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Hitching a ride

Hitching a ride

A flotilla of butterflies passes me going uphill;

The four-mile-per-hour breeze behind me chills my back;

That cheeky ground squirrel 20 feet ahead of me ambles across the road.

This first day of summer saw my average speed recorded at 8.6 mph. Now, that average includes my top speed of 33.6, so you know it was a slow ride. For at least an hour of tire-turning time I pedaled at under 4, and that’s when the butterflies—hundreds, maybe thousands of them—passed me. They covered the shoulders of Deer Creek Road, resting on the damp sand and I think soaking up moisture there.

Clark Fork panorama along the Kim Williams Nature Trail

Clark Fork panorama along the Kim Williams Nature Trail

That 26.5 miles took me far longer than the 3 hours that my average speed would suggest. I left home at about 10 am and returned at 4. The original plan was a simple jaunt to the Saturday farmers’ market down on the banks of the Clark Fork. Mmmmmm…cheese curds, iced mocha, and barbecued brisket breakfast burrito. All the hallmarks of a great morning.

Crowd? What crowd? We don't need no stinkin' crowd!

Crowd? What crowd? We don’t need no stinkin’ crowd!

Once enfolded in the crowd, I plummeted into a very Alaskan emotional pit—holy shit, there are way too many people here! I grabbed my breakfast and sprinted to the margins, to eat and observe, and acknowledge my small loneliness. Boy how I wished that Tom or Sharry were along to elbow through the crowds with me!

 

I subscribe to the philosophy that I’m only one bike ride away from a good mood. Circumnavigate Mount Sentinel to sweat away the blues? Sure! So off I spun along the Milwaukee Trail, the Kim Williams Nature Trail, the single track behind the Deer Creek Shooting Range and up Deer Creek Road. And up. And UP, puffing and panting to pause at the Milltown State Park Overlook. Then up some more, down a half mile at 33.6 miles per hour, and then…you guessed it. Up. Just me and the damn butterflies.

Hitching a ride...

Companionship

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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.

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“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…

My guardian angel

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Sometimes it’s good to go out riding on your own, just you at your own pace, not feeling pushed or held back. My back-to-back solo rides the past two days have both been enjoyable, strenuous, interesting–and a little lonely. Not to mention photographically frustrating. No one to take my picture standing by the awesome talus slope I rode past!

The trail was not quite this rough...

The trail was not quite this rough…

Yesterday’s road ride out to the foot of Blue Mountain took me along the Milwaukee Road trail and then onto some pretty quiet paved roads. There was the long haul up O’Brien Creek Road–clearly a training run for Missoula middle-aged male cyclists. Three passed me going in, and smiled and waved coming back down. Their skinny tires didn’t pass the end of the pavement, but I braved another half mile to make it exactly 10 before I turned back. The only surprise is how little wildlife I see in these quiet places. There were a few whitetail, far off in a field, but no turkeys, moose, bears on the upper slopes.

SAMSUNG CAMERA PICTURES

Today was another in the series of blue-sky, mid-70s spring days that typify the Missoula area. Salsa Cycles, in conjunction with a  local bike shop, was having a mountain bike demonstration at Ten Spoon Winery, which is a mere mile from the Rattlesnake Trail trailhead. I have been somewhat less than thrilled with the fit of my own, relatively new mountain bike, and so pedaled the several miles up to the demo to see if they could do better. Alas, they only have bikes for folks who are 5’4″ or more–like most manufacturers, Salsa apparently believes that short women who would love to ride dirt don’t make a big enough demographic to build to. Damn.

I rode up the road, then the trail, disgruntled. But a funny thing happened on the way up to 4200 feet. I began to appreciate the bike I own. Yes, it’s too tall to stand over comfortably, and if I have to dismount fast I’m in trouble. But the gearing is a dream, the disc brakes could stop a buffalo in its tracks, and I was having so much fun screaming back downhill for 10 miles that I forgot to stay disgruntled. That’s what a bike ride does.

SAMSUNG CAMERA PICTURES

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The very picture of happiness

The very picture of happiness

You know how it is, when you wish and work and wrangle for something you are convinced is your heart’s desire? Your positive thoughts, like an arrow, shoot straight from your heart to that all-consuming objective. Swoosh–miss; swoosh–grazed it! Swoosh–SMACK–bullseye! Snoopy-like dance of joy with ears in the air and a fat grin, whoop of exultation and a rush of adrenaline. On October 30 I got the telephone call that set me to dancing, that is changing my life.

Perhaps you read, a few months ago, about my Dream Job? It’s official; I am moving to Missoula and joining the amazing group of folks at Adventure Cycling Association, as part of the Tours Department team. The company offers more than 80 bicycle tours in 2014. I will join Arlen, Darrah, Lydia and Mike, shepherding these trips from Advertising copy to Zeroing out the last of the invoices. (I know, that was a real stretch…) I have a company email address and some business cards waiting for me–it must be true! I am beyond excited.

But one should always be careful about what one wishes for. Since the reality hit home I have been vacillating between “Wahoo!” and “What was I thinking?” The former is self-explanatory. The latter is a result of saying so long to family and friends-adopted-as-family; of the triage required to select what comes with me right now; of the madcap dash to winterize and button up the house. The over-arching mood is one of joy and excitement, but mixed in with all my hurrahs are the “darn, I’ll miss them” and “wow, I never did climb the Butte” wistfulness. In other words, a mixed bag, just like all of life tends to be. Not unalloyed joy, but joy, nonetheless.

And so I ask you friends to think positive thoughts for our journey of 2500 miles; maybe your concerted will can hold the snow at bay and prevent icy roads or buffalo collisions. No harm in trying, anyway. Wish me luck! Dream job, here I come.

It all has to go in here...

It all has to go in here…

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Highbush cranberry

Highbush cranberry

I had a dog who smelled like this when he was wet. Not completely unpleasant; the iconic fragrance of Alaska autumn.

Iconic, because the odor is wild; tangily sweet-tart, musky, a little doggish. It smells red. I envision the bears feasting, the ptarmigan and their offspring gorging, the kuspuk-and-raingear clad women braving wind and wet to bring home a harvest of these fat, succulent packets of concentrated vitamin C.

It is the overriding aroma of my cycling forays at this time of year. Especially on sunny days the crisp air is pungent with highbush cranberry and wet, decaying leaves, that winey fall essence of change. In the year’s dying I am energized, deeply alive to the wild beauty that is my privilege to call home.

I ride.

I breathe.

I smile.

Home...

Home…

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Farewell and Godspeed...

At first, I think it is geese.

Crane my neck, peer at the sky, damn near tip the bike over. OK, fine. I stop, dismount, take a proper gander at the wild blue and discover not Canadas, but Sandhills. Admitting the neck craning was appropriate, I laugh out loud.

Silhouettes against the hard blue-copper of mid-September sky; eerie, gargling cries bouncing off the Butte; circling, circling higher and higher until only that call remains, drifting, floating, wisping into nothingness. The cranes are taking wing for latitudes envisioned in their feathered-dinosaur dreams.

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Ever since I first read about them in the Adventure Cycling newsletter “Bike Bits”, I have wanted to go on a bike overnight. “What’s that?” you ask? Well, here’s what BikeOvernights.org has to say: A bike overnight is a short bike tour where you start riding on one day, stop and stay the night somewhere–a campground, a bed and breakfast, your cabin on the lake–and then ride back the following day–or maybe the next.

It can be the beginning of your love affair with short bike trips to interesting places or a gateway drug to long distance touring; any way you look at this, it’s a barrel of fun.

Right now husband Tom is not cycling. However, he loves to camp and to fish and is enthusiastic about sharing a tent with me even after decades of marriage. So when I proposed a bike overnight to Finger Lake three weeks ago he was gung-ho. “I’ll drive the truck so we can have the big tent and the canoe. I can carry the wine too–do you want me to bring the bedrolls or will you be using your panniers?”

I’m used to hauling my stuff, so I opted for panniers; after all, Finger Lake was only 12 miles away and it was a beautiful day. It took me about an hour and a half of smell-the-roses pedaling and a short, steep final uphill to arrive in Paradise–or what passes for it within that distance from home!

I called my friend Rene who lives close, and invited her to share a glass of wine, conversation and a spritz of mosquito repellant. This season the bugs have been horrific but easily deterred. The three of us sat up til nearly midnight in the wonderful Alaska summer twilight, laughing and talking, and in the morning Tom and I feasted on the fruits of his previous afternoon’s fishing foray. Trout for breakfast–YUM!

Finger Lake Fun!

Finger Lake Fun!

And just this Thursday we ventured a bit further from home. While Tom took the truck, duck boat and motor, I mounted my laden Terry bike and spun up the Parks Highway 29 miles to Nancy Lake. By the time I left in the mid-afternoon the completely cloudless skies had grown some thunderheads. I got sprinkled on a few times, but at 80 degrees I welcomed the cooling effect.

Nancy Lake sunset

Nancy Lake sunset

I’ve found that I love the solo riding. Yes, I miss my husband’s company. Yes, I really like the companionship of a couple of friends or a touring group. However, since I have to ride alone so much of the time I have grown to love it. No time pressure; stop for ice cream? Sure! Take pictures of the massed fireweed along the highway? I spent about a half an hour doing so.

But the best thing of all is the evening–the tent, the companion, the canoe, the loon cry. The journey is excitement; the destination, repose.

Fireweed

Fireweed

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