West. Day 28

July 6, 2016

Lewistown to Denton, Montana

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So, what did I have to learn? What was my dilemma?

First, this. Chapters in my upcoming book open with memories of my life. Here's one:

“Again. Again. Again!” At age five, Pat aimed a tiny two-wheeler bicycle down the gentle driveway slope of her family’s post-war, west-side-of-Detroit bungalow. She pushed off. Tennis-shoed feet dangled as rudders, when she felt the fall she tapped the ground to regain balance.

To avoid careening into the street, she fought to turn left at the sidewalk and rocketed wide to crash land on the soft curb grass. Face scrunched in deep focus, she untangled herself, grabbed the handlebars, and stomped up the driveway.

“Again.” She mounted. “Again.” She rolled. “Again.” She made the turn.

The act of pedaling with both feet came quicker than learning to control the fall. When she raised her second foot to plant it on the pedal, she escaped gravity and felt freedom for the first time. She kept on pedaling.

The world was never quite as small again.

Bicycle touring—my original love. It meant freedom, movement, living outside, and connecting with strangers.

When bicycles bring strangers together, they strip away inhibiting social constructs. We meet with no history between us. The American psyche of adventure and discovery, of dropping out to travel the open road, can be common ground.

Forty years ago strangers often commented, “I would love to do that. You are smart to do it now while you can.” Insinuating, I suppose, that life would get in the way. (Funny. No one said that to me on this trip. But then, I wasn't 20 anymore!)

A looking happy, twenty-year-old me on B'76. Photo courtesy of Bob Hess.

Those strangers were right. Returning home after B’76, life, and the day-to-day business of supporting myself, happened. I found a decent job, moved out of my parent’s house, developed debt with the purchase of a car (ack) and later, a house. How does one toss that away to live on the open road?

Me and Lou durnig our 24-hour record ride. 1986.

When I stepped over the “normal life” precipice and realized another multi-month bicycle would not happen soon, I joked, “I can’t take summers off every year, so I’ve condensed my rides into a weekend.” Riding 200 miles in 24 hours made me wonder how far I could ride in a day. One thing led to another. I raced 24 hour and multiple-day events. Meeting Lou got me running, and us on a tandem bicycle. We set a women’s tandem 24-hour record, and we set a women’s record in France’s 1200 kilometer Paris-Brest-Paris.

In between, I toured weekends around southeastern Michigan and Canada and took weeklong tours across Wisconsin or north to the Mackinac Bridge. Remember my original love? After watching the movie Forrest Gump, I stole his idea of running across the country until he was “done.” I never felt “done” bicycle touring; I dreamed of the day when I could pedal until I was done.

Meeting Andy took me by surprise. I never expected to marry, but he was the one for me. No regrets over the decision to share the rest of our lives. I was lucky he understood my need to ride. In 2009, he took his first (and last) bicycle tour with me—a two-week cycle to Green Bay, Wisconsin to visit his grandkids. Those two weeks only reinforced in me the pull to life-on-the-road. I yearned for my “Forrest Gump” ride.

Andy and me and his grandsons Keegan (left) and Alec (right). 2009.

This ride to Missoula, Montana seemed to be my chance. The Bikecentennial ’76 anniversary was my “excuse” to ride across the country and I presumed what came after (maybe a long way home) would be my “Forrest Gump” ride.

But my perspective changed. My dream morphed into a get-to-Missoula-on-time ride. I missed Andy and our life in the north woods. I got tired, STOPPING would be nice. Would I be done once I reached Missoula? Or did it even matter? Maybe this was the ride I needed, and not necessarily the ride I wanted.

Which brought me to my dilemma. I knew I would not continue to ride forward. But would I ride home? Another bucket list item, taking a long train ride, occurred to me. I could take the train home.

I was inclined to ride home. Why? To do what I set out to do. To see if prevailing winds really were from the west. Because I could and “there and back again” was still appealing. Because phenomenons like the impromptu concert in Lewistown and encounters of fellow humans kept happening. Because packing my bike to ship home would be a hassle. Simply because of my love of the ride and this might be my last chance.

And maybe because Bunny made me think there was more for me to realize.

Bunny hanging out with me in Grass Range.

My original Facebook post:

POSTCARD FROM THE ROAD July 6, 2016

A heretofore unrealized advantage to a full-sized fairing - when there is no shelter and a black cloud bank higher than the north wall in Game of Thrones stretches from south to north horizons, and a cold wind stings your face with rain like wet towel snaps, pulling into the ditch and curling yourself behind the fairing is your only defense.

I had been feeling smug for delaying my departure from a wet Lewistown this morning. It was a cool, side-wind (and dry) ride for about 35 miles.

I took shelter under a farmer's workshop eave when a small thunder burst caught me topping a long climb. The light rain lasted long enough for me to eat a protein bar and visit with the farm dog and cat.

Clear to go. I didn't see the western wall until I turned back onto the road and crested the next hill. Only seven miles to Denton, MT, my day's destination. I made a run for it.

Wasn't happening. I hunkered under the fairing for what seemed like hours but was likely only 10-15 minutes. The rain and wind eased enough for me to resume a shivery pedaling. I was actually glad for the gradual rise in the road.

By the time I rolled into town, brown rivers flowed curbside, the sun was out, and the wall was just a darkness in my mirror.

From my B’76 journal:

7/7/76

So much to write about. The mountains are gone and so is the snow – they gave us a marvelous farewell in Pueblo – such a magnificent sunset through the giant windows of SCU.

It’s been extremely hot and windy since Hoosier Pass. Loree’s dad and mom left yesterday – such a good time I had with them – they are fantastic people. [They drove out to meet us and spent several days following along. Loree's dad pedaled with us.]

Also more sad news – Mike is not continuing. He stayed in Pueblo to get his knees checked and hasn’t joined us since. He’s going home. It really bums me out – I feel that I really haven’t had enough time to get to know him – or get close to him. I feel I could have in time.

Anyway – I think that time is telling on me ... I seem to be extremely bugged ... I just feel like riding alone.

Ah well –

Mike and me on B'76. Photo courtesy of Bob Hess.