“Maybe they have rain pants here,” Satish said. He’d already struck out at the Roundup Hardware and Ranch store. Despite the forecast of two inches of rain, 25 to 40 mile per hour headwinds, and wind chills in the upper 40s, he and Robin planned to start out “just to see what it’s like” the next morning.
The first leg of our planned five-day, 324-mile gravel ride through central Montana had exceeded everyone’s expectations. After a one hour warm-up on Alkali Creek, a quiet road into the ranch-lands north of Billings, the day quickly warmed as the surface turned to gravel and dirt. Lunch among the pines at 40 miles was followed by a 15 mile downhill to the final 6 miles on US 12 into Roundup.
A little before 6 PM, we aimed for the Backporch Barbeque a mile down Main Street from the Autumn’s Inn, where we took up half the rooms. The clear skies we’d had during our ride had turned grey, and the building clouds and wind from the west confirmed what reports had ominously been warning us of for the past two days – unfriendly conditions for our planned 82 miles cycling on hilly dirt roads.
“Why do you think it’s a good idea to ride tomorrow?” I asked Robin.
Through a half-smile, he answered, “Well, I’m trying to get ready for a 350-mile ultra-ride in a few weeks, back in Washington.”
“There’s no support on that?”
With a dry chuckle, he said, “No…I carry everything. Pull off and sleep whenever. I figure I have to practice for all conditions?”
“Challenging” means different things to different people”, I thought.
Satish exited the Bell Mountain Trading post, proudly waving a pair of black nylon overpants. “They’re going out of business! Only six dollars!” he crowed.
“Think they’ll actually keep you dry?” I asked.
“I doubt it.”
“Well, I learned commuting in the rain, you can either be cold and wet, or you can be warm and wet.”
“Warm is what I’m hoping for.”
The crowd inside the Backporch eyed the nine of us as we entered the only dining option in town. A blackboard listed the night’s special: “2 Chicken Enchiladas”. After filling up a table and a booth, most of us opted for the special.
During the interminable wait for a meals (“what are they doing, killing the chickens now?” “At least they’ll be fresh…”) we discussed that day’s events and plans for the next.
I asked how the ride had gone. Tom offered, “I could keep up with Jonnie and Robin for maybe an hour. But I didn’t want to lose them, so I worked harder than I should have.”
“You don’t have to go any faster than you can hold for the whole day. We’ve got a sag wagon – two, actually – so if we split into two groups, it’s OK, I think. Go your own pace.”
That night, I woke up at midnight, and pulled the curtains to look out on rapidly forming puddles in the parking lot. The day’s dust and been washed off the van, leaving a rectangular mound of mud beneath it. Rain pelted my basement window in waves. I went back to bed, but couldn’t sleep. My job on this trip was to provide support services to the other eight riders. I had scouted the route the year before, and knew that, even without the promised miserable weather, Day Two would be rough. Eighty-six miles until the next motel, starting with a saw-tooth profile on a rugged dirt road. After a few miles on pavement, back to an even sketchier track, which had ruts up to a foot deep as it climbed a hill to the treeless ranch land on a shelf above the Musselshell River. The payoff would be a herd of pronghorn antelope before the descent back to pavement into Harlowton.
But the downpour outside my window kept me awake for two hours, turning over possible scenarios of transporting everyone (and their bikes and gear) an hour or two down the road, hoping the prospect might be drier, or warmer, or calmer, somewhere else.
The rain was, if anything, coming even harder when I walked the twenty feet outside from my room to the breakfast loft. Up there, Robin was standing, dressed in everything he had brought, talking to a group of men seated at the main table, smiling at him as they nursed their morning coffee.
Despite the absurdly low price for some of the rooms ($50 a night), and the eclectic nature of the furnishings, the Autumn’s Inn Motel provided the best breakfast we had on the whole trip. Eggs and bacon and biscuits freshly cooked, along with the usual cold cereal, toast, and coffee. We’d agreed to meet at 7 AM to finalize plans for the day.
“These guys have all the local knowledge,” Robin said.
“You really going out in this?” I asked.
“We tried to tell him, but, you know, you can’t fix stupid,” said a guy in a flannel jacket, capacious jeans, and a worn ball cap.
“Let me know before you go. I’m not going to follow you in the van. I’ll drive to Lavina, wait for you there?” I said.
“When are you all going to leave?” Robin asked.
“Well, I think everyone else isn’t riding. We’re going to kill as much time here as we can. We don’t have to leave until 11.”
“So, if I get 10 miles in and turn around, you’ll still be here?”
“OK, if you’re not here by 10:30, we can assume we’ll see you in Lavina…”
Robin noted, “You’ve got me on ‘Find my’ on your phone, and Michele can follow me on her Garmin Reach, so it ought to be OK.”
The group at the table chuckled as Robin left. “Is he a democrat or a republican?” one of them asked.
I certainly didn’t want to get into a political discussion in a small town in Montana. I searched desperately for a way to defuse that. “I think he must be having what I call a ‘Biden moment’.”
“Yeah, he seemed a little confused about the weather outside. Nobody’s goin’ anywhere this morning. I work for the county, supposed to be on those roads now, and I’m not gonna try in my truck. What’s he thinking?”
I didn’t try to defend Robin, instead switched the subject. “Yeah, I know what it’s like, a little. My great-grandfather, he came out here, in 1877, right after the Little Big Horn, with General Miles. After that first winter, he and a few of his drinking buddies got booted out, and stayed at Fort Keough, there at the Tongue and Yellowstone, and started Miles City. My grandfather and father were both born there. They told me how bad the weather gets. Like ice skating on the river in the winter…”
They all eyed me a bit strangely, but no one pursued our party affiliations any further.
[To be cont’d]