Two Wheels on my Wagon (16 page)

No sooner had we prised open the doors of the Wise River Club with hands frozen into claws than we were greeted like long-lost friends. It turned out that the owner, Tom, an escapee from Scotland, thought we
were
long-lost friends. The fact that we were not, readily verifiable once we had peeled off our outer layers and wiped the mud from our faces, did not seem to concern him.

‘There was an English lad came through on the same race last year, I thought you were him,' he explained.

I asked if it had been Alan. He said yes. Apparently, Alan and his then riding companion had turned up first thing in the morning, famished after spending the night somewhere on Mount Fleecer, only to find the restaurant closed. Tom's wife met them in the shop and had taken them home, where Tom had cooked them a splendid pancake breakfast. Whether inspired by this particular bout of hospitality, or a long-held desire to cater for passing cyclists, he had subsequently bought the very same restaurant-cum-hotel. For us, the outcome could not have been better.

We were given free run of the covered veranda to remove and hang out sodden clothes, as well as access to the tumble dryer (an inebriated woman wobbled off after we had started the machine, vowing to set her husband on us for having had the temerity to remove her dried laundry; when the husband duly arrived he asked politely if he might put the few damp items back in once we had finished; it was briefly tempting to say ‘no' to see what happened, but common sense prevailed). We were then positively encouraged to steam and pong to our hearts' content in the diner as we demolished the finest burgers tasted to date. We also discovered we were not the only cyclists in the village.

‘Hey, Tour Divide racers,' said a voice.

It belonged to a mop of blond hair above a lined and stubbled face (more lined and stubbled than it had been in Banff, at least). It was Dallas resident Ray. He had arrived earlier that morning, having spent the previous night in the very same Montana Hilton Steve and I had passed earlier that day. He had been asleep in a room upstairs for several hours, but still looked as if he were trying to warm up. He joined us to eat.

After more burgers and more coffee, Steve and I began to plan our next move. It was only 4 p.m., but it was still raining. Ray looked aghast.

‘I ain't goin' out there again today,' he said.

Undeterred, or at least unwilling to admit it to each other, Steve and I resolved to ride another 33 miles to Elkhorn Hot Springs. It was not far, we reasoned, and it was all on tarmac. What's more, the famous Mr Leipheimer had said the scenery along the Pioneer Mountains National Scenic Byway made it one of his favourite road rides in the whole state, a real gem.

Clearly, the unlikely outcome of the morning's tribulations had been an unhealthy dose of bravado. We chose to ignore the impact of our earlier exertions; we conveniently overlooked the fact that it was uphill almost all the way and that it culminated in the highest point of the trip so far. More bone-headed still, and in spite of the overwhelming evidence to the contrary – it was still raining – we told ourselves the sky was brightening. The fact that we were likely to see nothing of the area's fabled beauty was also disregarded.

‘It's bound to stop raining soon,' I enthused, irrationally.

Ray wished us good luck in a tone that indicated just how much he thought we would need it. He also said he would think about setting off again the next morning if the weather had improved.

By 5 p.m. we were on the road again. We didn't arrive until nearly 9 p.m. For the first hour or so we managed to find sufficient Dunkirk spirit to keep ourselves entertained. Conversation ranged widely from children to more politics via flooding in Iowa city and the contemporary relevance of ancient story-telling techniques. Then conversation waned. I sang tunelessly. Morale dropped ever lower. After that we each sank into silent worlds of mutual recrimination. At least, I did, and uncharitably I transposed my own sentiments to Steve. For two more hours we plodded upwards, accompanied by malevolent thoughts and monstrous trees. We may have been on a paved road, but civilisation was a distant prospect.

Just as all hope seemed lost (it really seemed that bad), we reached the plateau that signalled an end to the day's climbing. The land lay open in all directions. In the gloaming of impending dusk and lowering cloud it had an ethereal beauty that raised even our sodden spirits. Infinite shades of green faded into infinite shades of grey. Herds of elk sheltered at the woods' edge. They considered us pityingly, yet so inured had we become to the cold and damp and so lovely was the land that it seemed almost a shame to leave.

The realisation that we might already be too late for food and a bed for the night brought a quick end to such nonsense. We staggered up the steps into the timber lodge. Once again we were greeted with enormous warmth and enormous portions. The wind howled and the rain poured but we were warm and dry. It was the perfect end to an imperfect day.

I
had a dream in the middle of the night. A drunken man was wandering around the upper floor of the lodge, opening and closing doors loudly, and shouting.

‘Hello. Hello. Where ish everybody? I've got a reshervation.'

I woke up to find it wasn't a dream. It was a real-life nightmare. There really was a drunken man doing exactly as I thought I had dreamt. As I finally slid back into consciousness, I realised Steve, clad only in a towel, was on his way to the door. It didn't need an ice-frozen Iowa River to inspire his inner hero. I stayed in bed. It was 2 a.m.

Steve went into the corridor.

‘What are you doing shouting and waking everybody up?' he asked in a very conciliatory tone given the circumstances.

‘I need a room for the night.'

Judging by the crashing and banging that had just taken place, he had already discovered for himself that half a dozen of the rooms upstairs were empty, but inebriation seemed to have compromised his short-term memory.

‘And I've got a reshervation,' he slurred, drawing a piece of paper from a pocket.

Steve clearly had several reservations about this unwelcome interloper, but considered the evidence proffered to him.

‘But that's not here, that's somewhere else,' explained Steve.

‘But it shays I've got a reshervation,' the drunkard insisted.

‘You have got a reservation. It's at another hotel. Now you must leave,' said Steve calmly.

It took several more minutes for the incontrovertible force of Steve's syllogism to register, but eventually the gatecrasher could be heard trying to open the external door. Then, alarmingly, a car door also opened and children's voices could be heard. The door slammed and the engine fired before the car and its occupants disappeared to an uncertain fate in a flurry of revs and wheelspin.

We woke again at 7 a.m. After yesterday's exertions and the nighttime disruptions it was too early, yet it was already too late for what lay ahead. The permanent closure of a shop – the shop – in Grant 40 miles ahead meant there were now no services of any kind until Lima, more than 100 miles away. No food was one thing. The prospect of spending a night on a bare mountain, or possibly a bear mountain, in weather like we had just experienced, was quite another.

The lodge owner had promised breakfast at 8 a.m. With no opportunity for re-supply en route, there seemed little option but to wait. I packed my belongings, separating wet from not-so-wet, and tried not to draw the obvious conclusion from the fact that Steve was not doing the same. In our reduced state last night we had both talked about the possibility of holing up for a day if yesterday's conditions were going to persist. Peering through the curtains, it was not raining outside yet, but the volume and colour of the clouds suggested it was only a temporary truce.

We went downstairs. As we waited for breakfast to appear, Steve confirmed what had already become apparent. He wasn't going to continue the race. I was devastated. I didn't think my singing the previous day had been that bad.

I asked if waiting a day with him would make a difference, trying to disguise my ulterior motives. After all, there were worse places to pass the time, and the eponymous hot springs would do wonders for chilled and aching limbs.

‘No, I think that's me done.'

It turned out a nagging reduction in his enjoyment levels over the past few days had been exacerbated by the cold and rain and had turned a challenge into a chore. There was no doubt the conditions were atypical for the area and time of year.

‘I just don't want to put myself through another soaking.'

The decision had obviously been a difficult one, but Steve's previous exploits made it clear he had nothing to prove in terms of resilience or courage. A lack of satisfaction in the task at hand was now the determining factor. In contrast, it was to a large degree a lack of imagination that compelled me to keep going; stubbornness and the ensuing ignorance of often much more appealing alternatives had always been in my nature. It also appeared that being brought up in Yorkshire had its benefits when it came to dealing with inclement weather.

Even without the imagination to stop, I wavered. Wet socks and gloves and shoes did little for morale. Finally, encouraged by Steve and too fearful of the distance still to come to prevaricate further, I set off again on my own.

Twenty minutes later Steve was bemused and concerned to see me reappear in the dining room.

‘Don't worry. I made it five minutes down the road when I realised I didn't have my SPOT tracker. It took me quarter of an hour to climb back up again.'

The effort was worth it, though. If I was to be alone in the real world, I at least wanted to be sure of virtual company.

It was 8.40 a.m. by the time I was definitively under way. The sky was filled by ragged grey clouds, interspersed with just enough blue to patch a pair of Dutchman's trousers, as my grandma would have said. There was a strong, cold wind, but it was still dry.

In little time the road spilled out of its narrow gorge onto a much broader valley. In the confines of the canyon it had been possible to ignore the fact that I was on my own. Here, the scale of the land served to increase my solitude. Vast acres of cattle ranches and sage scrub spread left and right, stopping only at distant mountains, their tops covered in fresh snow. Buildings were scarce. The road was long and straight.

After nearly an hour I came to a junction where there was a sign for ‘Wisdom'. Fittingly, it was 32 miles in the wrong direction. Another straight, empty road followed until the route turned off to Bannack State Park. The ghost town of Bannack had been the site of Montana's first gold rush in 1862 and, in 1864, it had become the then Montana Territory's first capital. Then, almost as quickly, it had been abandoned as the gold dried up and new, richer veins were discovered elsewhere. A mile off-route, 50 preserved buildings were all that remained. Helena, the chief beneficiary of Bannack's demise, was clearly a success in comparison.

Thereafter, evidence of human activity was at a new premium, except for an incongruous information board to the side of the trail. It bore witness to the passage of Lewis and Clark, who had travelled this way in 1806 on their return from having been the first white men to traverse the United States overland to reach the Pacific. There was a diary entry made by Clark on 6 July:

The trail was now clearly in the ‘low bottoms very boggy' rather than the ‘high dry and uneaven Stoney open plains'. No sooner had the metalled road ceased than progress did too. The recent rain had turned the surface into mush through which it was impossible to cycle. Soon it became almost impossible to walk. I cursed the fat tyres I had fitted to the bike especially for the ride. Balled up with mud, the clearance between tyres and forks was soon exceeded. Rotation stopped.

I broke a sweet-smelling branch from a nearby sage bush and disconsolately poked at the congealed mass. Having succeeded in temporarily clearing the blockage, I stood up and surveyed the situation. The sun was now shining, but it was not encouraging.

I started to push again. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of something moving. It disappeared, then reappeared an indeterminate distance ahead of me on the trail. Aware of the risk of hallucinations, I spent some time denying its resemblance to a cyclist. Eventually, however, the temptation became impossible to resist.

Inspired by the prospect of company, however unlikely, I redoubled my efforts. I shouted, I waved, I blew my bear whistle, all to no avail. Nevertheless, with no thought to saving energy for what was still to come, I closed in on my prey. At last, almost spent, I discerned it was Ray. One last effort brought me to within hailing distance.

‘Ray! Ray! Ray!'

He stopped his own laborious attempts at progress.

‘Ray, what are you doing here?'

‘I keep asking myself the same question.'

Although having seemed on the verge of abandoning the race the previous day at Wise River, he was clearly made of sterner stuff. Finally thawed out, he had set off before dawn and already covered nearly 60 miles on his single-speed bike. It was impressive stuff.

After a brief pause for refreshment we resumed our battle with the terrain. Gradually, after another couple of miles, things improved and we were able to ride again, short stretches at first, then a whole mile in one go. With the gradient now also on our side we had just picked up some much needed momentum when we found another reason to come to a halt. Four more cyclists were gathered in a farmyard.