Our fortune is that we are young and able, riding bicycles through the mountains. Peeling ourselves from Missoula’s caring grasp and an incidental free lunch at ACA, Sean and I finally pushed out of town. Our first day was pleasant, our first night quietly spent by a river, and our first flat only a small misfortune. Ironically, I’ve made it this far and have only used my pump twice, but Sean’s voluminous fresh rubber must have been a magnet for roadside shrapnel.
When Sean awoke with digestive disagreements the next morning, it concerned me how similar his symptoms were to my own up on the Cassiar. It was not quite a cold or the flu, but a sort of anxious, dehydrated nausea that likes to ruin every meal. We pushed on after a swim and some coffee, finally turning off pavement onto the Divide. Approaching the top of our first pass, it became apparent we weren’t riding any further. At best, we could roll back downhill and camp by a creek before deciding upon our next recuperative movements.
Early morning brought a fiery sky, but wildfire digestion was going to keep us from riding for a few days. In time, we staggered back to the main highway and stuck out a thumb– at least in Helena they’d have orange juice and air conditioning, and chicken noodle soup. Against Montana’s bluebird backdrop, a rich mustard mirage arrived to whisk us to Helena. A deep waxy shine preserves the exterior, but the interior shares it’s history with rusted floorboards and old-time country chirping from dusty cones. A 1978 Ford F-250 is living history in this land– there is no better ride in all of Montana than this yellow truck.
From here we’re hopscotching to Bozeman to receive my fat tires and Marge Lite rim; by the end of the day I’ll be rolling on fat tires again. WIth several days of rest, we’ll shoot back towards Helena or Butte to intersect the Divide. A pile of maps await me in Butte, sent priority from Alaska. Thanks Dawn!