Terry at Glacier

Apres Sturgis

 Archival Post, Way out of Order, I'm getting ahead of myself, I am so glad I wrote all this down on my amazing ride across America.

Tuesday 8/2: The guys, Don, Bill and Terry, want to leave early. We have been thoroughly Sturgisized. We all pack in a the bikes in a flurry of activity and then go stand in line in the campground office to get our money back for the days we didn’t stay, nice of them to return it to us. The office is in a log cabin with a long porch and inside the walls are festooned with motorcycle trinkets- all for sale, of course. I’m bored waiting so I look in all the glass cases. I find a pin to buy; a pin that says “I Rode Mine” and an official Sturgis patch with the year. I feel like a swaggering cowboy as I leave the office and step onto the wooden porch. I made it. I rode all the way here and I’m still alive and now I’m looking forward to riding more. I guess I have ceased to be the green girl who wobbled out of Olympia and turned into this tough sunburnt biker chick. 

Leaving Sturgis, the newly minted biker chick

Leaving in packs of racketing bikes of all stripes, sizes and colors and terrified tourists in cars and RVs, we push north. It’s hot, windy and dry.

Wednesday 8/7:  I see only tons of wheat, miles of wheat, acres of it, millions of acres, to the horizon in every direction. Once in awhile a river runs through it, the Platte, the Milk River, unnamed creeks all run through this thirsty country. 

We find one really evil, scary eleven mile stretch of construction. So much for being the bold biker chick, I white knuckle my way through the big trucks that I swear are trying to throw crap on me when they barrel past going the other direction. My least favorite sign again, Road Construction Ahead, Motorcyclists Use Caution. Okay, what else would I be using?

 I see a road sign that I really love; it says “Buffalo” with an arrow pointing to the right and “Bison” with an arrow pointing straight ahead, makes me wonder what the difference is.

 This town is pretty laid back and interesting. I wish we had time to explore more. We are at a Laundromat tonight and the laundry is trying to dry. But it’s still wringing wet after an hour of flopping around in the dryer so I’m watching dryer instead of television tonight. Tomorrow we ride for Glacier, on the Highway to the Sun, which sounds like its long and steep. So, I’ll sit here and watch the wash and worry about falling down or doing something else incredibly embarrassing in front of my very cool pack of guys. Can a pack be three guys and me? I guess it’s my half pack.

 We hit really strong winds where the mountains rear up from the plains. It’s funny to see our string of bikes going down the road leaning sideways. You can’t feel it on the bike, the correction for the wind is natural but when you ride down a dip and the wind stops it really feels odd to come upright, until you zip from the dip and lean once more into the wind.

 We rode through Glacier today. I was terrified to the point of a stomach ache about the roads through the park. I tried not to drive the guys crazy asking about the Road to the Sun Highway, just shut up and rode. It is beautiful here with wide, gliding sweeping turns into St Mary and the Park entrance. We ride into the park under cloudy and sunny skies. The road runs along the lake and the lake demands to be admired. It’s like something from a western fairy tale. It’s late enough in the day to catch the light at a glancing angle and it looks like a broken mirror. Dark trees pile up right to the lake edge. We stop for photos and I am overwhelmed by the sheer otherworldly beauty of this place. The best thing about a bike is that it’s like riding through your own movie, starring you while you watch it; you can see everything and be there too.

 Suddenly the road takes off the front of the cliff to Logan Pass. There are lots of turnouts for tourists to take pictures along the way. It’s a steep curvy road but everyone is only going 35 mph. I was delighted to see so few motor homes; the road is too narrow for them to get through comfortably in most cases.

 We stopped at the top of the pass. Wow, marked motorcycle parking is provided, Terry says this is pretty common but it’s my first experience of it, I guess I’m easily pleased. We all strolled over to the rock wall at the edge of the parking lot and took in the stunning 365 degree view provided courtesy of Mother Nature. I take a bunch of pictures and one of Terry that will prove to be an all time favorite. He’s wearing his vest, a white tee shirt, his hair is long and he has a raccoon tan and he's surrounded by mountains.  The marmots poke their heads out to take us in as we take pictures of each other and marvel over the view. This is all old marmot hat to them and they probably wish we’d all go away now. 

 Back on the bikes, the thunderstorm is beginning to grumble at our heels. We are frustrated and irritated by a car that is so slow on the 6% downhill grade that we are in first gear. The guys aren’t helping much, yelling back and forth jovially about tuck and roll if you go over the edge and not riding a rocket over the wall. Don says he read a bicyclist did go over the wall last year and get killed in a long fall. Yechh.

 The ride is actually fun but it requires real focus because the back side is as twisty as a pretzel. It never fails, one dopey driver turns off and we pick up another one—this one goes 35 for miles and miles. As a consequence we get caught in the rain. Terry tells me don’t hit your brakes and you’ll be fine. Right… and you would suggest stopping how?

 The rain ends and we turn into the park tourist shops to buy trinkets. Don breaks down and gets his wife something really nice. I knew he had it in him all along. Don is not cheap, let’s just says he’s careful and be polite. I get a great pair of earrings that are black ravens and something for Torin to stuff in my full saddlebags. I know Terry loves traveling with me on the bikes because shopping is curtailed by just volume available. Ha, jewelry takes up no space I have found.

 Back aboard we make it a fast run into Kalispell and Whitefish. Montana is an amazing place, a different world indeed. The sky really is big here. The light is hard and white and wonderful. I saw so many photographs I wanted to take. Dilapidated grain elevators towering against the blue sky enchant me. They have been replaced by modern sheet metal structures; one even says General Mills in huge letters painted across the front of it. The Wheat fields are a hundred subtle shades of green, brown and deep gold. I see old falling down house abandoned in fields, wheat growing right to the doorsteps. Farm equipment is parked every which way on hill tops while the farmers are where? Who knows but there are very few humans in the landscape.

 It is fascinating the see at a distance machines that I don’t recognize cutting, mowing, harvesting all through the Plains leaving dust plumes and clouds in their wakes.  One of my favorite sights was four shiny silver grain silos in a row. Parked to their right was a 1950’s vintage low bed truck, old and rusty red but still in service. This vignette is strung along the top of a ridge against the blue sky, and a gold wheat field fills the foreground running right to the road’s edge.

 Friday, 8/9: Yesterday we left Havre, a depressing town on the plains of Montana. We fought the wind in our faces all the way. Our merry band was pretty unmerry and tired, running towards thunderstorms and trying to beat them into town for the night. The clouds were astonishing, huge silvery gray and white thunderheads had me worried as I scurried along. The shadows felt wonderful when they fell over us as the clouds rolled our directions.

 We made it into Havre under a brass yellow sunset sky. It’s a flat town with grain elevators and railroad tracks as its reason to be. We found a motel with a Spanish motif, orange walls, terracotta roof and a good excuse for cactus in the planters. We tucked the bikes in carefully and snugged down their covers, expecting the sudden buckets of rain-- and the thunder and lighting. The storm lasted most of the night and started new fires in Glacier National Park.

 Saturday 8/10: We met at McDonald’s for breakfast. The guys had insisted on ‘camping’. I say this isn’t camping; it’s just sleeping in a tent. I must be a spoiled brat because when I’ve been on the back of a bike eating bugs and wearing dust for eight sweaty hours I don’t want to roll up in a tent. I want a shower and a real bed, so call me a weenie and find me a Holiday Inn.