Two Wheels on my Wagon (18 page)

I rang home to try and find out some more about the state of the race and conditions to come.

‘Everybody's suffering from the weather and the mud,' said Catherine.

She meant it as a reassurance but, given the geographical spread of the participants, it was also alarming. There was a lot of mud still to come. We were not out of Montana yet but, in spite of conditions every bit as bad as we had experienced, Matthew Lee at the front of the race was nearly into Colorado. I didn't want to work out how many miles ahead that meant he was. Chris Plesko and Kurt Refsnider weren't far behind, and neither was the Petervarys' tandem. After that came a group of riders at least three days ahead of us, with a few more stragglers in between. Behind us, it was a relief to hear that Deanna was still plugging away on her fixed-gear bike, but 12 riders had now dropped out. We were guaranteed a place in the top 30, assuming we finished.

I also checked the Tour Divide website. There was a message from Tim, my brother-in-law, and his wife Lisa. Lisa had been remarkably prescient.

‘Lisa's view on the mud problem (getting stuck, pushing your bike, cleaning your bike, pushing some more) is: don't bother. Find a nice little café somewhere, cup of tea, piece of malt loaf, read a book, and soon enough it will be time for dinner. Mmm, yummy pizza, perhaps a piece of cheesecake and then go to bed nice and early. Wake up for a lovely cup of tea, and then some more malt loaf a bit later. Stuff the mud and biking nonsense.'

Tim, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff.

‘I view your noble endeavour with the utmost admiration and approval. I'd almost like to be there myself. It's just the mud and cycling bit that puts me off.'

More food was consumed. In fact, the day's theme was food, and the food at Jan's was excellent. This was just as well, as the more I ate, the hungrier I became.

Breakfast had been a fry-up preceded by porridge and followed by several rounds of toast. The aching hours between finishing that feast and lunch had been filled by a meagre snack – a slab of chocolate cake and a banana. Lunch itself was a main-meal salad followed by fish and chips and apple pie with ice cream. Afternoon snack was more pie.

By dinner time – we could scarcely make it past 5 p.m. – this conspicuous consumption provided an opportunity to learn some more about the peculiar vocabulary of US cuisine.

‘What exactly is a chicken-fried steak?' asked Per.

Stephen, being the only native in our group, took it upon himself to explain.

‘Basically, it's nothing to do with chicken, it's just a steak covered in breadcrumbs and fried in a pan. That's what it is in Mississippi, anyway. And you sometimes get brown gravy with it.'

‘Sounds good, I'll try one of those,' Per decided.

It was something of a surprise he didn't ask for two. Bereft of imagination I ordered the same as at lunch time.

In between meals I read the mighty
Lima Ledger
, subtitled
The Preservation of News in the Red Rock River Valley
.

Preservation had obviously been something of a recent concern – this was only issue 34 of Volume Two – but the headline suggested ‘news' was something of a rare commodity.

‘Come enjoy 4th July in Lima! “Celebrate Small Town America”.'

The events to be enjoyed were still nearly two weeks away, and the edition I was reading was dated a week earlier. Yet it sounded promising.

‘Start your day with a pancake breakfast sponsored by the Lima Voluntary Fire Department. Pancakes, sausage, eggs and coffee or juice $5.'

Thereafter, an eclectic range of activities would be on offer: bed races; a horseshoe tournament; half a beef at 2 p.m. (to benefit the Springhill Assisted Living centre); and FREE swimming at the Lima Community Pool between 3 p.m. and 6 p.m. The day's festivities were to be rounded off by a ‘Patriotic Community Sing-A-Long Karaoke' and a firework display. If my race came to an end before the 4th of July, I knew where to come.

There was also some real ‘news' in the form of an article about the hospital in Dillon to which Ray had been taken and which had signed a deal to purchase land for its expansion. Construction was not due to be finished until the end of 2011, however, so Ray would have to make do with the existing services.

Further diversion came in the form of the brief history of Lima provided on the back of the café's menu. I learned that ‘in former days, Lima flourished as a railroad town'. Its principal attributes had been a spring providing water for passing steam engines and a location ideal for crew changes on the route between Pocatello and Butte. The tracks still passed through the town, but not many trains.

After the demise of the railroad, ranching had become the biggest business in the area.

‘The rest of us are hanging in here, proud of our community and making it with hard work, diligence and social security,' the menu continued.

Clearly a sense of humour was an important attribute too. Then came the somewhat vexed origin and pronunciation of the town's name.

‘If you want to know how Lima acquired its name, ask the waitress, she can probably make up as good a story as any.'

I asked the waitress.

‘Oh, you mean the lime in the water that fouled up the trains' boilers?'

I said that sounded plausible.

‘But nobody really knows,' she added.

And the pronunciation?

‘Lyme-ah – like the bean.'

‘Not Leema like the city in Peru, then?'

‘No.'

Perhaps that explained the absence of Paddington Bear souvenirs.

There was even the chance to explore Lima. It didn't take long. Apart from Jan's, the town's services consisted of the Mountain View Motel, a sports bar, an Exxon gas station and store, a post office, a surprisingly well-stocked hardware store that had provided Ray with a cardboard box big enough for his bike, a school (home to the Lima Bears basketball team), an antiques and curios shop, a church and a swimming pool.

Of more interest, however, than the current meagre existence scraped from a rump population and passing traffic were the remnants of Lima's busier past. This included a timber-and-brick building seemingly on the verge of collapse that had been the original stage wagon stop and mercantile. A lean-to porch proudly bore a sign that read ‘Lima Historical Society', but the door was closed.

Further evidence of the obsession to legitimise the tenuous present by celebrating fragments of a not particularly glorious history was found nearby. In a small display cabinet, under a handwritten heading ‘Parts of Our Past', were a dozen or so black and white photos with explanatory notes. Perhaps the most intriguing had no accompanying photo, however.

‘In 1904 a fellow named Walter P. Chrysler was working as a machinist in the machine shops in Lima. He went on to build his Chrysler car and form his own corporation.'

Across the railway that bisected the town was a small grid of residential streets. All were fetchingly tree-lined, and the gravel roads faded pleasingly into informal lawns outside each plot. Pick-up trucks, preferably old and slightly battered, were the vehicle of choice. One bumper sticker read ‘I love Ronald Reagan'. The houses themselves were mostly low and detached, with well-tended gardens. As if to prove the point, a large woman in a flowery nylon frock, blue slippers and pink rubber gloves mulched her rockery in front of a US flag.

‘It's a lovely evening now,' she said as I ambled past.

In the warm glow and long shadows of the lowering sun, still just above the imposing flanks of the Tendoy Mountains, I couldn't help but agree. With the wind temporarily concealing the noise of the Interstate it was a delightful spot.

I returned to the diner for one last feed before bed.

‘A piece of your delicious pie, please.'

After having already sampled three varieties (apple, pear and apricot), I needed only pecan to complete the set.

‘They really are good,' I enthused to nobody in particular.

The still heavily made-up proprietor, who had further won our hearts by mopping up Ray's blood and uncomplainingly sweeping away the mud that inevitably accumulated after each of our visits, pointed to her husband.

‘It's the big guy who makes the pies.'

His size suggested he was a keen advocate of tasting his wares, too. A fellow diner asked where I was headed. I said down the Centennial Valley into Idaho.

‘Jeez, I wouldn't even take a goddam' horse down that trail.'

On that much, at least, we were agreed. Another visitor, a huge man who could not be described accurately without descending into a caricature of lumberjacks past, joined the conversation. I explained we were then headed to Mexico.

‘I sure admire your intestinal fortitude,' said the newcomer.

I wasn't sure if he meant the food I was eating or the route I was taking. Nevertheless, given the size of his own waistline, this was praise indeed. We watched the weather forecast on the TV.

‘It's exceptional rainfall for the area and for the time of year. We've had two inches in the past week,' said the presenter.

Two inches might not have sounded a lot, but it was nearly a quarter of the yearly average.

‘It's been very cold too. Yesterday there was a high of only 28°F in West Yellowstone, and it's mostly been in the low 40s.'

‘Yep, it's the worst weather in 30 years, probably longer,' confirmed the man-mountain. ‘My grandpa homesteaded down here so I've been coming here for ever – he was in his 60s – and I've never known it so cold and wet.'

T
uesday, 23 June dawned clear and bitterly cold. There was frost on the cars as we bade something of a sad farewell to Lima. Hands, ears, nose and feet froze almost immediately.

To begin with the road passed through the low canyon of the Red Rock River Valley above where it spilled out into the broader surroundings of Lima. The early morning sunlight ahead of us was brightening the hills to each side, but we rode in shadow. We had been warned the trail would be gumbo, but in fact we were now reaping the benefit of yesterday's fine weather and drying wind. Treacherous sticky patches remained but could by and large be avoided.

After about an hour we passed the dam at the head of Lima Reservoir. A pair of pelicans huddled together on the water. The sun shone from a faultless blue sky and the land broadened again considerably. It was easy to see why Montana was known as ‘Big Sky Country'.

Though still loosely following the eastward track of the Red Rock River, we were now in the Centennial Valley. This time, however, the pleasure of the mountains was indirect, in the great, isolated upland basin they created ahead of us rather than the immediacy of their presence. Some distance to the north was a gentle range, dusted with fresh snow. To the south, nearly 10 miles away, was a more crenellated ridge that marked the frontier between Montana and Idaho. In between was a vast sweep of grassland and sagebrush interspersed with wetlands. I spotted my first pronghorn antelope of the trip.

After two days of purgatory we were elated to find ourselves in cycling heaven. The valley was flat, the sun was out and the wind was helpful. Progress was good. Then Per drew to an abrupt halt. Trevor and Stephen, by now accustomed to his various mechanical issues and the speed with which he could resolve them, carried on.

I stopped, as much out of curiosity and a desire to inspire such companionable behaviour should I ever find my progress stalled as out of concern. I could not offer any help – and not just because of my limited mechanical skills. One of the handful of rules of the Tour Divide was that every rider must be entirely self-sufficient.

‘What's the problem?'

‘It's just the bolt that holds the panniers on that needs tightening.'

Nothing serious, then.

‘I thought you'd tightened them all up yesterday.'

‘I did.'

It turned out Per's preparation for the race and his choice of equipment had been even more haphazard than mine. He had only bought his mountain bike a few weeks before the start and had built it up himself. His pannier rack had been the cheapest he could find, and the bolts clearly weren't up to the jolting they had received. To reduce the weight it had to carry, he had used an old leather belt to strap his sleeping bag under his saddle. He'd also had to extend the bottom of the rack with brackets from a hardware store to accommodate his extra large wheels.

‘I've got two spare brackets with me as they keep wearing out. I've had to replace one already,' he explained breezily.

‘Most people have spent the past year carefully selecting the best kit and testing it to destruction,' I pointed out.

‘Where's the fun in that?'

We were quickly on our way again. The cycling might have been good, but it was still likely to be a long day. After Lima, there were nearly 90 miles with no services. This time we were motivated by more than simple necessity, however. We wanted to cover sufficient ground to convince ourselves that making it all the way to Mexico was still a possibility. Yesterday's rest had been entirely beneficial, but the fact we needed a rest at all was a cause for some concern.

We had also discovered an extra reason to start moving more quickly. Per's limited holiday entitlement meant he had been constrained to book his return flight to the UK on 11 July. Allowing a day to travel to the airport in Phoenix, that gave us seventeen days including the current one to reach Antelope Wells.

‘Plenty of time,' said Per.

Buoyed by the morning's success, we readily agreed, at least until the atrophied cogs of our mental calculators began slowly to turn. So far, we reckoned, we had covered little more than 800 miles. It had taken us 11 days, which gave an average of not much more than 70 miles per day. Even discounting the rest day, on the tempting but fallacious premise that it obscured an accurate assessment of the speed at which we had cycled, we had only covered 80 miles each day.