Chronicle of the
American Lung Association of Washington’s
2006 Big Ride Across America
by Charles Shuttleworth
Part 1: Seattle to Spokane, WA
June 26-29
4 days, 306 miles
The Big Ride is under way! It began on Monday morning the 26th. I’d first met my fellow riders the day before at an orientation meeting, which was held in the afternoon in Woodland Park in Seattle. There are 40 riders altogether, and the group is a broad mix of people from across the country (18 states and the District of Columbia), ranging in age from 16 to 70. We congregated again the next morning in Stan Sayers Park, on the shore of Lake Washington, where a ceremonial check for $260,000 representing the total funds raised by the riders was presented to the CEO of the American Lung Association of Washington. At 7:00 a.m. we were ready to set off on our journey – the reward, theoretically, for our fundraising efforts, earning us the opportunity to be on this adventure. Each of us raised a minimum of $5,500, but in fact we averaged $6,500 per rider. After deducting the expenses of our journey – our meals, camping fees, and support vehicles and staff (a three-member team driving the gear truck and two vans) – the Big Ride has netted more than $150,000 for the charity. And now, for the riders, the adventure was beginning. The following is a chronicle of my own experience on the Big Ride, traveling (if I make it) 3,300 miles over 48 days, ending in Washington, D.C. on August 12.
Day 1: Seattle to Easton, WA – 79 miles
The first day was one of the most difficult I’ve ever experienced as a cyclist, for a myriad of reasons. We were forewarned that it was the hardest day we’d experience until Pennsylvania: 80 miles from near sea level in Seattle, up and over Snoqualmie Pass, elevation 3,022 feet, as we traversed the Cascade Range. I’d done my best to prepare for it, riding 350 miles in the Bike Ride Across Georgia, but I began the day feeling very apprehensive. Had I really trained enough? Was I in good enough shape? My fellow riders, I learned quickly, are a very strong bunch. Also, I was still shaking off the effects of a bad chest cold that I’d caught on the last day of my ride in Georgia. For the past week my sinuses and chest had been congested, and when I’d exercised I’d fatigued quickly, finding it difficult to breathe.
Within ten miles of the start, I found myself in trouble. First, the riding was difficult: there were some steep climbs right away, and the traffic we faced as we wound our way through the outskirts of Seattle added to the stress I was feeling. It was also extremely hot. Seattle was having a heat wave, and the temperature was expected to be in the 90s. And adding further to my difficulties, my bike was misaligned and felt totally alien and uncomfortable. It had been taken apart for shipping, and when I’d reassembled it the day before, I’d set the height of the handlebars much too high. I noticed this the moment I started climbing: I couldn’t get into proper position and found myself having to work much harder than normal. By 8:00 a.m. I was soaked in sweat and hacking up phlegm, and suddenly I found myself short of breath and lightheaded, unsure if I could go on. Reaching the top of a hill, I stopped to adjust the handlebars, and the nice thing was that several other riders stopped with me, offering their support and advice. When we all resumed riding, though, I quickly fell behind them, struggling to catch my breath and maintain my composure. I kept telling myself, “Take it slow. Just survive this,” trying not to think about all the doubts I was having. Anxiety welled up whenever I started imagining the big climb ahead: 70 more miles! After all of the plans that went into this journey, and all the effort to get here, 3,000 miles from home, what if I couldn’t make it? I’d be letting down all the people who’d sponsored me! Embarrassing myself! Failing! The pressure felt overwhelming. I fought to stay in the moment, focusing on not keeling over.
After 25 miles, I started feeling a little better. Reaching the town of Fall City, I passed over a bridge, the route crossing and then paralleling the Snoqualmie River. Traffic had eased, and looking at the river – bright blue, frothing with rapids – was my first tranquil moment. Suddenly I was beyond the urban sprawl and passing by some small farms on a quiet, rural road. Then, after another steep climb, which I took v-e-r-y slowly, I reached Snoqualmie Falls and took time out to soak in the view, watching the river cascade 270 feet (100 feet higher than Niagara Falls), the mist below creating a rainbow in the bright sunshine.
From then on, I tooled along, staying at my own pace, doing my best to ignore the speed of other riders, nearly all of which were riding faster than I was. At Snoqualmie Falls, I was the second-to-last rider to reach the check point, and it was clear that I was in for a long, hot afternoon. The worst part was just after the halfway point, when the route put us on Interstate 90 and we rode in the shoulder of the highway (four lanes one-way!) for 13 miles, uphill, with no shade, into the jagged green teeth of the Cascades. Mercifully, the route then had us exit, and we climbed the final five miles to Snoqualmie Pass on a National Forest road, the first four miles of which were beautiful – deeply shaded, switching back through old-growth forest, the canopy so dense that, except for small green, ferny patches, the woods were bare of underbrush, covered in pine needles and black earth. (As another rider told me later, “That was a stretch of road that normally I would have really enjoyed …”) I was doing well at that point, but then ran out of gas a mile from the summit, where the trees thinned and the road became drenched in sunlight. I took a break along the roadside, dousing my head with water. Fifty feet below me, a raging creek was calling me to scale down the ridge and soak myself, but I didn’t feel I could afford to fall further behind the other riders, or else I might be asked to SAG to the finish. At the top, though, I drank a 32-ounce Gatorade and needed another long break to overcome lightheadedness. And it turned out by that point I wasn’t alone in my travails. The temperature at the top of the pass was 87 degrees, and a few miles on either side, it was well into the 90s. Several other riders suffered from heat exhaustion.
Most of the final twenty miles were downhill, but for 17 of them we were again forced to ride on the interstate – 30 miles altogether. I reached camp at 5:00 p.m., after 10 hours of effort, then spent the next several hours moving in slow motion: showering, setting up my tent, having dinner, and commiserating.
Day 2: Easton to Vantage, WA – 71 miles.
What a difference a day makes! Intent on beating the heat, I set out early from the campsite, starting my ride at 6:20 a.m., ahead of most others. At 2,000 feet elevation, the morning was comfortably cool, the sun still hidden behind the near wall of mountains. Sunrise was officially at 5:15 a.m., but the sun didn’t scale above them until after 6:30. Meanwhile, the road conditions were much, much better. After a painless two-mile stretch on I-90 – downhill, with only light traffic – the route took us off the interstate for the rest of the day, putting us first on hilly back roads passing through woods and attractive homesteads, still being in long commuting distance from Seattle. I caught up to a woman named Carol Tremble who organizes bike trips in her home state of Vermont, and together we rode into the town of Cle Elum. We’d ridden 15 relaxing miles and it was only 8:00 a.m. – a far cry from the stresses of escaping Seattle.
The next 25 miles were truly spectacular. Outside of Cle Elum, we rode through a flat stretch of farmland, offering us a view of the snow-capped Wenatchee Mountain range. We then turned onto lightly trafficked Highway 10, which clung to the cliff above the Yakima River. Best of all though, was when we crossed the river and rode through the lush river valley – richly irrigated farmland with the mountains in the distance. Having the road to myself, I soaked up the sights and sounds, staring out at the tilled fields and small herds of cows and sheep and listening to the wind, sporadic dog barks and bird calls, reminded of how much I love being out here, a world apart from my home life in Manhattan. Passing though the tiny town of Thorpe, I looked wistfully at an old Victorian house, seeming well-maintained, with a broad porch and tall front parlor windows, with a sign saying “For Sale by Owner.” Suddenly a large bird swooped across the road in front of me and landed in a tall tree just to my right. It was an owl, and I caught a great view of its brown-and-white checkered plumage. I felt tempted to stop and try to take its picture, but I didn’t: this was its home, and I was just a visitor.
Reaching Ellensburg, I again crossed the Yakima River and stopped at a lovely town park on the river bank. It was 10:00 a.m. and I’d ridden 40 miles already. With only 30 to go, I felt calm enough to be leisurely, so I indulged in one of my favorite pastimes on bike trips, changing into swim shorts and enjoying a cold soak. I found a perfect entry spot, several feet deep, and was able to submerge myself, head and all, and brave the bracing water for no more than two minutes. Afterward, I sat in dappled shade and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, staring out at the stone bridge and the river’s rushing current, feeling good about everything – peacefully serene. Sadly, though, the tranquility was marred when a local man approached me and initiated a conversation. It’s a hazard I’ve found when traveling alone: you’re an easy audience for eccentric haranguers. This one was a conspiracy theorist, and he talked angrily – and cryptically – about plots within the government involving the current administration, the IRS, “the drug trade,” and “the truth about what happened on 9/11.” Though curious, I didn’t ask him what he thought that truth was, and I ended my early lunch break sooner than I’d wanted.
The final 30 miles of the day were much tougher. After Ellensburg, the landscape changed, becoming, suddenly, high desert – low, eroded hills, treeless and sere, a mix bare earth, sparse grasses, and sagebrush. The temperature soared into the high 90s, and we began a long, gradual climb, occasionally steep, rising 1,500 feet over 15 miles amid a strong, slowing crosswind. At the top there was a wind power construction project, designed to provide energy to the Seattle area. It was a welcome sight that makes great sense. People along the Eastern Seaboard may complain that modern wind farms spoil their areas’ natural beauty, but up on those brown, desolate hills of Eastern Washington, the windmills look good, no more freakish than the landscape.
During the final long descent to reach Vantage, the wind blew even stronger and was startlingly hot. Never before had I felt blasts of air that were warmer than the surrounding air, heating instead of cooling me. The temperature was now 103 degrees and still rising. I finished the 70 miles at 1:00 p.m. and throughout the afternoon heard the bitter complaints of riders who staggered in behind me, traversing those last 30 miles in even more intense heat. One woman had burned the bottoms of her feet from the heat that had risen up from the asphalt and broiled the metal clips of her petals. We were at a private campground within sight of the Columbia River, but rather than venturing the half-mile downhill to for a river swim, I ensconced myself in the shade of the cold indoor pool, dousing myself frequently and reading Virgil’s Aeneid.
Day 3: Vantage to Odessa, WA – 81 miles.
Few slept well overnight. We were in the Columbia River Gorge, and the wind gusted fiercely, shaking our tents. Still, after the experiences of the last two days, everyone rose early, nearly at first light, preparing to ride as much as possible in the cool of the morning. Few left, though, before breakfast, which was served at 6:00 a.m. Our breakfasts and dinners are being catered by local vendors, and each evening after dinner, the riders make their own bag lunches (with few options besides our staple meal: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ). At Vantage, which was little more than a service stop off I-90, we ate both dinner and breakfast at the one restaurant beside the motel and private campground where we were staying. Dinner was salad and spaghetti, predictably overcooked. Breakfast was scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a wonderfully fluffy biscuit served with or without sausage gravy (I passed).
The ride began a bit drearily, as once again we had to ride on I-90, crossing the Columbia River and climbing out of the gorge. After the first eight miles, we exited onto a frontage road, but that offered little improvement, as the road’s surface was chip seal and it ran so close alongside the interstate, amid the roar of truck traffic, that I still felt I was on it. An explanation about chip seal, which is a hardship to bicyclists: more and more, it seems, state and county roads are being paved in this manner, where a layer of gravel is spread on top of the asphalt to offer motor vehicles more traction in inclement weather. For bicyclists, however, it offers a bumpy ride. I find it slows me by several miles per hour and makes the riding less tranquil and meditative. The quality of the road surface is as important to bicycling as the wind and other weather factors such as rain, cold and heat; and if highway engineers were to consider the needs of bicyclists, they’d at least not extend the chip seal into the shoulders.
After I took a first break in George, Washington (heh heh heh), the frontage road moved farther from the interstate and through a long, flat stretch of rich, well-irrigated farmland that I found really interesting, as signposts along the road labeled what was growing, showing me that the green-and-yellow grasses in many fields were wheat and the dense, deep green grass was alfalfa. Other fields contained peas, corn and potatoes, and near the town of Ephrata there was an apricot grove.
For the third straight day, the wind was mostly in our favor, and throughout the morning a brisk tailwind was speeding me along. By 11:00 a.m. I’d ridden 40 miles, and the heat had risen into the mid-80s. I took a short break in the shade of a grove of poplars, and then another at the check point set up by the ride’s support team in a spot called Crab Creek, across the road from an onion field. We had 40 miles to go with no services ahead, the route taking us out of the flat river valley into another more desolate stretch of bare hills and sagebrush. Luckily, however, clouds appeared, providing protection from the sun while I crossed the treeless landscape. Progress was slowed by the gradual rise of the land and a stronger wind that had turned southerly – a crosswind. The cloud cover kept the heat down until I reached Odessa, and the ride ended with a flourish – a downhill of several miles, the wind again shifting easterly, blowing me into town. The afternoon was relaxing, the town sleepy and small. We camped at the school (K-12, with a graduating class of 17 and a high school football team of only 11 players!). I walked to a café for a lemonade slush drink, then to the town pool for a swim, chatting with locals and my fellow riders, with whom I was bonding. Dinner was served at the school cafeteria and was provided by a group of students – Future Business Leaders of America (FBLA) – who were raising money to participate in a variety of state and national business-related competitions. The food they served (lasagna, two types of salad, fresh fruit, and desserts) was plentiful and excellent, and we thanked the students with a loud ovation.
Day 4: Odessa to Spokane – 75 miles.
For the first night, I slept well, from 9:30 p.m. to 5:00 a.m., in the cooler night air and woke feeling terrific. The troubles of day 1 seemed already far away, and I felt myself settling in to the rhythm of the journey. Life becomes so simple, days consisting of little more than riding, eating, resting, and sleep. I was already a third of the way through The Aenead, busy keeping my journal, and getting to know my fellow riders – learning their names and personalities, and hearing their stories, especially of why they’re on the ride. Among them are students and teachers, lawyers and business people, a newspaper columnist from The San Francisco Chronicle, a retired FBI agent (female), and a former speech writer for the first President Bush. They also have racked up some impressive athletic accomplishments. Many have competed in bike races, marathons and triathlons, and one rider (the Bush speech writer) in the Race Across America (RAM), biking solo across the country in less than nine days!
Needless to say, among such riders, I’m of only average ability, and I have my own slow, steady style of riding. I ride alone a lot, concentrating on my surroundings, where others get in pace lines and chat away the time. As we’ve been traveling across Eastern Washington, the landscape has become less varied, and I can’t argue with riders who don’t find it scenic – who look at the vast fields, drab towns, and the grassy, treeless hills and feel themselves in the middle of nowhere. What they see is emptiness … but of course, it’s not really empty. What is it about the wide open spaces that I find more and more appealing over the years? On this trip especially I find myself entranced, maybe precisely because the scenery is less dramatic. Riding through it is like staring up at a cloudless night sky: the sense of space is thrilling, and deeply serene. It gives me a humbling sense of smallness and the temporality of my existence, but I feel at peace and in control as I propel myself through it.
That said, there really was less to report about day 4. Riders have become habituated into leaving early, and as I set off at 6:30 a.m., I was nearly the last one out of camp. The riding was hard at first – the gradient steadily uphill and the road covered in chip seal for the first 15 miles. Then, leaving Harrington, the road was under construction, covered with loose gravel which made the riding even slower. Whenever a car passed, the road filled with dust, and truck tires created huge spumes, pebbles pinging off our wheels. The pace picked up at the halfway point, once we reached the town of Davenport and turned onto Route 2, which had a wide, smooth shoulder. We continued climbing, rising 1,000 feet over 50 miles on a broad plateau of rolling farmland. I stopped to take pictures of a bright yellow canola field, but otherwise I just soaked up the vastness of the scene. The traffic was minimal until the final 20 miles – picking up at the same time that the land became craggier and for the first time since the Cascades contained patches of woods.
Overall the ride into Spokane was relatively painless. Traffic became very thick along a stretch of strip malls – an area called Airway Heights beside the Fairchild Air Force Base – but then we turned off Route 2 and started a five-mile downhill on a quiet road amid sweet-smelling pine trees. We crossed the Spokane River, and then our cue sheets directed us through the west side of the city to reach Gonzaga University. I made it by 1:00 p.m., then checked into the dormitory, where, after the first 300 miles of our journey, the Big Riders were set to spend a well-earned day off.
Part 2: Spokane, WA, to Missoula, MT
July 1-3
3 days, 261 miles (567 total thus far)
Day 5: Spokane day off. Miles: 0.
Activities: (1) Wrote my journal report. (2) Ran for an hour in the afternoon from the Gonzaga University dormitory, where we were staying, across the Spokane River and through the downtown area. (3) Walked to get a haircut: $10.00 plus tip.
(4) Ate dinner at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant. The food was very good, very authentic, but I made a mistake in asking for my lemon grass chicken “extra spicy” as I regularly do in New York. It was the hottest Vietnamese dish I’ve ever eaten. Who knew?
Day 6: Spokane, WA, to Sandpoint, ID. – 76 miles.
We left Spokane on Saturday morning, starting off on the Centennial bike path and then working our way north through quiet residential areas that became progressively more squalid as we left town: ramshackle houses and trailers with cluttered front yards and small businesses in newer, prefabricated buildings. After 11 miles we turned north onto U.S. Route 2, which we stayed on for 65 miles, all the way to Sandpoint. The road surface was smooth and there was a good shoulder that was at times a full car lane wide. The traffic volume was disappointingly high, however. It was Saturday morning of the weekend before the Fourth of July, and long streams of holiday traffic (pickups hauling boats, etc.) kept the road noisy all morning. Still, our route was quickly turning more beautiful than it had been in days past, east of Spokane. The terrain rolled through pastures with evergreen forests lying on the low mountains beyond the grassland.
Once I reached U.S. 2, the route began retracing roads that I had biked sixteen years earlier. I crossed the country for the first time in 1990, riding self-contained with three friends and making it as far as Spokane before running out of vacation time and having to fly home. So for the next two days, until Wild Horse Plains, Montana, I’d be riding on the same roads, in the opposite direction. Nothing was clearly recognizable until I reached Newport, Washington, a quaint old logging town with an old-fashioned Main Street – a small hardware store, a pharmacy, and an ice cream parlor all of which still seem family owned. From there I crossed the Pend Oreille River (pronounced “pond-o-ray”) and passed the campground where I’d spent the final night of my 1990 journey. It was after 11:00 a.m., the temperature had reached the mid-80s, and I felt tempted to stop to take a nostalgic dip in the river, but I decided to pass on it and ride directly on to Sandpoint, knowing that there was another great swimming spot awaiting me: the Sandpoint town beach, on Lake Pend Oreille.
Crossing the bridge from Newport, I’d left Washington and entered Idaho, where the traffic eased and the terrain became progressively more scenic. The road paralleled the river, which widened above the dam, and we continued to roll at times through more pasture, at others through thick woods along the edge of steep cliffs, with even bigger mountains looming ahead, to the north and east. It was a beautiful day, water and sky both bright blue, and I pressed on through the rising afternoon heat, relieved occasionally from the strong sun by the shade of tall evergreens or one of the bright-white cumulus clouds floating overhead.
The traffic picked up again as I neared Sandpoint, but the final miles into town were on a flat, well-paved bike path. I reached Sandpoint High School a little after 2:00 p.m. After showering and setting up my tent, I then headed for the town beach, leading several other riders. Not having beach towels, we were comfortable lying on the cool green lawn above the sandy shoreline, and it only took a few minutes of sunbathing before we all headed into the water, swimming out to the limit of the protected area, a line of logs chained together that we were free to climb onto. Sitting on the logs made for good, Western fun, as we did our best to straddle them without falling off, imagining ourselves trying to ride a bucking bronco.
Back in camp that evening, the wind picked up, and storm clouds clung over a nearby range of mountains. A storm passed to the north of us, but except for one tent that got peppered by a sprinkler, we all stayed dry, and the cooler air was good for sleeping.
Day 7: Sandpoint, ID, to Thompson Falls, MT – 88 miles.
A challenging day amid beautiful scenery, riding through rolling terrain, surrounded by mountains and wilderness, skirting Lake Pend Oreille and then paralleling the Clark Fork River. At first it felt a shame to have so far to ride. It’s still early in our trip, and I for one am still rounding into shape. In a few weeks, when my legs have grown stronger, the miles will come easier. But having been through this area before, I reminded myself to take my time and relish it, my goal merely to reach Thompson Falls in time for dinner. I stopped frequently to take pictures, beginning ten miles from Sandpoint when the road traversed a wetland that we’d been told was a prime location for sighting moose. A river snaked through it, surrounded by reedy banks, and while I didn’t linger long enough for a moose to appear (another rider did see one while fixing a flat), the rim of light green grass along the still, reflecting water was enough to make the scene memorable.
Looming directly in front of us were the Cabinet Mountains, and it seemed hard to believe that we’d be able to ride east without having to climb over some part of that range. But then the road angled south along the base of one mountain, and we rode through a colder, deeply-shaded area that the sun wouldn’t rise above for several more hours. Turning another corner, we reached the north shore of Lake Pend Oreille, the second largest lake in the west, 65 miles long and covering an area of 148 square miles. We followed the lake shore to the town of Hope, angling southeast on Route 200, following a trail through the mountains that the Canadian explorer David Thompson, for whom Thompson Falls is named, surveyed and mapped for the fur trade – the Hudson’s Bay and North West companies – 200 years ago. Over the 89 miles from Sandpoint to Thompson Falls, our elevation gain was never more than 500 feet.
One sad aspect to traveling though this beautiful area was the evidence of racism and intolerance evident in signs that we saw along the way. Between Spokane and Sandpoint there was a sign that read “Freedom Isn’t Free/July 4 – Independence Day/Hard Fought – Hard Won/Secure Our Borders – Build the Wall.” (Were we ever to meet, I’d like to ask the writer what securing borders and building walls has to do with independence.) Then as we arrived in Clarkfork, Idaho, there was a house with a confederate flag hanging above the front door and a homemade sign near the road that had a drawing of a pistol, reading “Drive Slow or Die Fast.” Nine miles later we crossed into Montana, and while there may be intolerance everywhere, it was at least heartening not to see more such signs. In fact, in the restroom of the Bull River Country Store in Heron, Montana, I was cheered when I saw a lone piece of graffiti: the words “Who Killed Davey Moore?” It’s the title of an old (1964) Bob Dylan song about a boxer who died in the ring: “Who killed Davey Moore? Why, an’ what’s the reason for?” To me, the graffiti was clever, closet liberalism.
The route continued southeast, following the Clark Fork River, a tributary of the Columbia named after Captain William Clark of the Lewis and Clark expedition. At times we had to fight a strong headwind – the first significant contrary wind of our trip, as up to this point, heading east, most of the wind had been favorable. It was easy to take in stride, though, given the beautiful scenery: the river was wide and the surrounding mountains growing larger, so being forced to go slower wasn’t much of a hardship. The only annoyance was my memory that 16 years ago, when riding in the opposite direction, I’d also battled a headwind, serving as a reminder that life isn’t always fair.
Meanwhile, once again, the afternoon was growing hot, the sun shining in the bright blue sky and the temperature rising well into the 90s. But I made a great decision when opting for a swim after 65 miles, remembering a spot in the town of Trout Creek, another place where I’d camped in 1990. Just off the highway, a road leads downhill to a designated recreation area with a boat ramp, shaded picnic tables, restrooms, and a floating dock from which people can dive into the Noxon Reservoir (part of the Clark Fork, south of the Noxon Dam). The swim cooled my body temperature, helping me enjoy the final 20 miles to Thompson Falls, whereas other riders I talked to suffered more in the heat.
While I missed the moose this day, I have been seeing my share of critters. Between Spokane and Sandpoint I saw an owl and several osprey, and in the ride to Thompson Falls, several very skittish deer who immediately fled when they saw me. (Seemingly they’re used to being shot at and thus have instincts missing from their cousins in the East.) And also on this day I saw a more exotic animal scurry across the road in front of me that I think was a pine marten: it was lean and short-legged and had a long snout, bigger than a fox and without a bushy tail, slinking low to the ground and disappearing into the roadside underbrush before I could reach the spot where it crossed.
The day ended at Thompson Falls High School, the first school that gave us the use of its interior besides locker room showers, rest rooms, and cafeterias. We had Internet access in both the library and computer lab, and also the option to sleep indoors, which I chose out of laziness, not feeling motivated to set up my tent. It proved a great decision: while I wound up with the library all to myself, laying my thin air mattress atop comfortable carpeting, everyone outside was awoken and had their tents drenched by sprinklers that popped up and started spraying overnight.
Day 8: Thompson Falls to Missoula, MT – 97 miles.
The heat continued, as did the contrary winds. The morning was cool – 60 degrees when we rode into town for breakfast, which like last night’s dinner was served at Minnie’s Restaurant and offered us a generous choice from their menu. At dinner I had opted for the chicken fried steak, along with mashed potatoes, green beans, and a hefty trip to the salad bar. Breakfast was even more massive. I chose the ham, eggs, and pancakes; and I have no idea how many eggs were scrambled together on my plate – my best guess is four – but I rode out of town kicking myself, vowing to eat more sensibly. I should have ordered the oatmeal.
As it was, I began riding sluggishly, fighting a headwind all morning amid an overcast sky. Again, though, the scenery blocked all other considerations. The road continued to follow along the Clark Fork River, in a narrow strip between train tracks running closer to the river and a steep wall of mountains that at times was sheer rock face. (Signs indicated that the area was inhabited by bighorn sheep, and though I missed them, some other riders spotted a herd of five or six.) I took a lot of pictures, especially after the 30-mile point, passing through the town of Paradise, where the river bent and the valley became broader. Then the road crossed over the Clark Fork and began following the Flathead River into another narrow valley that was even more picturesque, the road rolling and twisting, craggy mountains in the distance. Traffic remained light all morning, for which I was grateful, as in sections of the highway the shoulder disappeared. Soon afterward the road entered the Flathead Indian Reservation, where, as if by magic, the contours of the land changed, becoming more arid and treeless, and the day became hotter.
After 65 miles I reached the tiny town of Rivali, at the confluence of Route 200 and Route 93, and suddenly, 35 miles from Missoula, the fun part of the day was over and what remained was a stiff test of the riders’ will and endurance. At our meeting with the support staff the night before, we’d been forewarned that there was a 10-mile stretch of construction between Rivali and Arlee that might prove too dangerous for bicycles to travel. If so, we were told, we’d be shuttled through the area; but the staff also offered to take riders all the way to the finish, giving us the option of avoiding the heavy traffic typically encountered from Rivali to Missoula. Both of these predictions proved to be accurate. The construction zone was frightening: sections of it were unpaved and heavily pitted, while others were newly paved but shoulderless, the asphalt falling off abruptly, leaving vehicles without any maneuver room.
It was nearly 2:00 p.m. when I arrived in Rivali, and I was forced to wait my turn to be shuttled through the construction zone. I’d waited about 15 minutes, and would have had to wait twice as long, if another rider named Carol Tremble, a spirited 55-year old, insisted that instead of waiting, she would hitch her own ride. A half-dozen of her fellow riders then watched in awe as Carol dashed onto the highway with her bicycle, declaring, “I’m going to get this one, right here!” She waved at a white pickup coming down the road toward her, and sure enough, it stopped for her, because of her sheer force of will. She asked the driver if he’d take her and her bike through the construction zone, and when he said, “Sure,” I hurried out behind her. The driver took both of us, and we loaded our bicycles into the back of the pickup and then climbed in behind them.
From Arlee, Carol and I resumed riding, having 28 miles left to reach the dormitory at the University of Montana and the off-day awaiting us. The ride, though, was tough, and much of it was harrowing. It was hot, the temperature in the 90s yet again, and the traffic was extremely thick for 18 grueling miles, until the highway connected with Interstate 90. The first eight miles out of Arlee was a long, steady uphill grade, but our reward for attempting it was a change in wind direction, and for the first time in two days we had the wind at our backs. The real problem was the road, which switched from one lane with a shoulder in each direction to two lanes on our side, the shoulder disappearing. Vehicles were thus offered a passing lane up the hill, but instead of switching to the faster lane and giving us wide berth, a percentage of the vehicles, especially pickups and RVs, failed to change lanes and passed us too close for comfort. The situation became more terrifying when we crested the climb and began a long, fast descent on a 6 percent gradient. I kept my eye on my helmet mirror and my hands on the brakes, holding on for dear life until the gradient eased and the shoulder reappeared.
After taking a final break with Carol at a truck stop by the interstate, we continued into Missoula, riding as teammates. I’m faster than she is when riding uphill, and on the long climb out of Arlee she told me to go on ahead of her. “No way,” I said. “After you flagged that pickup, you and I are teammates!” Sticking together proved a very good idea, giving us a boost psychologically when the riding turned dangerous. And Carol rewarded my loyalty by sticking with me when a got a flat tire four miles from the finish. We chatted while I fixed it, and then nearly finished the day together. I let her go when I got another flat on the edge of the U of M campus. From there I walked my bike to the dormitory. It was 4:50 p.m. I’d ridden 95 miles, and after fixing the second flat, I rode on to a bike shop, where I bought some new tires.
Part 3: Missoula to Billings, MT
July 5-8
4 days, 349 miles (916 total thus far)
Summary: For me, there were two main stories over the course of these days: first, coping with my mood, which suddenly plummeted on the afternoon of the 5th and stayed very low for a 24-hour period; and second, the spirit and camaraderie of my fellow riders, who have bonded into an amazingly cohesive group, especially given our age range, from 16 to 70. As I’m getting to know those whom I’m riding with, my appreciation for each person’s physical and mental strength keeps growing. Meanwhile I’m discovering my place among them, and growing more comfortable with them and myself.
Day 9: Tuesday, July 4 - Missoula day off. Miles: ¼ (around parking lot, checking the positioning of my new saddle).
Activities: (1) Walked a mile and a half to find a cup of coffee, then had an expensive breakfast because the bagel store was closed (as was nearly everything else). (2) Back at the University of Montana dormitory, a big day of bike repair. I installed my two new tires and also a new saddle with much help from Paul Holtkamp, the father of Big Rider Christy Schmeckebier from Columbus, Indiana, who has been riding with her from Spokane to Billings. Then Alan Fitton, a bike mechanic who is part of the Big Ride’s support team, fixed my front wheel, tightening the hubs and replacing the ball bearings. (3) Wrote my journal, spending too long on it. (4) Finally ventured out in search of dinner at nearly 9:00 p.m. with Big Rider Deb Young from Blacksburg, Virginia, an equally obsessive blogger. Deb and I walked for over an hour and finally had to settle for food from a gas station convenience store. Starving, I wolfed down a pre-made turkey sandwich and a bag of Chex Mix, then went to bed without fireworks.
Day 10: Wednesday, July 5 – Missoula to Avon, MT – 99 miles.
The day’s cue sheet, which gives riders information about the route, alerted us that at 29.4 miles there was a turnoff to Garret Ghost Town. I didn’t opt to visit it, both because it was 12 miles off-route (99 miles felt like more than enough) and because I’d just been in a ghost town the day before: Missoula! I was still in shock, having been unable to find a place for dinner, and my energy flagged badly this afternoon after resorting to eating food from that convenience store.
Overall Missoula seemed to be an attractive college town, probably the most liberal and progressive in Montana. One of the two films playing at the downtown theater, for example, was the documentary on global warming, An Inconvenient Truth. But the town sure gets sleepy in the summer, and on this Independence Day, it seemed in a coma. The search for food felt like a Twilight Zone episode. But not everyone had gone out of town, apparently, because as we rode off the next morning, the eastern valley was filled with smoke. People lighting firecrackers had set fire to the mountainside ...
I woke feeling tired, having also slept badly, but once I got rolling, I was feeling pretty good. The morning traffic was heading in the opposite direction, and the road out of town was far more scenic than the one we’d ridden in on. We followed the Blackfoot River through sections of forest and river valley, and the air was sweet with the scent of Ponderosa pine. I saw a group of bighorn sheep grazing calmly by the roadside and then some scampering deer, bright white tails flashing. The only problem was that I wasn’t riding very fast. I was trying to take it easy both because I felt a knee twinge and because I was getting used to my new saddle. People were passing me who usually don’t, but I tried not to let it bother me: it’s not a race, after all. Bad luck comes in waves, though, and despite my day-old tires, I then got yet another flat – my third in the last two riding days. I pulled off the road and into a patch of shade, and overall fixing the flat (I’d run over a staple) took me about 15 minutes.
As a result, I fell behind even further, and when I reached the rest stop at mile 60, the support staffers mentioned that only four riders trailed me. Soon afterward my spirits started to plummet. A quarter-mile past the rest stop, I rode past a nice swim spot – easy access into the Blackfoot River. I would have liked to have quick-changed into my swim shorts and jumped in, but as on day 1, I felt too pressured to keep riding, given my place in the rear of the pack.
My temptation was to blame others for being too intense. Breakfast in Missoula that morning had been scheduled for 6:30 a.m, but by 6:00 a.m. nearly the whole group was outside the cafeteria standing in line for it to open. I had eaten and gotten on the road before 7:00 a.m., and, including the time to fix my flat, I had stopped to rest no more than 30 minutes all day, yet 34 of the other 38 riders were ahead of me! Still, there were good reasons why people were hurrying this day. It was set to be challenging: 99 miles and mostly uphill, rising nearly 2,000 feet and stopping 11 miles short of the Continental Divide. Meanwhile, the weather report had predicted a severe afternoon thunderstorm, so those who finished early might avoid getting caught in it.
Shortly after I passed by my potential swim spot, the prediction proved accurate: up ahead the clouds darkened over the mountains; and the wind, which had been blowing against us all day, increased in force, further slowing my progress. The rain started when I was still 20 miles from Avon – lightly at first, but soon it was a downpour, and the gusting crosswind threatened to knock me off my bicycle. In the distance there was lightning, and there were loud cracks of thunder. I should’ve stopped and sought shelter – not that there was much available. We’d climbed into the high plains, where there were few trees and fewer houses. But I passed a homestead just off the road with 11 miles to go, and the reason I didn’t stop was that, in the distance, I could see two more riders, and they weren’t stopping. Stubbornness won over common sense, and I pressed on, cursing as I went and feeling inadequate as, no matter how hard I rode, I couldn’t catch the other cyclists.
The rain never let up all the way into Avon, and it even turned to hail briefly, stinging my skin, while cars and trucks whooshed by, the spray from their wheels dousing me. We were heading for a campground, so when I finally reached Avon, I found nearly all of the other riders holed up in a café, waiting out the storm. Four had made it there before the rain started, but nearly all the rest were as drenched as I was. Yet no one was complaining, or even spending much time commiserating. Everyone was laughing and enjoying each other’s company, and the only road stories that were being told turned the ordeal into a joke. Deb Young talked about how miserable she was feeling when it first started raining, but then when a truck’s spray had soaked her, she’d reacted fiercely, yelling, “Bring it on!” (a la King Lear), daring the elements to do their worst.
The storm proved to be a bonding experience. In fact, later at camp, in an amazing act of tribalism, when one rider, Brian Harris of Tacoma, Washington, pulled out his electric hair clippers in the men’s bathroom to touch up his buzz cut, a group of others suddenly lined up to get Mohawk haircuts. In all, 12 of the 26 men now have them – nearly all of those under thirty, along with a few elders. I didn’t join in, first because I was feeling lousy about my performance (the Mohawks are for the hammerheads, I told myself), and also, upon reflection (after the initial fervor of the haircutting ritual wore off), because some look good with their new coifs, but I wouldn’t be one of them.
Day 11: Thursday, July 6 – Avon to Townsend, MT – 60 miles.
More rain overnight, and I woke still in a foul mood, have slept badly yet again in my tent. This time the problem was caused mostly by caffeine: I’d had several cups of coffee at the Avon Café waiting for the rain to diminish, and then iced tea with dinner. So although I tried going to bed at 8:45 p.m. to recover my sagging spirits, I didn’t manage to fall asleep until well after midnight.
My low mood lingered for most of the day’s ride, which at least, after yesterday, was mercifully short. We rode off toward McDonald Pass amid a cool morning fog, and then at the seven-mile point began a steep four-mile climb, rising more than 1500 feet to 6,316 feet, the highest elevation point of out trip, and crossing the Continental Divide. Just past the top, there was a great scenic lookout showing clear skies east of the Divide, and then people sped downhill (I more gingerly), as we descended nearly 2,500 feet to reach Helena. By that point we’d ridden 30 miles, and with only 30 more to go, many chose to linger over coffee or a meal. Feeling like lousy company, I chose to ride on alone, hoping to feel better by getting into camp early and not being one of the slow pokes yet again.
With all endurance sports, psychology is half the battle, and over the course of a seven-week bike trip, everyone will experience highs and lows. The trick is to ride out the low moods when they happen, realizing that they are sure to pass, and generally to try to stay as even-keeled as possible while trying to do what it takes to stay upbeat and keep afloat. One of the obstacles I’ve had on this trip has been trying to stay within myself amid the group dynamic. At other times, when I’ve gone on self-contained bike tours – either alone or with other people of similar ability – the pace of my riding has generally not been an issue. Carrying all the weight of clothing, tenting gear, etc., the goal is not speed; it’s merely moving forward. You find a comfortable pace and go as far as you can each day. But this trip is very different, with the distance we’re riding each day pre-set. No matter what the weather conditions, we all have to reach that day’s destination, and within a reasonable time, or else we’re taxing the support staff, who are out on the road, assigned to keep track of us.
My bad mood was set off when I was struggling to keep pace, and it lingered on this second day even though I was riding better. Climbing is what I’m best at, and on the way up McDonald Pass, while the strongest riders zipped past me, I also did well, passing many others. Still, this better performance didn’t restore my mood immediately. Rather than celebrating, I started comparing the climb to others, feeling not as strong and fit as in the past. I’d climbed this same pass, for instance, in the opposite direction (east to west, which is longer and steeper) nine years earlier, in 1997, and the climb at the time had felt easy, routine (of course, that’s my memory, nine years after the fact). And I also thought of much bigger climbs that I’d had conquered just two years ago, riding by myself, such as Monarch Pass in Colorado – a gradient just as steep but lasting ten miles instead of four, and rising to more than 11,000 feet. So even though I was having a better day overall, I was sulking over standards I set for myself.
The 30 miles between Helena and Townsend was grim, on a busy, trafficked road through a treeless, arid plain, against a strong, slowing headwind for the fourth straight riding day. But I gutted it out and reached camp by 12:30 p.m., and then almost immediately I started feeling much better. When I arrived, only a handful of other riders were there. We unloaded the gear truck, and then I went through my the usual in-camp routine – drying out and then pitching my tent, showering, changing into clean clothes, and hand-washing my biking clothes and hanging them on a line. By then it was only 2:00 p.m. Having time to relax, and having restored my self-esteem, I decided that the comparisons I’d been making were irrelevant. This is the fifth time I’ve bicycled through the state of Montana, but the four other times I’d been in better shape, having ridden further to get here. In 1997, for instance, by the time I’d reached McDonald Pass, I’d ridden nearly 3,000 miles, having begun my trip in Georgia. And meanwhile, so what if I’m not as strong as I once was? What’s important is that I’m out here, still able to do what I love. Heavy rain that rolled in later that afternoon, soaking my tent, but it didn’t dampen my renewed spirits. It rained more during the night, yet despite a wet sleeping bag, I slept better than I had since Thompson Falls.
The other major story of this day involved Norm Boice from Roseville, California, who at 70 is the oldest rider of our group. Norm’s an impressive rider with a warm, outgoing personality: like so many others, he’s faster than me, and he’s one of the Big Riders now sporting a Mohawk. As I rode between Helena and Townsend, I noticed an old white bucket just off the shoulder with the word “Norm” written on it. I thought it coincidental until several miles later, “Norm” was also written on a discarded piece of wood. The trend continued most of the way to Townsend: David Walker, a chemistry teacher from Arlington, Virginia, and one of the group’s strongest riders, had stopped and written “Norm” on anything he could find – a toilet seat, a Tupperware lid, etc. Later, at dinner, Norm made a speech, saying he was touched by the notoriety. To quote him to the best of my recollection, Norm said he saw the graffiti as a tribute: “I’m proud to be among this great group of riders, and if you’re choosing me to be your elder statesman, I feel honored. You’re looking at me as a symbol that represents all of you also. The message is ‘Live Strong,’ and that’s something we’re all doing on this ride: living strong.”
I do feel proud merely to be a member of this group. Everyone among us is standing up to the hardships of long mileage days, heat, wind, and rain, and doing it all with exuberance, humor, and inclusiveness – without factions or cliques. We’re all in this together.
Day 12: Friday, July 7 –Townsend to Harlowton, MT – 100 miles.
Okay, I know: I’ve been writing too much, and for my own sake I need to be briefer. So now that the trip is rolling and you have a sense of the its dynamics, I’m going to try to streamline my approach to the journal.
This day, for many of us, including yours truly, very likely will stand up as the greatest day of the ride. The beginning was difficult – packing my waterlogged tent, and then, once we were riding, immediately climbing, gaining 2,000 feet over 23 miles. But the morning temperature was comfortably cool, and the route was scenic as we rode through Deep Creek Canyon, heading east across the Big Belt mountain range first through fertile grassland, the surrounding hills spotted with evergreens, then through thick woods, part of the Helena National Forest, and finally rising up into high range. I rode hard all morning, adrenalized by a goal: at 42 miles we’d reach the town of White Sulphur Springs, a town were I’d stayed while riding solo two years ago, and I wanted to have time, despite our 100-mile day, to take a break and bathe once again in the town’s hot spring-fed pools. It was a particularly fond memory: in 2004, I had reached White Sulphur Springs from Gardiner, Montana – 127 miles, the last 67 against a fierce headwind. The effort had me aching, so soaking in the hot spring at the end of such a hard day felt relaxing and restorative.
I made good time in getting there. After cresting the climb, there was a long downhill and then a southerly tailwind – the same strong wind I’d faced two years earlier only this time blowing in the opposite direction and helping instead of hurting me, speeding me into town. As a result, I made it there by 9:45 a.m., and paying the $4.50 admission fee, I spent 15 to 20 minutes soaking in both the outdoor pool (approximately 97 degrees) and the indoor pool (at least five degrees hotter). As I said, the water is spring-fed, and it’s said to have the same balance of minerals as the water in Baden Baden, Germany. Staying in longer might have been enervating, but as it was, I emerged feeling renewed, the soak having washed away those first 40 miles. I then set off on the remaining 60 ready to face whatever came. The route was turning due east, so the strong southerly wind was now likely to be a contentious crosswind. In fact, though, the wind shifted, and we had a tailwind all the way – one of the greatest tailwinds I’ve ever experienced. The ride, thus, proved blissful. The conditions were outstanding. It was a bright sunny day, warm but not scorching; Route 12 had little traffic and it rolled through the high plains – shining green grassland with mountains in the distance. The wind energized me, and I continued riding hard: despite my swim break, I was still near the front of the pack. At rest stops, people gushed about the beauty of the day and especially about the wind – it felt like surfing a perfect wave – and then rushed to keep riding, wanting as much as we could have of it, excited and alerted that it could suddenly change direction. I left White Sulphur Springs at about 10:15 a.m. and stopped several times for pictures, including when I saw a badger: it ran across the road in front of me and dashed into a hole, but I managed to capture it when it poked its head back out at me. Still, I reached Harlowton by 12:30 p.m., completing the 100 miles in six hours, start to finish.
Day 13: Saturday, July 8 –Harlowton to Billings, MT – 90 miles.
When it was over, looking back on this day, I found myself thinking of it as “an easy 90,” which is good sign that I’m getting in shape. I felt good throughout, even after leaving late, it being my turn (I’m in Group 4) to help with breakfast. I heated up water and made a pot of coffee while others spread cereals, packets of instant oatmeal, bananas, milk, juice, etc., on one big table. We couldn’t leave until all had eaten and the leftovers were stowed, so I resigned myself to riding near the back of the pack. In fact, though, it felt fun and low-pressured. For the first 45 miles, the route was gradually downhill, and the same westerly tailwind helped push us along. I was tired from my exertions of the day before, but the miles came easily, and I rode without straining. It was also nice not to ride alone for a change. I stuck with Chris LeDoux, a 27-year old violinist, violist and orchestra teacher. Chris has been the last finisher thus far on several days, and we talked about the pressures of keeping pace, as well as a lot about traveling – places we’d been, places we still hoped to go, and the advantages and disadvantages of going alone.
After 30 miles, we had a rest stop in Ryegate next to the Ryegate Bar and Café, home of an annual Testicle Festival, which involves the eating of “Rocky Mountain oysters.” Many riders bought t-shirts (the bar was open at 8:00 a.m.), and Steve Rubenstein, the Big Rider who is a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle, bought a quantity of testicles for others to sample. For a more complete report on the Ryegate Testicle Festival, you can read Steve’s latest column.
Reaching Lavina, we turned south onto Montana Route 3, leaving Highway 12, which we’d been on for two and a half days, as well as the tailwinds we’d had for the last 120 miles. I still made good time, though, despite the crosswind and the road, which now climbed through hills of scrub pine and sagebrush. I then rode most of the rest of the way with Carol Tremble and Ellen Glasser, a former FBI agent from Jacksonville, Florida, chatting the time away amid more desolate scenery. We’d risen out of rolling plains onto broader, flatter terrain, where the grass was much drier and the landscape dominated by earth tones and power lines. Again it was fun to chat away the miles; and for a while, near Broadview, the wind even shifted, providing us with a tailwind once again. The ride only became tough over the final 10 miles, when yet another wind shift resulted in a stiff headwind and we started climbing toward Billings amid dry, thermal heat. Billings sits in a broad valley below a high wall of rim rock. In town, the temperature reached 95 degrees, but as we approached, it seemed considerably hotter, a wave of hot air seeming to hover above the rim. I reached the finish by 2:00 p.m., feeling elated, having ridden 190 miles in the past two days. Now we have a day off – our third of the trip – once again in a dormitory, this time at Montana State University–Billings. We’re bracing ourselves for an even tougher road ahead, where we’ll be riding southeast amid more heat and wind through Wyoming to the Black Hills and Badlands of South Dakota. Our next day off is a full week away: July 15th in Rapid City.