In light of the fact that I've known Harly Drum for almost ten years, I'm proud to say I've learned exactly three new things about him on this trip. One, he can eat an ice cream cone and ride his bike up out of Hell's Canyon at the same time and still manage to beat us all to the top (what a show-off, huh?). Two, he is riding a fuschia bike--that's right, fuschia--across country and doesn't seem the least bit embarassed about it. Lastly, he has an uncanny ability to get up early when he camps. Some people say that they wake up with the sun, but that stubborn independent Newportian we call Harly does things his own way and makes the sun get up with him.
Thus, our daily routine begins like (alarm) clockwork sometime well before 6 am, with the sound sof Harly scraping off his tent stakes and shaking out his ground mat, sounds I try my hardest to pretend I don't hear. We usually ride 40 to 50 miles before noon, take a long lunch/rest break, and finish up the rest of the mileage around 6. In an average day, we ride somewhere between 70 to 80 miles, with our record being just over 90 in one day. We're making better time than what we figured and have plans to top 100 sometime when America starts to flatten out.
In the diet according to the bike trip, one wants the most caloric bang possible for one's buck, which means Danny and Harly, with what I would call an unhealthy obsession with one Little Debbie and her snack cakes, fare the best under this system, while I, with my expensive Balance Bar and soy nut tastes, linger far behind. Dan Meade gets style points (and much kudos from dairy farmers everywhere) for his habitual downing of at least a quart of milk a day.
I'm writing this e-mail from Ennis, Montana, and we should be in West Yellowstone, right on the Wyoming border, by early tomorrow morning. We had some tough climbs in Idaho, coming out of Hell's Canyon and then crossing over White Bird and Lolo Passes. Each of these is akin to riding the 7.5 mile Bloomsday race in Spokane on a Doomsday HIll of 7% grade the whole way. It's always quite gratifying to reach the top of these long climbs, and as the slowly comes into my sight, I'm always hit with a feeling unlike any other in the world--namely that I'm about to keel over and die. The reward of such climbs is usually a speedy zip down the backside at around 35 mph. Harly earns the Tough Bike Rider Award for riding 40 miles over Lolo Pass on a pink bicycle with a broken frame that was patched up with duct tape and a small wood block, and the Ingenuity Award goes to his brother Danny for fashioning the makeshift splint for Harly.
On Wednesday we conquered Lost Trail Pass, which is always amusing for me to think of when I remember my dad's reaction to hearing that we'd be riding it on our trip. If written as a Hollywood screenplay, his response would read something like this:
Character of Duane (aka "Dad"): "You're going over . . . [cue dramatic pause, distant scream or breathless gasp, and possibly my mom dropping a stack of plates or some sort of serving tray] . . . Lost Trail Pass!" [throw in an ominous "duh, duh, dun"], as if us riding Lost Trail Pass was the same as heading out for Dead Man's Curve, the Point of No Return, or shopping at the Valley Mall.
My apologies for not having written sooner, but e-mail access has been a little spotty. We should be in Yellowstone by tomorrow afternoon and will hopefully be celebrating the Fourth of July by blowing up a small section of that national treasure.
Thanks to everyone who came to Missoula and fed us--it was a great time.
Cheers,
-Nate