Two Wheels on my Wagon (14 page)

‘D'ya mean, like, hair bands?'

I checked to see if I was still wearing my helmet and it was obscuring my balding pate. I wasn't. In spite of the overwhelming evidence to the contrary and my mute incredulity, the shop worker had clearly already come to her own conclusion and led me down the feminine hygiene aisle to a surprisingly extensive selection of hair accessories. I wondered if she was going to recommend a style as well, but instead she left me to my own devices. Too tired to try again, I chose a multi-coloured selection pack. They lasted all the way to Mexico.

Still bemused, I was about to leave when I passed the store's deli. It was not like the cold meat and cheese counters at home. I stared in amazement at the array of hot food being served and tried not to salivate too openly. Eventually, a large lady completed her order and I was inadvertently propelled to the front of the queue.

‘Whaddaya want?' came the question – though it was more like a command – from behind the counter.

I still hadn't identified the various deep-fried objects in front of me and wasn't sure I could face an explanation.

‘I'll have what she had.'

After a short while I was presented with a bag containing two chicken wings and a 2-pound tub of mashed potato, all smothered in gravy.

I rejoined the boy scout. He seemed impressed by my selection. I settled on a nearby bench and was entertained while I dined by the comings and goings of Helenans on their shopping trips. It was not a particularly uplifting spectacle.

At the end of the nineteenth century Helena, still only a few decades old, was home to the highest concentration of millionaires in the US (or possibly the world, depending on which account you believe) thanks to the concentration of gold found in the city's famous Last Chance Gulch. Now, in spite of being the state capital and having outlived its erstwhile gold rush rivals long enough to be on the verge of celebrating its hundred and fiftieth anniversary, it had a median household income that was more than 15 per cent lower than the national average. A similar proportion of the population was deemed to live below the poverty line. It showed, and the boy scout's decision to sell his popcorn at $15 a box seemed a questionable marketing strategy.

I headed downtown to find a room for the night. Up on the hill stood the imposing State Capitol and the equally imposing though rather incongruous cathedral; below, the civic centre had a distinctly mosque-like appearance. I rode slowly, like a scruffy tourist, through the elegant mansion district. It was full of impressive Victorian villas from the city's heyday that now provided suitably grand homes for public officials, or suave guest houses for wealthy visitors.

Falling into neither of these categories, I continued my search elsewhere. At a traffic lights I was assailed by a fellow cyclist. He clearly wasn't a Tour Divide racer, as I had initially hoped, but I was nevertheless tempted by his suggestion of accompanying me to an informal camping spot he claimed to know on the outskirts of town. With motels in short supply, and such two-wheeled companionship on offer, I was about to set off when I noticed a large knife embedded up to the hilt in one end of his handlebars; I had assumed he just had bar extensions, but the carved wooden handle was a clear giveaway. Closer, though I hoped discreet, inspection of my new companion also revealed that his clothing was not what might be expected of a cycle tourist – worn out brogues, jeans held up by a string belt and a holey shirt with missing buttons. What I had taken to be camping gear lashed to his bike was in fact no more than a motley assortment of straps and ropes. His eyes, of course, had by now assumed a characteristic psychopathic glint.

‘I'm a millionaire sailor,' he said in answer to my unspoken question. ‘I own two boats in the Caribbean. I'm just here on holiday.'

I struggled to find a convincing reason to change my mind about camping, then decided it need not necessarily be that convincing.

‘I've just got to pop to the laundry.'

Surprisingly, given his own malodorous state, evidence of which had now reached my nostrils, he understood the urgency of this requirement. We parted company on amicable terms. I turned a corner and, to my considerable relief, discovered the Bargain Motel. They had one room left for the night. I had a bath and went to bed. It was 8 p.m.

F
ollowing the success of the past two days, in both of which I had covered more than the requisite 100 miles, I needed little persuasion to limit my aspirations to making it as far as Butte. It was only 70 miles distant, but those 70 miles were described on the map as containing some of the toughest riding on the whole Tour Divide. They also preceded another long stretch bereft of services and, in my imagination at least, inhabited by thousands of hungry bears. Stopping in Butte seemed tactically astute. And it rhymed.

The alarm sounded at the luxurious hour of 6 a.m. The lady in reception made good on her promise from the previous night and provided freshly brewed coffee. Combined with Danish pastries and yesterday's squashed bananas, it was as enjoyable a breakfast as I had had since Banff. Something about Helena clearly lent itself to comfort eating.

The route out of town was along Last Chance Gulch. The name alone was enough to reassure me that I had decided correctly not to venture forth with last night's knife-wielding companion. The eponymous warning signs increased as Last Chance Gulch turned into Grizzly Gulch.

‘Don't worry, it was named because of the bear that used to live there when the town was still a mining camp,' yesterday's road mender had told me.

Here, in the grey morning light, was the story of Helena laid bare. The gravel road up the gulch passed between the scars of more old mine workings, the lime kilns here judged important enough to have been placed on the National Register of Historic Places. Interspersed with these relics were modern executive houses. Manicured lawns and double garages were the very manifestation of the American dream, the fruit of the pioneering spirit that was so clearly still evident. More striking yet, however, were the residents still apparently emulating their predecessors by eking a living from miniature excavations in the valley floor. Shacks little more substantial than those of the original shanty town emitted smoke from crooked chimneys between flooded pits. The logic seemed sound. The area had yielded placer-mined gold – pay dirt – to the value of $5,000,000 in its first five years and an estimated $30,000,000 all told. Nuggets were still said to be found in the gutters of downtown after a cloudburst. Yet the surrounding bone yards of decomposing cranes and redundant diggers suggested current pickings were more meagre. Rich and poor lived cheek by jowl but in all other senses the distance between them was infinite.

The climb up the gulch was not too taxing; the forest agreeably open between the dwindling number of houses; the sky two-thirds grey. Things continued in the same vein for another hour, until the right turn onto the north fork of Quartz Creek, ‘a rough four-wheel drive track; next two miles are steep and rough'.

The only distinction from yesterday's hike-a-bike section was the added frisson of getting lost at the end of it. Although I had nagging doubts quite early into my unscheduled diversion, I pressed on with an obstinate determination not to accept the obvious for a good half-hour. Even banks of snow with no signs of the tyre tracks I had happily been following all day were insufficient warning. After all, there wasn't really anything to complain about. In fact, it was very pleasant. I had emerged from the trees into an area of broad, open meadows on top of a ridge. I was at well over 7,000 feet, and the nearby peaks rose higher still. The views to each side were seductive. I was just in the wrong place, something I later learned that Catherine and my other virtual supporters had become aware of long before I had.

Even the consequences of this temporary navigational error didn't seem unduly perturbing. It was not yet midday, and I could see routes down into both main valleys and some form of civilisation. One of them was bound to lead to the town of Basin, my next staging post. The only question was which one.

On my own, this stark choice might not have deterred me from chancing my arm. A natural aversion to retracing hard won ground was sure to bring out my inner gambler. The big brother nature of my SPOT tracker meant I was not alone, however; I had my fan club to consider. This invisible conscience then reminded me of one of the few rules of the Tour Divide that decreed a rider would be disqualified if they didn't cover the entire route, even if a diversion was considerably longer, and even if it meant retracing their steps. I finally yielded to the reality of my situation. The only solution was to return to the last point at which I was certain I was on the correct route.

That was easier said than done. If I'd noticed where I'd gone wrong, I was fairly certain I wouldn't have gone wrong in the first place. What's more, all route directions were based on having an accurately calibrated odometer (the maps themselves were too large-scale to be anything more than visual guidance). I had two, but the operative word was ‘had'. Both were now out of tune with the elapsed mileage of the route by an unknowable margin. Even assuming I found the route again, it was uncertain that my sketchy mental arithmetic would be able to cope with the modifications necessary to follow subsequent directions.

Buoyed by such a cheering prospect, I performed a reluctant
volte face
. Halfway back up the first long, bouldery climb, I saw an optical illusion: a saloon car parked at the top of the hill. Then the optical illusion started to move, bouncing alarmingly over the stones and ruts. Recognising potential salvation, I started sprinting towards it. Progress was hampered, however, by trying to wave and blow my whistle at the same time. One-handed, uphill sprinting over rocky ground, on a mountain bike while trying to whistle Dixie as loudly as possible is not as easy as it might seem.

Rather surprisingly, the occupants of the car eventually became aware of my presence. Even more surprisingly, they had the courage to stop. It was something of a disappointment to discover they were as lost as I was, though on reflection it was the only reasonable explanation for such an inappropriate vehicle being found in the current surroundings. My own baffling presence suddenly seemed harder to explain.

I clambered back over the banks of snow marked by my solitary tyre tracks. Each pedal stroke was a further reminder of my folly. Surely I should be back on the route by now? I read and re-read the route description. It could just as well have been written in Chinese.

Then the silence of the forest was broken by a noise. It was the rhythmic throb of a rescue helicopter. Clearly, somebody back home had observed my plight and sent a message to the powers that be that I needed a little assistance. Oh, the wonders of modern technology.

The noise grew louder. I scanned the skies above but to no avail. Distracted, I was suddenly alarmed to be nearly run over. It turned out not to be a virtual rescue, but a typical Montana family on a quad bike outing. I tried to conceal my disappointment.

Once stopped, my new potential saviours unwittingly did a passable impression of the Three Bears of nursery rhyme fame: great big papa bear; equally great big mama bear; and surly, be-hooded adolescent bear.

‘How ya doing?' said papa bear.

‘I'm fine, but I'm a bit lost,' I replied.

‘Where ya headed?'

I managed to stop myself saying Mexico.

‘Basin, but I need to make sure I go past the old Hattie Ferguson and Morning Glory mines.'

I couldn't have fallen upon better guides. Surly, be-hooded adolescent bear obligingly unfolded the map and papa bear did the explaining. Mama bear nodded approvingly.

‘We've just moved out to the country from Helena and we're out exploring ourselves. Last time we came up this way we got lost too, it's a maze of tracks and trails. Anyways, let's see.'

On his immensely detailed map he quickly determined where we were. I was about quarter of a mile short of my original route, where it would be a simple question of turning left to get back on track. I thanked them profusely. They insisted it was nothing worthy of praise. I persisted embarrassingly – a week in the wilderness does nothing for social etiquette.

Surly, be-hooded adolescent bear asked where I was headed after Basin. I said Butte, then added, rather hesitantly, Mexico. If I managed to stop getting lost, that was.

‘Wow, that's some trip,' he replied, his face lighting up.

I explained about the race. His enthusiasm was contagious. I vowed to stop judging youthful Montanans by their dress sense.

‘It sure is nice to see ya here in Montana,' said papa bear as our ways parted.

The rest of the descent to Basin was straightforward. After a welcome lunch at the town's only restaurant, I enjoyed the dubious pleasure of riding roughly parallel to Interstate 15 on a ‘non-maintained cattle access trail' for the next hour. The sky had turned a menacing, uniform grey. An old, unlit railway tunnel dated 1911 offered fleeting intrigue, but the landscape scars of mine works were as nothing compared to the despoliation created by miles upon miles of motorway.

Next came a paved road that ran right alongside the Interstate. Eight-axle trucks thundered past a mere stone's throw away. At least I had a headwind to distract me; at least I wasn't on the Interstate.

I had spoken too soon. It was there, in the route description, in black and white, and not in Chinese: the last 6 miles of the day would be the other side of the barrier on the Interstate itself. I pictured myself riding down the M23 at home. It was ridiculous; there was no choice.

Mercifully, only the first third of a mile was uphill. After that I began to pick up speed. And more speed. The descent was straight and long. I adopted an aerodynamic tuck and freewheeled down the hard shoulder at 40 mph. Lorries found it difficult to overtake. I toyed with the idea of playing chicken into the intersection with Interstate 90. It was quite thrilling; thrilling enough to distract me from the view of distant snow-clad mountains to my right and Our Lady of the Rockies, a 90-foot statue of the Virgin Mary, to my left.