Winding into Wyoming

The day I made it out of South Dakota and the Black Hills I had been skirting my way around large, ominous looking thunder clouds all day.  I had awoken above Hill City on the Michelson trail to a bright but chilly morning at 6am.  But by the time I had my bags packed away around 7 it had started to drizzle.  Fortunately it was a downhill ride into Hill City, and I ducked into a store for a coffee just in time for the clouds to release the condensed vapor they had been holding.  It rained hard for a full hour and I was happy to be inside, nursing my warm coffee as I watched the rain come down with a cold fury through the windows.

An hour later, the storm had finished, the sun came out, and I started my way on the trail again.  It was another uphill battle along the crushed limestone trail to get to the unfinished sculpture that will hopefully one day depict Crazy Horse pointing into the distance with his hair flowing in the wind - what will be the largest sculpture in the world.  Unfortunately, the sculpture looked very similar to what I saw about 8 years ago on a trip with my family.  I biked downhill once again to get to Custer where, upon a recommendation from some fellow Wisconsinites I had met, I ducked into The Bakery just as the clouds released their moisture once again.  I wasn't disappointed with my recommendation, the food was incredible.  After my meal I was even able to recommend some motorcyclists that were trying to decide where to eat.

"Eat here," I said, "you won't regret it, the food's incredible."
"Oh really?  Yeah, you probably work here or something..."
I pointed to my bicycle outside the shop window, "That's my ride."
There was a pause while I paid my bill, then,
"Right on man, you're doing it the right way!  You got it figured out," I was told as I walked out of the store...

Unfortunately, my dream reality of following a little bike trail through the hills with green trees, wildflowers, meandering, gushing streams and lush meadows on both sides of me was over.  I resigned myself to the motors and the highway and said goodbye to the Black Hills as I entered Wyoming.  Wyoming looked dark and threatening.  Black clouds stretched out before me; the towering heights of the cumulus clouds visible from miles away.  The road lead me straight into the blackness and it wasn't long before it began to rain.  I was trying to make it to Newcastle to shelter the storm, but the gusts of wind from the easterly directed storms slowed my pace quite substantially.  I found shelter under a tree at a historic marker where another cyclist was munching away at cheeto's awaiting the blue sky that was visible just a couple miles to the west.  As it turned out, we had skirted our way through the middle of two storms with lightening striking about 15 miles to the north and south of us.

"Where are you going to stay tonight?"  Eileen asked me after we had cycled into Newcastle.  It was 5:30 so I hadn't really thought about where I was going to camp that night.  Usually if I'm trying to cover ground, around 6 or 7pm I make sure I have enough water and food on me for the night (I carry one pannier full of food with my stove and fuel and 5 liters of water capacity).  Then I'll find a spot to pitch my tent in a city park, National Forest, or someone's front yard around 8pm, or whenever the sun is starting to go down.  This way, I can make some food, read or write and watch the sunset for a little bit as the daylight disappears, and be in bed around 9 or whenever the darkness engulfs the pages of my book.

"I don't know," I replied.  I looked at the map; the next town was about 20 miles away and didn't look like there was much to it.  In my experience with South Dakota, towns that were on the map but didn't look very big had the possibility of being but a meager cluster of dilapidated looking houses, lacking even the most practical of small businesses such as a bar or a convenience store to fill up on water.

"I guess maybe I could call it a day, I've come 65 miles, that's not that bad, do you know of any places where I could pitch a tent in town?"

"Well, if you want, you could stay in the bed in my guest room, I bet you haven't slept in a bed in a long time."

An offer like that was difficult to pass up, even though I've noticed that I've been starting to sleep better in my tent on my pad.  When I have the opportunity to sleep in a bed, they seem overly cushy and warm, situated in the stale environment of a bedroom with a thick wall separating me from the noises and fresh air of the outside world.  Still, I accepted her offer with enthusiasm since the possibility of sleeping indoors in a real bed doesn't present itself on a regular basis.

As we biked up the road I noticed a large house on the top of a hill overlooking the plains of eastern Wyoming.  'What a view it must be from the porch on that house,' I thought, 'sure would be nice to stay in a place like that some day.'  A moment later Eileen was pointing at that very house, explaining that she and her husband had built it years ago - it was their dream house.

What ensued was relaxation and luxury.  I was treated by the most hospitable of hosts, sipping a beer as I sat in a swing chair on the very porch I had admired on the way up, watching storms blow their way across the brown expanse of the Wyoming plains.  Lightening struck down vertically every few moments, yet there was no rain where I was sitting, miles and miles away.  I enjoyed the rest of the evening eating hamburgers and sweet corn and talking with Eileen about life as a middle school guidance counselor in Newcastle - a town of about 3000 people and an oil refinery situated on the busy western railway that brings coal from the mines of the west to the power plants of the east.  Eileen's aunt-in-law was also over for the night; a spunky, quick, well-opinionated elderly lady originally from Wisconsin but now from Colorado for about 30 years.  She liked to travel and had strong opinions about politics.  Fortunately, we shared similar political views and disagreements didn't erupt as we watched the democrats fail to obtain 3 republican seats in the Wisconsin senate recall elections.

One of the best things about life on the road, I realized that night.  Every day when I wake up, I have no idea what I'm going to see during the day; no idea what's going to happen to me, and above all, no idea where I'm going to sleep that night.  When I awoke that morning above Hill City in my own secluded piece of National Forest, surrounded by swarms of motorcyclists, I had no idea the road would take me to Eileen's house where I would lounge in the luxury of her hillside home.  I figure it's this connection to society - the close yet distant proximity to city conveniences - as well as wonderful people like Eileen and her husband Wayne, that keep me going on my bicycle.  Without them, I would be tired of this life by now, yearning for a familiar couch to sit on and a beer to drink instead of the open road and the unknown.

Sturgis - an afterthought

In my time since visiting Sturgis, I've had a lot of time to think about the motorcyclists I met there and the experiences I had.  The biggest and most immediate impression the rally had on me was the night I spent in the bars.  But of course, if you go anywhere, you're not going to see life in its most real and true sense in the bars.

Not to say I didn't have fun and meet interesting people at the bars.  One conversation I had went like this:
"So where are you from?"
"Wisconsin, how bout you?"
"Mississippi.  Did you ride out here then?"
"Yeah, I did, it was a long way..."
"Oh wow, congratulations, that's quite the achievement.  I would have liked to do it, but it's such a long way, we just trailered our bikes and we ride them around the Hills here.  What kind of bike do you ride?"
"Well, you may not have heard of it before...  It's called a Trek.  Trek 620 to be exact."
"Huh.  Trek.  Like T-R-E-K, huh?  Nope, I've never heard of that.  What kind of ride is it?"
"Well, it's like a cruiser, touring bike, ya know..."
"No, but is it a low rider, or a cruiser bike... that sort of thing?"
"Yeah, I guess its a like a cruiser.  Use it for touring, you know?"
.......  and this went on for a little bit until I didn't know what I was talking about anymore.....
"Ok, I gotta admit, my bike is unusual in that it doesn't have a motor... it's a bicycle."
"No way.  And you rode it all the way out here???  I don't believe you.  There's no way..."
...  And this went on for a little while until I maybe had him convinced and he bought me a beer.  In any case, the entire conversation was great to have - from discussing my life on the road to his life in Mississippi and the roads of the Black Hills and South Dakota.

The bikers I met on the way to the rally and ever since have been the most kind hearted and understanding people - even if they drive by me with noisy motors.  They all have stories to share of long rides they have done, of living on the road and getting around on two wheels.  Some are even old cyclists that went on bicycle journeys before bicycle touring was even a thing-cyclists who got tired of pedaling and resorted to the motor.  All I can say is to keep pedaling on friends, let your legs do the work while your mind does the wandering, your heart does the loving, and your mouth does the drinking.

Link to Wyoming photos
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/WindsOfWyoming?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCI7spt6-iICn8QE&feat=directlink

Link to my route so far:
http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203617401863148848612.0004aaa4f2b58845af1e4&msa=0&ll=44.087585%2C-100.151367&spn=25.384847%2C39.506836