Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Photo by Rich Addicks
Of course, I've had an occasional bit of company on this trip, and when I get past the
Mississippi River and closer to places where I actually know people, I'm likely to have
more. But even when you're with someone else—a photographer in a car, say—when
you're working to put a stretch of road behind you, especially on a day like today when
the heat, the hills, and the headwinds are a malign cohort, you're on your own. The
lungs that are heaving are yours alone, the legs that are pumping yours, and the will that
threatens to give out and give up is something only you can fortify.
Today was brutal, in other words, a challenge not just toward the end of the ride after
I'd run out of steam but almost from the beginning. I'd gotten used to U.S. 2, skimming
over the oceanic plain of the Hi-Line, but State Route 13 south from Wolf Point is a sine
curve, a tormentingly repetitive series of camel humps that goes on for more than fifty
miles. It was a wind-is-my-enemy day, too, a steady, push-in-the-face breeze blowing
forcefully enough from the south that I had to push the pedals on the downhills; it was
almost a relief to reach the bottom, start to ascend, and ride behind the shield of an up-
hill slope. There were no services at all, just fields and ranchland, and not even a place
to sit on the side of the highway—not a bench, a bus stop, an abandoned car, or a flat
