Day 29: Chinook to stealth site 120 miles

Far off in the southern distance I can see a train gaining speed. It is long, about fifty cars strong. Out of the corner of my eye I continue to glance towards it. It is fast, but so far off that just a slight glance forward and the blue sky, clouds and green flats fill the view. The train is always there. It rumbles through the night as we sleep in city parks 50 yards away. It blows beside us, and shakes the chrome of my bike. I can feel the vibration through my leather gloves. The train has been our constant. Its sound as it approaches from in front or behind consumes every thought, every sound and demands that its presence be known. The train awakens me, and reminds me of the mountains I have left and the mountains many miles ahead. I look at the train as it passes. I speed up and try and take pace with the train. It over takes me and leaves me with the quiet road and sky.

I roll with the hills. My gears switch up and down with a slight slide of my hand and my legs break free and glide with the bike. The bike moves me up the hill. I no longer fight or flee the steep slope in the distance, with my mind and body I gain strength in each stroke. My legs press and push and my breath slows and deepens and I am transported back to the strokes of freestyle and backstroke and how all bodily movement reaches a point of fluidity. The hills roll by me and I continue to seek more. More miles, more sky, more of this sweet westerly wind that slowly guides me through towns, pass pastures, into the expanse of open air.

I slowly creep up on a herd of horses. They glare at me, ears up, tails brushing mosquitoes away. I whistle at them. I whistle at them, until one of the them decides to run. I throw up my arm and salute his speed. His ability to get all the other horses to follow behind him. They are running next to me and the wind in my hair and the strength of my legs push me forward and for a moment I feel like I am one of them. Wild and fast and full of the freedom that only comes from a sky that never ends and a view that softens the soul.

I see six motorcycles coming towards us. They ride two wide and by the gear on their bikes, I can tell they are out for a long ride. I get excited and throw up my arm displaying an up-side-down peace sign. We have been invited into this silent language of bikers, much like the hand wave of the jeep tribe. They all look with recognition, appreciation and acceptance and welcome me into the two-wheeled tribe. They have become my candy during the day. With each motorcycle that approaches, I greet them with anticipation for the long road ahead gaining each mile two wheels at a time.

We stopped at Spencer’s Hi-line Bar and grill last night in Chinook for some Montana micro brews and the owner, Mark, a retired elementary teacher and cyclist told us he used to have a sticker up in the bar glass window that read “four wheels for the body, two wheels for the soul”. He then told us to be sure to camp on the east side of the city park, so we wouldn’t get watered by the sprinklers during the night.

Today,  Matt got his first flat. We passed the rodeo in Saco and as the sun set, his back tire blew. Standing over the bike while mosquitoes swarmed around us, he quickly pumped the new one up.  We have biked 115 miles.  We passed the city park where we were supposed to camp. We never saw it. We turned down this gravel road that looks like the road on the map that will lead us to the end of our day. To the place where we can set our tent up, crawl in and let our bodies rest. This road goes to only barns and rustic houses. The sun has set and we are still looking for a spot to camp. I turn my lights on and the horizon fades to dark. I still feel the road below me, but my senses switch from sight to sound. I no longer see the road ahead. At 10pm we roll our bikes down below a bridge, and in the tall, tall grasses lay our bodies to rest. My eyes close, as my ears continue to alert to the footsteps all around me.