of warning would be nice. (If someone is reading this and potentially heading there: it's 10 miles East of Saco, near the reservoir.)

Going back to Wednesday, we traversed the continental divide after an early rise, snapped a few heroic pictures, bowled down to East Glacier for some coffee on the balcony of their grand lodge, and ate some pastries from the local Lithuanian bakery (I should have asked the wherefore).

The section of highway leading from Essex to East Glacier was the hardest hit by garbage we've seen. As there are now open container laws here, the common practice is to stock up on cheap beer, fill an unmarked container, and lose the shiny evidence. Bless their hearts for choosing cans. While they may be an eyesore to the national park, I prefer hitting aluminum to glass and the latter variety, or the remnants of them, were tough to find along the shoulder. I'd like to think these drivers who are getting a head start on their evenings are being conscientious about us shoulder machinists, but it's likely an issue of whatever's cheaper or the difference in trajectories at 70mph.

Back to riding, we descended on the fields of a reservation, and watched as a panoramic range from Utah to Canada dropped out of view in the west. The high plains were a slow decline with a touch of wind, no tree shade to rest under, and easy going.

The rest has been a blur, and my journal is too erratic to try and piece together, but I'll list some firsts. A bee sting (and I found I don't need to carry an epipen anymore), a spider bite that's still growing, our first 1000 miles down, and our first flat tire. I just met someone doing the same route, and she was on flat number nine, so we feel fairly lucky.

The flat fixing process was over surprisingly quick, as our hands moved with such motor memory and precision it felt like I was in my ventilated hood days, feeding my mouse cells without infecting them with my own skin critters. Since some roadsides have been littered with beer bottles, 1 cc "insulin" syringes, spent shells and other sinful ephemera, I was surprised to find a staple to be the culprit. It probably used to bind a lonely trucker's magazine.

We also got in our first dog chase. I mentioned early on that we would have plastic pellet guns to divert (and not maim) an attacking dog, but the cost of an automatic model and the logistics of re-cocking a regular one while riding meant we ended up ditching it in Sandpoint. We had read accounts of dogs attacking cyclists along this route in years past, so we wanted to be prepared. We've settled on having our 'click stands' as a weapon. An excellent, cheap product of aluminum that can bear the weight of a fully loaded rig, folds like a tentpole into a six inch bundle, and will snake itself out and lock into position by holding it it vertically, one-handed. This last part makes it a perfect choice for whipping a dog while continuing to ride.

As as we rolled down a reservation road, caged dogs were alarmed in succession as we passed a collective of houses. Thinking we were clear, we were shooting fake bullets from our fingers and laughing about our plastic handgun schemes. We were twelve again. Looking in our sideview, a dog of stealth was gaining on us. His gray coat, pointed snout and lack of barking tipped us off that this was more wolf than dog. At 18 mph, he was still closing in, so we took it up to 22, which kept him at bay 10 feet back so I could prepare my clickstand for action. He didn't surge again, and gave up after about two miles, but I wonder what would have been if our path was hilly. I also dreamt I rode this trip with a samurai sword strapped to my back, which would have worked too.

And I want to mention a few riders we've met. Yesterday we passed a family of five from Oregon, riding to DC. Mom steered the tandem with one of her nine year old triplets behind her (and a trailer) while dad maneuvered a three-seater with the other children plus trailer. I exchanged business cards with one of the triplets who was active as copilot and corrected me as I spoke of an upcoming mileage estimate. The way the kids hand signaled into a rest area was painfully cute. This was the mother's lifelong dream and the dad might not have a job when he returns, but he's given up fretting about such things.

A couple my age from Minnesota (and steering the same steel Surleys as Dave and I) were cruising West. We could tell that these guys just inflicted smiles as they rode, and we yelled back and forth as semis drifted between us until they joined our side and we did the inevitable 'gear assessment' that happens among loaded riders. They were documenting all the riders they met with a video camera, asking what propels them. I look forward to watching the finished piece when it eventually goes on his website (my dad has the address in his tent, but he's asleep right now). Also, I have to tip my cycling cap to those who ride West, as the prevailing winds move East across this part of the country. I was regrettably honest with them when they asked how our ride was going: I said, 'mostly downhill and with a tailwind' before thinking of their direction. Crushing news for an already sun-bleached afternoon (but karma came in the form of a staple a few minutes later).

And lastly John. Another Surly advocate in his Mid-sixties who would have crossed our path on the continental divide if he hadn't ignored the closure of the Going to the Sun Road. Just one day after a rider was rescued from the top last week because he snuck up, camped, and was buried in snow, John went for it. He was eventually tracked down by a ranger the age of his hypothetical grandchild and John set him strait: he would be continuing to the top and then he would go to Maine. The ranger conceded and told him to not do it again. A 6667 foot pass isn't something one typically repeats in this sport, they move on to the next hurdle. I like his gumption. The road ended up opening on Thursday, the day after we were slated to give it a go.

Finally, I began reading 'Around the World on a Bicycle' by Thomas Stevens, published in the 1880s. Most websites on touring mention him because he's the first on record to cross the US, and he did so on a 50 inch penny farthing (the big wheel, little wheel combo). His excitement once hitting the eastern seaboard took him across to Europe and Asia, and finishing in Japan. Since the two volume set fetches high prices, I recommend downloading it free from Archive.org in the high-res pdf form that includes some excellent etchings (it has fallen out of copyright, so archive.org is legal). Many websites offer the text version for $10, so watch out. It can easily be loaded on your iproducts (this means you, Claire).