Yesterday afternoon at work we were all discussing our weekend plans. Lydia would run, Mike would bike–no surprises there! My usual partners in crime are all out of town, so I was at loose ends until a casual Googlemaps search for something else entirely turned up a great campground and a very cool rail trail in Great Falls.
“Isn’t that, like, 3 hours away?” asked Mike. He’s from Maine–in three hours’ drive time you could be six states away. I on the other hand have more of the Alaskan (or Montanan) viewpoint; 175 miles of driving doesn’t really get you much of anywhere.
We quickly determined that Mike, the cross-country bike tour leader, could probably ride that in two longish days. I on the other hand would much prefer to take four. Interesting to compare our viewpoints on distance when talking about driving as opposed to riding…
I rolled out of the sack this morning eager to pack up and be gone. I called the campground to make sure they had a spot for me, my tent and the Jeep. I put some bratwurst, a couple eggs and the leftovers from last night’s dinner in a cooler. I gathered up my cookstove, camp chair, new bedroll and the borrowed camping pad and marched down to the garage.
**77–no dice. Hmmm. **77 again. Blank. One curse. **77 on the DAMN keypad and it still won’t roll up the garage door. Crap-a-rama. Yank the battery and march upstairs. No 9 volt to be found. Two curses.
Into the other car, down to the 7-Eleven. ( I couldn’t get into the garage to get my bike out or I would have ridden the 3 blocks…) Six bucks for a battery! Which, when I put it into the keypad, does NOT work! StompStompStomp back to the apartment, where I called the after-hours maintenance number. Wait for a call back/get a call back/ go try what the gentleman suggests/which does not work/so I call him back. Again.
Wait an hour for him to come to town and to my place, where he calmly uses the key I’d had for months, not knowing what it was, to unlock the super-secret emergency garage door release and roll it up, revealing my two bikes, my tent and tarp and my ignorance. Profuse thanks ensue, and probably a big bill will follow in the mail.
Hurray! I’m on my way! But wait, I need gas. So I go back to that same convenience store, where gas is cheaper than anywhere else in Missoula. I pop the cap open, stick in the nozzle–and promptly pump about a cup of 82 octane onto the ground. WTF?! I drop to the dusty cement and peer under the rear wheel. Oh yeah, now I remember. Tom’s duct tape repair of three years ago, to a fuel tank hose cracked by age and disuse, had finally expired.
The bike won’t fit into the Camry’s trunk. The old car’s bike rack will not fit on the new car either. Having been eagerly looking forward to new scenery, new campground, new ride along the Missouri River banks, I am finally stymied.
I wonder what horrible fate or gruesome accident awaited me on the road to Great Falls, that my guardian angel went to so much trouble to save me from it…