East. Day 49.

July 27, 2016

Medora to Glen Ullin, North Dakota

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A long, lazy climb out of Medora in the morning brought me back to I-94. High clouds spit rain, but at least the drops weren't coming from a maniac sprinkler head bursting from the ground like a birthing alien.

An east, northeast wind kissed my face a peck. My mind drifted with the Laurie Anderson song, "Ramon," still worming my ear since I left Andy in St. Ignace. The last refrain lingered.

And you? You're no one

And you? You're falling

And you? You're traveling

Traveling at the speed of light.

I was not traveling at the speed of light. Shooting for Glen Ullin, there was a state recreation area north of Richardton if I needed to break early.

Maps changed to section four of the ACA Northern Tier maps after Dickinson. The panels no longer showed elevation profiles. I missed their warning of hills--like the steep one I walked in the town of Taylor. So far it was a 300-step day.

Today became a medium-hard effort and I worked at not taking long breaks. Strength and motivation grew with every mile. Why did I underestimate what I could do each day?

As I neared Richardton in the early afternoon, two contrasting sights raised the specter of my Catholic upbringing. First, the modern, sprawling Sacred Heart Monastery on the north side of Old 10 dominated the prairie. A lofty cross on a hillside behind it competed with a wind turbine. It was home to Benedictine sisters. Then, as the road curved, traditional grand spires of Assumption Abby loomed over the town, visible from three blocks away. This monastery was home to Benedictine monks.

Even if I did not have a sudden burst of energy, I was not inclined to stop here for the night.

The prairie took over the Badlands the further east I rode. I remembered the fairly level 14 miles between the interstate interchange and the lovely Glen Ullin park on the west side of town. And how could I forget Bunny's very first visit there?

When I arrived at the park, the camp host had her grandson in a stroller as she chatted with a tent camper. He leaned against a flatbed work truck. As I waited to register with her, the mention of a Lions Club hamburger barbeque pricked my ears.

"A barbeque? Is it open to the public?" I asked.

"Yes," the woman said. "They have it every Wednesday."

"How far away? I just rode almost 90 miles and I'm not sure how much more I have in me."

The man, whose name was Jim, said, "I'm going, you could ride with me."

"You made my day. What time?" Jim was willing to wait while I set up my tent and changed. I got it done in record time, at a site next to a small shelter with a picnic table. (Rain predicted again tonight.)

Jim's home at the park was a fair-sized tent covered with an oversized blue tarp strung from a group of small trees. A beekeeper from Tennessee, he had been working his 200 hives in the area for the last month.

"I was in California before coming here," he said. "But I got nothing out there. I did okay in Tennessee earlier this spring."

I wondered if the Honey Hub beekeeper in Gackle was a hard-to-beat competitor.

Beekeeper selfie.

At the small Lions Park in the heart of Glen Ullin, it seemed everyone knew Jim. He told me he hobnobbed with local ranchers to get business.

"I have a partner back in Tennessee. We're talking about making more hives to bring here." He also sold beehive starter kits for $150. "That's where I make my profits."

Buying Jim's dinner was the least I could do. He was an interesting dinner companion. Retired from an advertising agency as an art director, he later became a police sketch artist.

"I'm batting 1000," he said. "The police always found the guys I drew."

My first impression of the burly, grey-haired man dressed in a grey t-shirt with "Big South Fork Beekeeper" above the left pocket, and a soiled red ball cap, did not include artist. The watercolor set balanced on his truck's dashboard should have been a clue. When we turned out of the park the watercolors almost went flying out the window.

"Nice catch," I said as he caught it in time.

"I like to drive around the country and sit and paint."

Jim told me he got into bees during college during the 1970s. "I took a continuing education class on beekeeping as a lark," he said, after seeing a poster on campus. Because he was a student, he was elected to care for the hives brought on-site for the class. "Been at it ever since."

I introduced myself to the Lions and gave them my puppy counselor card. "I raised puppies for Leader Dogs for the Blind," I said.

"We've sent them lots of money," the hamburger flipper said.

"Thanks for your support! By the way, the hamburgers were delicious."

The hamburger line.

Meeting Jim and the Glen Ullin Lions reminded me of years ago when I rode a RAAM (Race Across America) qualifier in Wisconsin. Women in the town cooked food all weekend under a tent pavilion. It provided a break every 40 miles--the course was an 80-mile figure eight. As I sat jawing, Susan Notorangelo's mom shook a serving spoon at me and said, "You know, Patti, you'd be pretty good if you just stayed on the bike."

Guess my love for riding was perfectly in balance with my love of meeting and chatting with strangers. (And nope, I did not qualify.)

Back at Memorial Park, I sat under the shelter to write. A couple in a rumbling white work truck (the vehicle of choice out here) drove slowly by and waved. A Golden Retriever grinned out the back window.

"I love your dog," I said, waving back.

The truck stopped. The man leaned his elbow out the window and asked, "Are you going to be alright tonight in the rain?"

"Yep," I answered, although I hoped my fly would hold up. I couldn't apply more seam sealer because it was still wet from the morning.

"Do you need anything?"

"Nope." Nothing.