Day 70: Culbertson, MT to Glasgow, MT

July 21, 2008

107.52 Miles, 6:32:22 Ride Time, 16.44 Average Speed, 35.84 Maximum Speed

I enjoyed the extra hour of sleep I gained by crossing into the Mountain Time Zone yesterday, then spent a while in the motel lobby talking to two guys about my trip.

Before they even said anything, I knew what they were going to ask: "So, how many tires have you gone through?" I can ALWAYS predict this question. There is a certain type of guy (never a woman, ever) who, given the many things to ask about a several-thousand-mile solo bicycle trip, is primarily interested in how the tires have held up. The next question with these guys is usually either, "So, how much do those tires cost?" or "So, how many flats have you had?"

This is the guy that you see hanging around at Sears in the lawn mower department for hours, kicking the tires, waiting on his wife, who is in the clothing section purchasing his Haggar slacks.

After we exhausted the subject of tires, they asked if I was going through Glacier National Park, and if so, was I riding on Going-to-the-Sun Road. I told them that yes, that was the plan, and they quickly informed me how dangerous it was, and how "bicyclists are killed every year, falling off the side" on that road. I am almost absurdly cautious on steep descents (certainly compared to some of my daredevil friends back home, anyway), so I think I'll be OK as I ride the brakes all the way down the mountain(s).

On that somber note, I rode out to discover I had a nice tailwind, which I had been squandering for the last few hours.

Leaving Culbertson I immediately started a long, gradual climb; not too bad, since it was still cool, and of course, I had the tailwind. I entered the Fort Peck Indian Reservation, and then Brockton (pop. 245), the first town on the Reservation. It was a poor-looking place, and I wasn't going to stop, but as I rode past a bar, a couple of Native Americans called out "Where are you heading?" I turned around and spent a few minutes talking to a lady named Petey, and her companion, Jed. They were very friendly; I got the impression that they spend much of the day sitting outside the bar, talking to travellers.

About fifteen miles down the road, I entered the infamous reservation town of Poplar (pop. 911). Why infamous? Its nickname, "Stab City", refers to the (supposedly) high number of stabbings and other violent crimes that are committed in town. I bravely stopped and bought some Grandma's cookies at a gas station, then talked to Eric, a friendly Eastbounder who pulled up. He was in a good mood despite his headwind. I escaped Poplar unstabbed, although on the way out of town I did meet a police car flying to town, siren screaming, lights flashing.

Wolf Point (pop. 2,663), another reservation town, was big enough to have a McDonald's. I stopped there not so much for the mediocre chicken sandwich as for the opportunity to drink many, many ounces of Powerade from the soft drink dispenser. I don't patronize the place enough to know if drink refills are officially free, but I certainly always drink as much as I can hold when I do stop there. Sometimes I fill my bottles up with the stuff. Is that so wrong?

Later, after about seventy miles, the water in my bottles was warm and it was so hot and dry that I was fantasizing about anything cold and wet. Frazier (pop. 452), still in the Fort Peck Reservation, was, according to my maps, not supposed to have anything but a post office. I was happy, therefore to see a newly-opened store, where the Gatorade was ice cold. My success with ice cream the last couple of months continued to be mixed, however, when I arrived in Nashua (pop. 325) to find that the ice cream shop, which I'd been seeing advertised for miles on billboards, was closed. After getting so psyched up about the place, this was a minor tragedy.

I exited the reservation and arrived in Glasgow (pop. 3,253) to find that it was 100 degrees, and after more than 100 miles, I was ready to stop for the day. I checked into the $40 motel, where the electrical system apparently wasn't up to the task of running all the air conditioners set to "high"; the lady at the front desk would spend the rest of the afternoon and evening flipping the breakers back on, I learned later.

A combination Winery/Car Wash in Culbertson, Montana. This joins "Tanning and Produce" and "Worms and Coffee" in my collection of unlikely synergistic businesses.

This is what Eastern Montana looks like.

In the poor little town of Brockton (pop. 245) on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation

These crosses represent traffic fatalities. I've seen lots of them alongside US 2.

Poplar, a Pepsi-loving town where Western Hospitality Abounds! Also stabbings

Why don't I? Because I've got a big-ass tailwind, and I'm rapidly moving on - that's why.

Having ridden several thousand miles on a hard bicycle seat, I don't feel this is something worth celebrating, exactly.

Today's ride: 108 miles (174 km)
Total: 5,167 miles (8,315 km)

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