Make America Bike Again
Day 23 – The search for beauty continues. It didn’t take long to pack up and get on the road that morning. We left the pine covered hills behind in a long, easy downhill through pastures and farmland, and out into a wide expanse of brown prairie. That’s where the guys were waiting, their bikes lined up and leaning again the guardrail. Robert and I brought up the rear. He rode past them with a greeting, slowing and stopping on the shoulder, a little beyond the guardrail. He unfolded the clickstand, set the padded end against the earth, and let my weight balance at the crossbar into the braced open end. On any other day, it would have been ideal for me, a fully loaded touring bicycle, to stand upright. That day, however, was the beginning of the time warp.
Robert had been using that clickstand everyday since the start of the trip. But as he stepped away that morning, to lean against the guardrail and share a bite with the boys, a slight gust of wind hit me broadside. I started to rock, to lean toward the steep embankment. Robert rushed back, grabbing for the rear rack. The clickstand fell to the ground. Heads turned as I began to fall, rolling down the embankment in a perfect 360 spiral. Don roared with laughter. Frosty joined in. Good thing bicycle’s can’t feel embarrassment. Instead, I lean against the hillside, wheels slowing spinning as if they were searching for pavement.
It only took a few seconds for Robert and Gerry to reach me. By the handlebar and the rear frame, Robert pulled and Gerry pushed me back up onto the shoulder. We touring bicycles are a hardy bunch. Everything seemed to be working. Wanting very much to get going, Robert said goodbye, lifted one leg over the crossbar, and climbed onto my seat. He just wanted to get away and down the road, and leave the noise and laughter behind.
There were prairie fires ahead, a small town and at least one roadside cafe. Places to rest, refill water bottles, and wonder how far to the next city with a bicycle shop. The map indicated that there was camping at Mosby, a small place where the highway crossed the Musselshell River and few permanent residents.
This part of eastern Montana was one rolling hill after another. In our haste and near the top of one of them, my chain broke. We didn’t carry a chain tool or a replacement link. Robert put the pieces into a plastic bag, pushed me to the top of the hill, and put out his thumb…
It wasn’t long at all before a quintessential Montana rancher named Don stopped and picked us up. He had a pick up truck and a generous spirit and said that he would take us as far as Mosby that night. With a grin he said that in addition to being the mayor, he owned the whole town. A few miles later it was apparent that his town consisted of an asphalt pad, the RV that Don called his home, a well stocked tool shed, a warm shower, and a hardy patch of green grass. Don proudly asserted that his dream was to turn it into a bicycle hostel for passing cyclists. That’s where the boys caught up and camped. Don even loaned us his truck so that we could run to a MiniMart…down the road about 10 miles…for pizza and beer. It would be Robert’s goodbye party. Don was on his way to becoming an icon among trail angels.