Here's something that you don't know about me: I absolutely hate to sweat.
Portland, with its neither here nor there temperate climate, has babied me in this department; its environs have sheltered me from searing sun and sticky humidity for almost 6 years now, long enough for me to forget that there is another reality. I grew up in humid Maryland and muggy Boston---I shouldn't flinch at the onset of perspiration; I used to exist perpetually enveloped in its sticky, salty sheen.
How easily one forgets.
As I toiled up yet another 2,000 ft. climb this afternoon, I felt eddies of sweat trickle down the backs of my ears and cursed inwardly.
Then, I stopped myself. This is ridiculous. The sun is only going to gain force the farther along we travel, so I might as well come to terms with my perspiration now. It cools me down. I can pretend I'm swimming. Sweat, I call a truce.
Independence Day in the small town of Twin Bridges means only one thing of relevance to me: the good coffee shop is closed. Brock and I had ambled into town after a decent night's sleep in the Bike Camp's simple shelter. Finding the coffee shop, along with most other establishments in town, closed for the holiday, we happened upon a diner where the waitress gave us two steaming styrofoam cups of weak coffee. I have set my bar very low these days, and "gas station" caliber coffee will get me giddy if there's enough cream and sugar handy to doctor it up.
The Ruby Valley stretches out wide before us as we continue down the two lane highway. Soon, a lanky middle-aged man with a touring rig approaches us from the opposite direction; he pulls over to our side of the road to chat. If a westbound cyclist stops to swap some conversation with us, we've discovered a trend: they're not American.
Mark, it turns out, is a Brit from London with a quick wit and a gracious, easygoing manner. "We're celebrating kicking you out of the country", I tease. "This place?" he gestures to the green valley and hills. "We didn't want it!"
More jokes ensue concerning liters, meters, and the daftness of our imperial measurement system.
Mark works 6 months of the year and gets to do whatever he wants with the rest; bicycle touring, usually. "My wife and I biked from the northernmost part of Europe--Norway--to the southernmost in Greece." When Brock asks him why his wife isn't with him now, Mark replies "She's too afraid of all the Rednecks."
While almost all of the drivers who've passed us so far have been courteous, we've crossed paths with a few irate ones. This morning, as I follow close behind Brock hugging the narrow white line of the shoulder-less highway, a pick-up truck hauling a big trailer passes us. The passenger rolls down her window and yells incoherently, her face made ugly by spite.
I know better than to take it personally, and I've learned not to respond or just to wave back; throw a kiss, maybe. Still, encounters such as these make me chafe at the injustice of the situation. We're all going to get where we're going eventually, and no one could be in such a rush that we're ruining there lives by causing them to slow down for a few moments.
After the angry pick-up lady passes, I chuckle to myself because I know that there are about a dozen more cyclists she'll be obliged to maneuver around.
A big group of cyclists had passed us earlier, and all morning we played tortoise-and-the-hare as Brock and I would go by them as they rested by their support vehicles. Then, with their unburdened bikes, they'd fly past us again.
I begin to tire of the peloton leapfrog as Brock and I take a break in a small market. To my surprise, a woman from the group comes into the store. "We're having lunch out there under the big trees, if you'd like to join us." Half an hour later, we're stuffed on beef and veggie wraps, monster cookies, chips, and fresh fruit. Most of the touring folks hail from Fort Collins and Wyoming, and Brock and I get some tips on routes to take to get into Fort Collins, as well as breweries to visit.
While Brock and I tend to cast a critical eye on supported cycle touring, preferring the independence and survivalist challenge of carrying our own gear, I do see the perks of traveling light and fast. At the very least, it gives people who don't really enjoy camping a way to get out and cycle long distances through gorgeous scenery.
We climb into Virginia City, a gold-mining-town-turned-tourist-haven, just as the sun really begins to heat the air. We're about to head into a cafe for ice cream when a woman, overhearing the words "ice cream", enthusiastically recommends a creamery up the street. After moving up the line that snakes almost out the front door, I order a heaping bowl of cherry cheesecake, strawberry, and chocolate almond ice cream. Happy Fourth of July!
Fast forward 8 hours. I'm typing drowsily in our tent and Brock is sound asleep, exhausted. To my left is the Madison River from which we purified water to drink this evening; to my right, its somber outline barely visible in the dark sky, a stately ridge of mountains. Then there is the highway leading to West Yellowstone, on which the wind fought us for every inch of the last 13 miles of chip seal.
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