Sorry for the delay in the bloggery.
Riding large amounts of Rte 2 will lull you into a deep coma. A coma that I just now seemed to awaken from.
That is of course bullshit, BUT, as romantic as it seems, to ride across large areas of flatness, and brownness, and flatness, it turns out, that you can quite simply, lose your mind.
I never thought I’d be so happy to see a busy interstate again.
I stayed overnight at Cut Bank Montana (Don’t worry about it; they know that you DON’T know where that is, and they are quite ok with that.) and I awoke to a brilliant sunny morning, grabbed a quick bite to eat, geared up and got gone.
Kai found a perfect spot to turn 23,000 turns on her odometer. I wasn’t even aware she was nearing this milestone because all I really care about in the trip is miles between gas stops. I was gonna try to Nikon-ize the moment but just as I dug out the camera, I spotted The Roadhouse Bar and Casino in Chester Montana.
I pulled over into the gravel pit of a lot and did indeed dig out my camera, because lined up there, like Mr.Myagis collection in Karate Kid, was a small fleet of old and rusted vehicles, mostly dated from the 50’s.
I counted a yellow VW microbus, 2 or 3 old 4 door Chevys, a Studebaker and an old Plymouth, all captured by my camera, and right up against the Roadhouse Western wall, was a old Dodge Pick-up and a street rod of some sort.
Sounds boring on paper (blog), but lemmie tell ya, a guy gets all sorts of ideas when staring at a lineup of lost era coolness.
I swore I heard myself squeal with delight.
And I’m not even a car guy.
After a gas stop in Havre (pronounced Hav-er, and yes, they don’t care if you know that either), I stopped in Normans Ranch and Western Wear and bought a cowboy hat.
Yes, the above statement is true; I have a brand new bad ass black cowboy hat being shipped to my home as I type.
And please don’t ask me to answer why, when, how or any other question. I wanted a cowboy hat ever since I was young, and I figured, even if it just sat in a closet, I’m gonna buy a real deal cowboy hat, in Montana.
Smiling, I suck another 170 miles off of Kai’s life, and I pause for another fuel stop. A couple on a full dresser gas up along side of me, each of us heading in a different direction we chat it up, as I shed some serious clothing due to a sudden heat wave washing over me. As I shed clothes, I grab my ocean lotion.
Now, in order to apply an ample amount of lotion, I strip off the only two pieces of jewelry I wear. 2 rings, very dear to me, are now placed ON my leather jacket that is now strapped to my bike. The couple and I chat it up for about 10 mins; we say our goodbyes and zip off.
You see what clearly just happened right?
Well, I didn’t
Until I was EXACTLY 9.5 miles down the road.
Now, the question I have for my faithful readers is. What point during this heart stopping moment, do you decide to turn around to search a needle in a haystack or consider it a loss that will stay with you forever.
See, I stopped and thought. 2 small silver rings, falling off my bike in or worse yet, after the gas station parking lot, on a busy Montana town. Is it worth going back almost 10 miles?
Well, my personality trait is if I don’t, THAT will haunt me more than just not finding then.
I turn around, and even though I knew they weren’t GOING anywhere, umm, like a lost DOG, that still didn’t stop me from doing about 100 mph back into town.
Took me under 2 minutes to find them BOTH, in the street, and I had to wait for the red light before I could even go get them.
I did some sort of Fred Astaire side kick, promptly went across the street to McDonalds to grab a celebratory Double Cheeseburger (1 patty for each ring), and re-fueled that 20miles worth AND grabbed a big ole bag of Big League Chew.
Grape.
Only seemed right, as every time my youth baseball team won a game, the Coach treated us to the concession stand, and I always, ALWAYS walked away with a Coca-cola and Big League Chew.
Grape.
Smiling Broader now, AND blowing bubbles, I even started to wave at oncoming bikers, a practice I reserve for like, never, but I was feeling giddy and wanted to share my enthusiasm for this part of the ride.
ALL the Harley riders waved back, but not really anybody else.
I kinda expected that actually. BMW riders never wave back because taking one hand off the handlebars is considered bad form.
The Goldwing riders are usually asleep when I pass them.
The next fuel stop finds me next to Ray and his beautiful Honda something or another.
No offense to Ray, or Honda, I barely recall what IM riding half the time, as I don’t really care, I just like Harleys, and more specifically, RIDING.
So Ray was cleaning bugs off of his pristine machine. He has been on the road for 2 weeks now and I had to do a double take at his bike next to mine. He very proudly gave me a guided tour of his machine, and I was sorta impressed with his stuff.
Custom made seat (He actually sent, AND TOLD ME he sent his BUTT and inseam dimensions out to a seat maker and had this sucker built for his ass)
Heated grips, seat, plug ins for suit.
GPS and Computer system that pretty much put K.I.T.T. to shame. Explained REAL TIME weather, gas mileage, time temperature etc etc etc.
Adjustable on the fly windshield
8, I said 8
Gallon gas tank, capable for almost 450 miles of nonstop riding
Oh, and it’s red
And clean….
Turns out since he only stops for gas, like ONCE a day, he has plenty of time to detail his bike every stop.
Then we look at Kai and my gear.
He just doesn’t get were I’m coming from, and even though he didn’t mean to insult us, he was quite quick to kinda snub us both.
When he wasn’t lookin, Kai lifted up her rear tire and took a little tinkle on his.
And we all know what bike piss does to cast aluminum Honda rims if not taken care of early enough.
I apply some more lotion, check my rings, strap on my helmet and finish the touch with my cheap sunglasses, with lens so dark no one knows my name, and we are off to dust off the remaining Montana miles into NoDak
Minot more specifically.
Roll into my room, shower, forget to blog and takes me a full 3 hours to turn in for bed, what with the delights of 100 channels, fully stacked vending machines adorning the hallway and adjustable showerheads and nozzles.
Early next morning finds my slender black accipiter, ready for her feeding, ready for the ambushing of the asphalt, capturing miles and miles of helpless highway with her set of rubber talons, trying to satisfy our voracious appetite.
But first.
A chocolate muffin.
We roll down Rte 83 south out of Minot, intersect with Interstate 94 East and settle in for another 350 miles into Melrose Minnesota.
Not much occurred today, as I’m sure will be a trend as I get closer and closer to familiar territory, but I’m careful, as success dulls the blade edge, and I try to ride with vigor, but with caution. I find that the closer I get to the end of my adventure, and home, I tend to roll the throttle back a little bit more, and I gotta force myself to ride within not only the states, but MY limits.
All the while, feeling the last fading whimpers of this trip, being slowly crushed by the spiteful winds of reality.
Slow down and blend in well, I remind myself, for I’ll soon be a sleeper once again.
Until I start to fret at the end of some cosmic leash once again, and find myself pouring over my atlas looking for my next excursion.
But first, Illinois.
Peace Grease and Beats
