Jackie’s Avg speed: 7 mph
Scott’s Avg speed: 9.3 mph
Weather: 40-45 degrees, clouds giving way to partial sun
Wind: from the east

The sun was shining and the breeze hit us in the face when we got back on Highway 2 at 09:10. That breeze became a wind that blew clouds around in the sky between us and the sun. It became harder to pedal and colder, though the forecast had promised high 50s by late afternoon. After 90 minutes we had gone just 10 miles. I say “we,” but my slower speed held back our progress. Scott is strong and always pedals ahead then waits for me. With this entry, I started adding average speeds for each of us, so readers can see the true story.

The cold, the clouds, the punishing wind, and knowing I had 40 more miles to go this day – I lost my joy. When I caught up to Scott, I whined, I raged, I cursed my “monstrosity of a bike” that was causing me so much pain. Riding against the cold wind was the toughest cycling I’d ever done. We had made it up steep grades in the Cascades and Logan Pass in Glacier Park. We had explored country roads in hilly terrain of Maryland and Virginia, we bicycled all over the Chesapeake Bay, Chincoteague, Assateague, the beach from Ocean City, Maryland to Cape May, New Jersey. Steep grades and wind had never shaken my love of cycling. But this time, there were no down slopes after making it to the top, no respite after heading into the wind, then turning in whatever direction the queue sheet gave for a 40 or 50 mile tour. Just 50 cold, hard, highway miles, tensing up whenever a truck passed by.

In ten more miles we finally reached Harlem. My body was aching all over from the hard slog. We stopped at a gas station and parked our bikes by a picnic table no one ever used. It was caked with dust, so I resisted the impulse to lay down on the bench and take a nap. I washed down an Advil with a generous portion of Gatorade. We got back on the road with five more miles to the halfway point at Fort Belknap on the the reservation for the A'aninin and Nakoda tribes. Traffic was heavy and fast. Judging by the young drivers, we guessed it was the lunch hour for the college kids we had seen in Harlem stocking up on junk food at the gas station. Someone on the passenger side in a maroon van yelled, “Hey!” at me as he passed. Scott said the same guy rolled down his window to yell something and the wind blew his sunglasses off into the ditch. Ah, too bad!

In Fort Belknap we stopped at the Smokehouse Grill for our go-to calorie bomb of cheese burger and fries, expertly prepared. A couple of grayed haired motorcyclists came in just as we were leaving. They had ridden from Tucson and were on their way to Alaska. We traded stories and wished each other well, which is common among road folk. It’s always enjoyable to meet kindred spirits.

The hour off the bike and food recharged our batteries. I knew I had to get outside my own head and misery and focus on the landscape slipping by. After a mile or two, we passed the ‘Pink Church’ on a rise on the left side of the road. Two dogs, one blond, one black, ran down the hill toward us and we thought, “uh oh.” Scott got the bent coat hanger ready for a close encounter. But the dogs crossed the road and ran circles around our bikes, wanting to play. They were Labrador mix puppies, maybe six months old. They ran ahead with Scott, then came back to check on me, bounded across the road, then back again, exuberant in their strength and freedom. While watching those happy, carefree animals paying no attention to the weather, I forgot about the wind and my sore butt. We kept waiting for them to fall back, but they stayed with us for an hour, almost eight miles. I hope they have a home somewhere and made it back safely. 

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I glanced down and saw sunlight glinting off my fender. The sun was starting to push through the clouds, warming me from the outside in. I heard frogs croaking in ponds on the side of the road, a sound that always makes me smile. The tender skinned amphibians make me think of a healthy eco system and water pure enough to support them. They eat flies and mosquitoes, what’s not to like?

By the time we passed out of the reservation and into Phillips County it was 16:30 and we had just five or six miles to go. The road shoulder widened, giving us a reprieve from clutching our handlebars with white knuckles every time a truck passed. When we had eight or 10 feet of space, we never felt the wake. We rolled in to the Stage Road Inn at 17:15.

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Sandy, the innkeeper, stepped out onto the deck. “Do you hate asparagus? I can offer you soup, tea, or both.” It wasn’t even close. After the soup and tea, we rehydrated our chicken teriyaki freeze-dried meal and talked with Sandy for a long time about Montana, her kids, her jobs over the years, and travels through the state. Then it was time for shower and bed.