Most of the problems I encountered today can be attributed to fatigue after the big climb yesterday. I couldn't stay awake to do my journal last night, so I did it this morning, which meant I did not get on the road until 9:30. By then the temperature is already quite high and I was still dehydrated somewhat from all the work yesterday.
My route took me up a state road which parallels Interstate 90 but in one of those quirky scenarios I spent the whole day going the same direction as traffic going to Seattle. Normally, any kind of backtracking on a bike causes me great anguish, but not today. The grade was flat, the sky was blue, the wind was of the tail variety, and there was lots of interesting stuff to see. Like the osprey family nesting on an electrical pole, and the proliferation of grasshoppers on the road.
This highway had almost zero traffic on it, but wouldn't you know it, the first car by me leaned on his horn as he went by, startling me back into reality.
As I devoured my lunch, there was a pack of small, scruffy dogs cruising the parking lot looking for handouts. These were streetwise mutts and quickly realized that there were going to be no handouts from the cyclist. They seemed to have a great interest in something on the underside of each car as it pulled in, perhaps a little drink of condensate from the air conditioner. They were very savvy, and knew when it was time to be out of there.
I had been told repeatedly that I should definitely visit the Little Bighorn Battlefield, and so I reluctantly complied. I have always wanted to get a feel of the setting of this singular event. Even though it was a crushing victory for the tribes, it sealed the fate of the native population by galvanizing the country toward a final solution. In no small way, the persistence with which the Nez Perce were pursued all over the west had more to do with vengeance than military tactics.
After a brief tour around the grounds, and a little snooze under a large leafy shade tree, I pedaled into Harding, where I was greeted by a local resident, a Crow, who wanted to know all about my trip. He didn't really know where Boston was but I assured him that it was very far away. He then confided that he had seen me on the road, earlier in the day, and didn't I remember him... the one who honked as he went by. I guess a blaring horn in one culture is a salutation in another. Tolerance, brother.
I got the next-to-last motel room in town. In the future I had better be more careful lest I find myself sleeping on the ground. Actually this particular motel puts its overflow guests in a teepee in the back yard.
Babcock and Turner were somewhat eager to be done with eastern Montana and the journals became rather terse as they passed through. They did recount some bicycle stories that they heard along the way:
(I am) reminded me of the man in Spokane who recently bought a wheel, and a few days later came back to the dealer, saying:
"My wheels run very hard, in fact I have to push hard to make the wheels go at all."
"Have you oiled it?" asked the dealer.
"Yes, sir."
"Are you sure you oiled it thoroughly?"
"Oh yes, I gave it a good oiling from the oil in this lead bottle," pointing to his cement tube.
Another equally ludicrous incident was related to us by a bicycle agent. A man who had bought a wheel came back to the agent in a few days and said that his wheel wouldn't turn well. He said he had oiled it well and had taken good care of it. The agent gave the rear wheel a twist and it went half way round and stopped.
"What have you done to it?" he asked the owner.
"Nothing except that yesterday I took out a few of the shot from the hub, but I got some more of the right size at the hardware store and put them in."
The dealer, after scraping out the lead from the ball race and putting the wheel in shape informed the fellow that next time he must use a better quality of "shot."
Plans are to head up toward the Yellowstone River and the towns of Forsythe, Miles City, and Baker.
78 miles of comfortable easy riding today.
On the road to North Dakota,
Dennis