Day 63 – Columbus, MT

I was shooting for 60 miles today and only cranked out 40. Not enough sleep and too much wind. When I left Columbus with a milkshake in my belly, I started cycling West to a setting sun, and I realized I would have to bike on the interstate for the first time on this trip to avoid an insane gravel backroad that would take me into the mountains next to the interstate.

I was two miles out and could barely see ahead of me because of the blinding sun. I thought to myself — this isn’t smart!

So I bailed out at the free campground in Columbus.

My journal entry for that night is as follows:

“Tired. Met a nice family”

I don’t remember much other than feeling tired that day. Few pictures. I stopped at a gas station for two hot dogs. In the morning, Ethan and Garrett showed me to some oatmeal so I wouldn’t have to ride off on an empty stomach. That’s all.

When I arrived, beaten and broken to Columbus’s Itch-Kep-Pe Park, I befriended a family of “full-timers”, or full-time RV adventurers. Davaughn, her husband John, and their three kids have been running around the country for two years, soaking up all of what America has to offer.

They invited me over to their fire and we broke bread. Hugs and everything. You get it.

I later wrote in my journal:

Davaughn and I talked about the divinity in the serendipity of adventure — The godly perfection that exists in the timing — countless events when we are broken and the right things come at the right time.

I asked if they get burnt out by decision fatigue and finding out where they will stay the next night.

After a while, they said, they put their faith in the Lord and that was it. They were “full-timers” and came from behaviorally conservative families also that didn’t necessarily take well to their adventures.

Day 64 – Big Timber, MT

My short journal entry that day:

Rode on the interstate for the first time. Huge shoulders. Not too bad. Humongous trucks though, some carrying three freight containers — never seen that before. Some semi trucks carrying houses. Yikes. Road debris on shoulder.

Got to Big Timber and could not kick out another 25 miles — I am glad I didn’t that gravel backroad I would take the next day I went 6 miles an hour on the next day. If I had pushed forward, I would’ve been caught in the dark on the most remote backroad I have been on in my life.

I hung around a convenience store / gas station — I have never seen guns being sold at a gas station before, but welcome to Montana I guess.

I was looking for a place to camp in town, and there was nothing. I’d have to go quite out of my way to find something and it was getting dark. And I was very, very tired. I called the town park, the sheriff’s department, and 10 different churches to find a place to pitch a tent in Big Timber. I was not ready to spend $140 on a hotel.

Finally, one person answered my call — Brent, a pastor of a local church. He said I could pitch my tent behind the church.

So I sat at the gas station to contemplate my options as I put down some gas station quality chicken sandwiches and chicken tenders.

As dozens of tourists came in and out of the store, they asked me the same questions I always get:

1. Where are you coming from?
2. Where are you going to?
3. When did you start / how many days have you been riding for?
4. Are you riding alone?
5. That’s quite the journey.

It almost hilariously follows that exact sequence every time as well. It always starts with where are you coming from? And I always say, “DC.”

And I appreciate people being so dazzled, but it can get monotonous. On occasion, I, along with many other cross-country cyclists, will downsize our tour. I will tell people I am just riding to the next big city over so I can be antisocial and save my brain space at the end of the day.

Finally, a man comes up to me and asks, “Are you Benjamin?”

“Yes!”

“I’m Brent! I was just on my way back to Billings and stopped here to grab a drink.” I shook his hand.

He asked, “When did you start?”

I said, “D.C.”

Oops.

Day 65 – Livingston, MT

By far the most insane riding I have done on this trip in every dimension.

My journal entry for the night —

The winds were unprecedented for me on this trip. Few words can describe what it feels like to push a bike up a 6% uphill grade on an unpaved road with a 22mph direct headwind.

Here’s a picture for you.

I watched a small school of birds try to take off and fly west — they stood still in the air after they lifted off, despite flapping their wings, and when a gust came — they flew in reverse, like they were moonwalking. It was surreal.

This gravel road was also the roughest surface I have bike on this whole trip. I saw one car, one cow (maybe that was just a mirage) on this 15 mile or so stretch. I moved the slowest I have ever moved – 6 mph – that is 10 minutes a mile! My grandma can hop on one foot faster than that.

It was also, by far, the most spectacular and frightening experience. I spent most of the time walking my bike over the fist-sized rocks that “paved” the road and looking over my shoulder for a bear or mountain lion.

I spent the morning with a couple I met at a cafe, Margy and Harvey, who told me about the woman who was recently attacked and killed by a bear. They said, “but she was doing things you aren’t supposed to do.”

I said, “well, what are those things?”

One of those things they rattled off was that she was in a very remote place — alone!

Among these fearful obsessions that haunted my mind were that the 20 mph headwind would blow any bear spray I blew forward back at me immediately. If a bear or mountain lion were to approach in front of me — well — I am not sure what my options would be at that point.

But the view was spectacular. And even though I was moving at half my normal speed, I tauunted the wind and road with a mischivieous grin — I had cut the mileage for the day in half anyway.

My only other issue that day was that I understimated the difficulty of the route and thus underpacked water. My three bottles can get me through 50-60 miles of regular riding. Today was 38 or so miles. But I ended up dehydrated as I couldn’t get myself to drink from my third bottle — the smell coming from it was reminscent of the rotting roadkill I see so often (I hadn’t washed it in days.)

Yesterday was also the first day in memory that I picked up other people’s trash off the side of the road. The guides at Devil’s Tower (Grace and Dr. Ed) would pick up whatever trash they could find on the way up the approach. WIthout drama, without a word. No finger-pointing or grumbling. They didn’t speculate if the litter was an accident or carelessness. They just picked it up.

It seemed like an injustice to leave trash behind on that gloriously untouched backroad. From where I stood, I could see a butte the size of Manhattan, and two mountain ranges that touched the clouds.

And all of the land — every hill, every valley — for miles upon miles, was completely devoid of human touch. Only a road and the fences next to it. I came upon an empty beer bottle along the way, rode passsed it as my conscience‘s voice crescendoed. I rode passed it and stared at it.

How could I lecture the mountains about how ridiculous it is that dozens of people would pass me when I waved for help on the side of the road — I mean, if I had a serious medical condition or was even dying — people would’ve passed me. It is heartbreaking to know that I would have to wait and be passed by so many people to just get help.

And so — I looked at the amber bud light bottle and considered the looming hypocrisy that crept onto my shoulders.

That beer bottle wanted to go home to the dumpster where it belonged. It stood on the side of the road, like I so often did, beggining the few passerbys to hitch a ride. I had just the seat for it — an extra bottle cage on my rear rack.

I picked it up. And after that some automotive tubing and a few more beer cans until my bike began to look like I was a drunk trash collector.

As I tossed the items in the trash, I could’ve sworn, I caught a glint that looked like a smile in the creases of the beer can, thanking me for being the person who stopped.