July 22, 2011
Day 101: Ennis, MT to Bozeman, MT
A chubby black rabbit hops around my tent and sniffs the corners of my panniers as I pack and load the bike with the sun just starting to peek above the top of the mountains that loom over town to the east.
I stand over the bike and say goodbye to the ACA group members still left in camp and receive a wonderful series of handshakes, half-hugs, and wishes of have fun and be safe. Almost a month ago they rolled quickly past me on the way to Chanute, Kansas, and in the weeks in between our paths crossed dozens of times. It always put a smile on my face when I'd roll into a town and see a miniature tent city or a brightly painted van with 15 bike racks on top, because I knew I'd be laughing at something or someone in just a few minutes. Even though I'll always be a solo traveler at heart, and would sooner die before letting a van carry my gear, the experience of getting to know a dozen new people in the middle of this amazing trip has been so good for my soul. I hope each of them reaches the Oregon coast safely, in good health, and with a head full of only the best memories.
I also say goodbye to the TransAm. It's at the same time so much harder and so much easier. It's harder because we have such a deep history. If it wasn't for journals about riding the TransAm from one end to the other I would never have fallen into the world of bike touring and would not be standing in the gravel parking lot of a sketchy campground in Ennis, Montana, completely happy to be here. The effect that bike touring has had on my life is profound, and it's no stretch to say that without the TransAm's influence I would be a much different person today.
But it's easier because riding the TransAm made me uneasy. I don't know if it's a personality flaw or asset, but I struggle to follow a defined path, to go where thousands before me have gone. It's a mindset that comes out both on the bike and off, but I've battled in constantly over the last two months heading across the middle of America. Riding the route was amazing at first, following the 76 bike route signs in Virginia and seeing the towns and landmarks that I'd looked at dozens of time in the journals written by those who came before me. It was literally everything I dreamed it would be. But then, slowly at first and more strongly over time, I grew weary of knowing what was ahead before I arrived. I ride bikes across long distances to experience places I know nothing about, to interact with people I'd never meet otherwise, and to churn up a feeling that can best be described as adventure.
In several ways the TransAm took that spirit of adventure away from me. I understood the back story behind so many of the places I rode through long before I rolled into town. When I got there, most of the people I met already knew what I was doing, because of the many hundreds of bike riders that had passed through in the preceding months and years. Most days I left town with a plan, knowing both where I'd end up and where I'd stop during the day, such that much of the time I felt like a human GPS riding between waypoints. I still enjoyed myself, and feel fortunate to have met so many great riders and non-riders along the way, but so often I had the sense that something was missing. A lot of cross-country riders thrive on the framework that the TransAm provides, but I've had so many fun, ridiculous, wonderful, memorable moments that have come off the beaten path that I know how great it can be to travel with no plan at all. Given the choice between pulling into a clean campground in the late afternoon or stealth camping in the woods behind a rural church at dusk, I'm taking the church every time.
The TransAm will always hold a special place in my heart, but a basic map, handwritten route directions, and a feeling of uncertainty are what it takes to get me into my touring zone. That's what helps me feel alive. It's time to get back to it.
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The sunshine takes the edge off the morning chill and I ride north as everyone else goes west. I feel like I'm starting over, like the road ahead is unexplored and full of possibility. I find new strength in my legs and a fresh feeling in my mind.
The new route challenges me eight miles out of town with the toughest hill I've faced since somewhere in Illinois or Kentucky. Tractor-trailers crawl up alongside me, I hear car engines downshift and then push hard, and I slowly pull my way to the top at no better than six miles per hour. I distract myself from the hard work by alternately talking to cows and looking out on the impossibly beautiful hills and mountains that surround me once again. Then I round a corner, reach the top, read a boring historical placard carved into a giant piece of wood, and freeze balls as I fly down the other side.
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When I turn east toward Bozeman the road starts to wind its way through a narrow canyon. It follows the curves of the Lower Madison River and turns so often that I'm never able to see more than half a mile ahead. Eventually the soft hills give way to jagged cliffs that stand nearly vertical and litter the ground below with hundreds of fallen rocks and boulders. Deep cracks in the faces of the cliffs show a hundred more that are ready to cut loose with the smallest push. A coat of paint less than an hour old covers the line at the road's edge. Every time I move over to let cars pass I pick up a thin layer of white on both tires, which is just sticky enough to grab hold of every rock and pebble in my path. I cruise along to the sound of pinging and popping and clanking as the junk flies off the rubber and into the fenders, spokes, racks, and frame.
Clouds roll in as soon as I leave the river behind and start climbing, but I dodge the worst of the rain showers and the riding stays cool and pleasant and beautiful. Flying down a hill I see a car coming up toward me, with a medium-sized black dog hanging his head out the left-rear window, his chin resting on the half-open window. At that moment we both experience the same unique feeling of wind-blown happiness.
Range land gradually turns to farm land, which then turns to businesses and homes. Before reaching Bozeman I hit a giant highway crossroads called Four Corners. It's a big, busy, noisy mess of a place full of gas stations and liquor stores and car washes, the kind of highway stop that no one remembers ten minutes later. The convenience store where I stop turns out to be so classy that there's a small casino attached to the back. I've never understood the appeal of casinos outside of vacation spots like Las Vegas, so I grab five dollars worth of quarters out of my bag and decide to experience the magic for myself.
The Commodores' "Brick House" blasts from the speakers as I walk through the tinted glass door. It's the only part of the place that isn't depressing. Faded and mildly dirty green and purple floral-patterned carpet lines the floor, while neon lights glow and sparkle all around the top edge of the room, which isn't much bigger than an elementary school classroom. The space holds maybe 20 machines, all with touch-screens announcing dozens of exotic-sounding names for the same two games: keno and poker. There are a few windows cut into the walls, but all of the shades are drawn tight. Four women, all between the ages of 40 and 60, sit evenly spaced around the room. None of us look excited about the possibility of finding riches with one push of a flashing red button.
Five dollars gives me five minutes of uninspiring keno, with only a few small wins to delay the loss that's obviously on the way. That money could have been my lunch, but I leave with nothing to show for it. The best part of the whole experience are the free Jolly Rancher candies.
A busy four-lane highway lined with furniture stores and car dealerships drops me off into the campus of Montana State University, and from there I ride down quiet, tree-lined streets and past century-old homes with covered front porches into downtown Bozeman. With its mix of tourists and locals, shoppers and workers, hippies and hipsters, and retirees and college students it's the most vibrant place I've been since St. Louis. It's a great spot to grab a burger and a beer and watch the show roll past, so that's exactly what I do for the next three hours. The highlight: watching a guy bump his bike against mine and then, five seconds later when it falls to the ground with a crash, turn around with a look on his face that says Oh shit, my bad. He hesitates for a moment like he's going to pick it back up, but then I see him come to the conclusion Nah, screw it, and he starts to walk the other way, leaving my bike laying on its side in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. All I can do is watch the scene unfold and laugh, because he had both the chance and the instinct to do the right thing and he ignored them because, hey, I've got really important places to be!
I spend the evening doing much the same in the coffee shop next door as cells of thunder and lightning and pouring rain pass through town. Under dark, cold, wet skies that make me feel like I'm back in Seattle I walk a few blocks to the backpackers' hostel where I'm staying. It's an old place where every board of the hardwood floors creaks, where a narrow staircase with low clearance stands ready to strike anyone taller than five-foot-ten, and where heavy leaded glass windows stay up only with the help of a stick wedged into the opening. My room has three sets of bunk beds, yet on a mid-summer Saturday night I tuck into my foul-smelling sleeping bag and fall right to sleep with the place all to myself.
Today's ride: 57 miles (92 km)
Total: 5,153 miles (8,293 km)
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