June 29 - New Friends are Old Friends

[Brock]

We've been honored to be the guests of Tito & Michelle here in Missoula, brother and sister-in-law of our good friend Aaron. Having an actual bed is great for a sense of rest, and being welcomed as a guest instead of buying your way into commercial hospitality is worth more than can be expressed in words. We feel totally at home here with their family and the many friends of their family that have passed through while we've been here.

Missoula is a city for which I have many superlatives. Adele and I compare it to the Oregon town of Eugene in that it has a flat plain upon which it is built, a substantial river with a bicycle path along it, and plenty of shops serving our various interests of caffeine, bicycles, books, and alcohol. College towns always hold a vitality that keeps their cores fresh and exciting.

We ate our requisite free ice cream at the Adventure Cycling Association headquarters, and checked out data with the map revisions and forest fire locations in their touring cyclists' lounge. A friendly staff member took our photograph with a polaroid camera and posted us on the wall next to the hundreds of others who have made their journey to this bicycle mecca.

I realized that as time has progressed I have felt less inclination to "talk shop" with other cyclists on the road. Somehow I expected this tendency to hide itself away when I got to the mother of all touring cyclists' destinations, but I realized that for so long I've seen my crazy hobby as just that – a thing that I do that no one else does. Because what I do is seen as so unusual in the circles that I run in, I've grown accustomed to the luxury of being an oddity, an eccentricity, and singularly unique. You would think that surrounding myself with people who are doing what I'm doing might seem encouraging, but in fact it's precisely the opposite; when I'm no longer the darling child of my friends' amazement and have to mix with other amazing folk, I nearly resent the competition.

Fortunately, I found a reserve of social energy within myself to muster up the goodwill and generosity of spirit to talk with other touring cyclists in a good-natured manner, both today and other times on the trip when my first inclination has been to avoid the chat. It's OK to share this passion with others, and in fact, the world I envision has many, many people traveling in this way. No thanks to my inner neuroses.

We spent the afternoon carousing in a city that could pander to our every desire; at the Oxford tavern we enjoyed pints of Moose Drool brown ale, and a friendly fellow named Thomas talked with us about bears in the countryside and routes through Yellowstone. Before it seemed we had merited it, he bought us a round and we gladly toasted our conversation with each other, he and I with well vodka and Adele with a honey bourbon from Kentucky.

We skipped over to the Iron Horse for enormous plates of food, our first real meal since breakfast. Afterward I purchased a bottle of bourbon for the next few days on the road, and we turned up at the Missoula Club where locals watch sports and celebrate their heroes from years past of Montana State football.

I met the new proprietor of the well established Bicycle Hangar, the longest running bicycle business in town since 1980 and heir to a long family legacy of bicycling, established several generations back in the 1880s, just as the safety bicycle was coming into vogue after the elite grew tired of their highwheelers. I can imagine the elder Mr. Kern following his blacksmithing brother into the fertile valley along the Clark Fork and envisioning smooth macadam paths for people on bicycles to speed down on their way to picnics, work, or a meal, hoping on the glimmer of a dream that his business would flourish and bicycles would fill the western town's streets. With great-great-grandson Peter at the helm of the shop (he sold me a good deal of contingency parts in case I need to do some more repairs down the road), that family legacy seems to be marching on into a future where bicycles remain a viable and reasonable option in this amazing place.

After a relaxed evening with our hosts and some phone conversations to friends at home, I'm ready to turn in. However, the story of a man we met on the road resolves in my mind with a question mark since I don't know how it ends. We met a man named Joe on the road as we were leaving Kamiah a few days back. Some people traveling by bicycle aren't doing it with fancy gear and expensive bikes, but with whatever they can cobble together in to a rolling caravan of two wheels. Joe was such a traveler, appearing to carry all he owned on a sturdy frame nearly obscured by luggage. As I greeted him from behind, he turned to reveal a white beard cascading down his chest in ringlets, as though he were a grecian marble statue or a painting of a biblical prophet. He told us he was traveling from northern California and on his way to see his brother in Pennsylvania. He had, he mentioned matter-of-factly, come from Florida before this trek and his time on the west coast began. We talked shop about his rig and the weather – strangely, I find much more satisfaction in chats with marginalized types than I do with bicycling vacationers – and bade him good luck and farewell after passing him a few small tokens of our well wishes.

The next day we passed him again, apparently keeping pace and surprising ourselves by how he exceeded our expectations for endurance and strength. I shouted a hello to him, but we did not stop to talk this time around. The day after that we were making our descent toward Missoula when we passed him once more; later in the day as we were taking a rest at the site of the sardonically named "Fort Fizzle," Joe rolled in behind us.

He told us that his traveling companion, a black cat of about 9 years of age, had finally left him; whether that meant it had run off or expired I wasn't sure, but either way the telling was emotional for him. He blinked the tears back quickly and changed the subject, speaking on the heat, the condition of the roads in Montana, and fixing a punctured tube with electrical tape ("the tire's holding 80 pounds of pressure!" he exclaimed). He outlined his plan to make it into Missoula and catch the motorcoach to Pennsylvania to reconnect with his brother after a long absence. He'd pass his trusty rig on to someone else since it wouldn't be worth the effort to try bringing it along on the bus. We wished him luck on the journey and passed off a few more tokens of gratitude for the glimpse into his story, hoping he'd make it back to family and friends in what was, seemingly, another world.

Tomorrow, we ride south and into the unknown.