Days 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26 The Great Plains Part 2: North Dakota

JUNE 29 Culbertson MT to Williston ND

This was the shortest day of the trip so far, at 43 miles. It was also our second day of eating out for breakfast. we stopped into a little truck stop before hitting the road. The riding went fairly easily over some mildly rolling hills (yes, there are hills in the Great Plains!) and we passed into North Dakota around 10 in the morning... well, actually around 11 in the morning because at the boarder we switched over from Mountain Time to Central Time. The last miles into Williston seemed the longest, a problem dad and I call Last "Ten Mile Syndrome": without fail, every day, short or long, headwind or tailwind, hilly or flat, the last ten miles seem to drag on for ever; they're always the hardest miles of the day because the end is in sight.

Our first stop in Williston was the local Dairy Queen. After our lunch of ice cream, we headed off to find the city park to camp in, following instructions given us by the server at DQ. Just shy of the park, we ran into Michael who had ridden to Williston at his own speed, taking it easy in hops that his knee would get better. The three of us rode into the park together. Just as Michael unclipped his shoe and started to put his foot down, a couple hundred mosuitoes materialized around him. "I'm getting a motel." he bit out, then put his foot back onto the pedal and rode away. Dad and I looked at each other, then followed him, batting away mosquitos as we went.

The first motel we tried, the El Rancho, had no vacancies. We were astounded. What were so many people doing in a small town of 12,000 in North Dakota? The next motel we tried, Super 8, had only 2 rooms left. Despite the fact that they were on the 3rd floor, meaning we would have to lug our bikes and bags up 3 flights of stairs, we jumped at what were probably the only two rooms available in town. While normally this Super 8 might've seem like a rather low-end motel, for a bike tourer it was paradise: beds with real pillows and (mostly) clean sheets, air conditioning, a real shower that didn't require quarters every couple of minutes, and the best part, a continental breakfast for the next morning.

Dad and I took extra long showers, then shoved all of our dirty clothes into a pillow case and headed down to the laundromat. In the laundromat, dad talked to a young, heavy-set woman about riding through Michigan, "Oh, there're great fruit stands there," she said, "My husband visited there once and he still talks about the peach he ate, 'best peach ever.'" Dad and I smiled eagerly, imagining our arrival in Michigan late in July to find hundreds of tasty little fruit stands dotting the road. After cleaning up, we went out to dinner at Applebees with Michael, then returned to the hotel. Just as we were getting ready for bed, Michael called, "Dave Henneghan just called. He says be in the lobby in a couple of minutes for a special treat." (Dave, Bill, and Pat were staying with Leroy, a graduate from the Naval Academy like Bill).

All of us trooped down to the lobby and Pat, Bill, Dave, and Leroy walked in, carrying a paper plate covered in tin foil. Inside were what tasted like peanut butter rice krispi treats frosted with chocolate. According to Leroy, they're sort of a local treat. Pat, Bill, and Dave had also come by to discuss some possible course changes, "You see," Bill said pointing at the map, "The Adventure Cycle route goes way down here, then back up to Minot and Rugby, then all the way back down to Fargo. I talked to Leroy, and he said there's another road that cuts out Minot and Rugby that will take us right into Fargo. But you can't give me a hard time if my short cut turns out bad." He grinned at the last part.

"Would you give us crap if we had a bad short cut?" Dad asked

"Hell yes." Bill laughed

"Well, then..." dad left it hanging and grinned.

JUNE 30 Williston to Newtown ND

That morning in Williston, we took full advantage of the Super 8's continental breakfast: doughnuts, waffles, cereal, orange juice, apple juice, milk; our only complaint was the lack of any fruit (we'd planned to eat some with breakfast, but also to take a few apples and bananas with us for the road... no such luck.) Michael planned to stay in Williston for the day to give his body a chance to recover, so we said our good byes (after having ridden with him for over 3 weeks) and then headed out on the road.

The ride out of Williston was easily the hardest ride of the entire trip: worse than any pass in Washington or any century in Montana. The core reason to the days difficulty was that dad and I had bought into the myth that North Dakota is flat as a pancake. We expected an easy 70 miles over flats, maybe battling a minor wind, but nothing serious. As I said, flat is a myth. All day, the road rolled up and down next to the Missouri River, dropping down to cross some little creek before steeply climbing up the other side. At first, this wasn't to bad; in fact, it felt sort of good to have some decent sized hills to climb after the relative flatness of Montana (not that Montana is pancake flat either). However, as the day wore on, the temperature rose into the 90s, and the road turned so we were riding directly into the wind, our moods soured considerably. Worse, when we were still about 15 miles out, Newtown appeared ahead of us, across a bend in the river. "Last Ten Mile Syndrome" set in early. By the time we reached Newtown, both of us were about ready to throw our bikes down, stick out our thumbs, and hitch-hike to the nearest Amtrack home. At the Supervalu store in New Town, dad picked up a powerade, and I grabbed a quart of chocolate milk, my new second favorite recover drink, after strawberry milkshakes.

After our brief rest, I set off to find the library while dad went in search of a camp spot. A few blocks down the road, I was unsure where the library was, so I stopped to ask someone. "Oh, it's right here." she said, looking up from the bed of flowers she was watering, "It's closed right now, but I can let you in." She let me in, and I soon settled down in front of a monitor and began to write. Over and hour later, a heavy set woman with tattoos on her arms (this is the standard look for many North Dakotans, we discovered) came in to shoo me off.

"I have to lock up now. You need to get off."

"Doesn't the library open at 5:00." I said, having seen the sign, "It's 4:40 right now..."

"I know that, but I have to lock up when I leave, and I'm leaving now."

Sighing, I rose from my chair. "Thank you for letting me use the computers." I said, then hurried to leave.

The camp we were staying in was rather scuzzy; it just had a run down feel to it. But the showers were warm and functional, and despite the grime, I didn't contract any fatal disease from using them. The heat that night was oppressive, and after the long day, I found it debilitating. As I crawled into my tent, Steve and Michael showed up at camp! "There was no room left in Williston!" Steve called, "We had to press on. After forty miles, we stopped and Michael hitched the rest of the way in. Hell of a ride!" They went about setting up camp and preparing dinner while I brushed my teeth (a rather rare occurrence on the road), read Crime and Punishment, and went to bed.

JULY 1 Newtown to Fort Stevenson ND

Leaving Newtown wasn't nearly as torturous as getting there had been. We had planned on leaving early, but I slept through my watch alarm set for 4:45 and didn't wake up until 6:00. Needless to say, Steve, always the early rise, gave us a bad time about this fact. Nothing exceptional happened during the ride to Fort Stevenson barring a mail stop at the tiny town of Ryder to send home our cold weather clothes. (I also sent home The Illiad, my other summer reading assignment besides Crime and Punishment, this one courtesy of Mr. Bangs. I decided I'll be lucky to plow my way through one of them, let alone two).

The truly exceptional part of the day was Fort Stevenson State Park, where we camped for the night. The entrance road was lined with hardwoods, giving the place the feel of a plantation or military establishment (hmmm, maybe the name Fort Stevenson isn't just a coincidence.) Our camp spot was surrounded by trees, providing ample shade, and overlooking Lake Sakakawea, a dam lake on the Missouri River. This was easily our most beautiful campsite since Colonial Creek Campground in Washington, and this one had the added benefit of having free showers (colonial creek had no running water).

This was our first day off of the Adventure Cycling maps, following Bill's alternative route to Fargo. That morning was the last time we've seen Michael or Steve on the trip (although we keep in contact with phones) because they chose to stick to the actual route and head up to Minot for a couple of rest days so Michael could finally get his chance to recover.

JULY 2 Fort Stevenson to Goodrich ND

Day four in North Dakota was much like many other days riding in the plains, except that we decided to ride with Pat, Bill, and Dave all day, because camping up the road (now that we were off of the Adventure Cycle route) was unsure, and we thought we stood a better chance together than alone. As we rode, I made it my mission to get to know Bill and Dave a little better. I started out talking to Bill about being a physics teacher, and before long the conversation wandered over to Bill's time in the navy. Before long, I learned that he had actually been the captain of a ship, an LST Landing Tank, in Japan. "Did your ship get a name?" I asked.

"Yes, the San Bernardino." Bill replied.

"A city in California?" I guessed.

"Actually, it's named for the biggest county in all of America."

"So, are there naming conventions?"

"Well, there used to be." he said slowly, "All LSTs were named for counties, all submarines were named for fish or sealife, all the carriers for famous battles...."

"Like the Yorktown?" I supplied.

"Yes, like the Yorktown, or the Saratoga. There was also the Bonnie Rischard." He ran off the names slowly, trying to remember them.

"Wait, the Bonnie Rischard?" That wasn't the name of any battle I'd ever heard of.

"It's French." Bill explained, "Bonnie for happy, Rischard for King Richard. It was named after a ship John Paul Jones had when he attacked the much bigger British ship, the Sarapiss, and uttered the famous line-"

" 'I have not yet begun to fight!' " we both said together. He paused for a second, "I guess I could sort of understand getting a degree in humanities if it was about history." he said eventually, sounding as though he felt he were betraying physics, "Just don't go get a degree in literature! That's totally useless."

After my conversation with Bill, I drifted back to talk with Dave for a while. Our discussion soon turned to economic policy. Our views disagree, but I'll leave it at that to avoid stepping on any toes. For the most part, I asked questions about his views, because in truth, I know very little about economics.

After lunch, my mood took a turn for the worse, largely because of a brutal side-wind and a nasty side ache (I convinced myself that my appendix had ruptured and that at any moment I would fall from my bike and die, lying on the hot pavement in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota.) Eventually, dad dropped back to ride with me, and taking it slow, my side ache started to go away. When I confided in dad my notion of a ruptured appendix, he did his best to calm my fears, "Oh, don't worry. Dave's a doctor, and we could sterilize my pocket knife above the camp stove. You'd be fine." He grinned at the obvious unease on my face.

We stopped for the night in the town of Goodrich, population 160 and shrinking because about 70% of the population is over 70 years old (statistics courtesy of Butch, one of the minority at only 60 years old). Rolling into camp, we saw Bill ambling out of the showers, "Better than sex." he sighed, drying off his hair.

"Liar." Dave said, never looking up from the bag he was rummaging through. Since we were the only ones in the park, I wound up taking my shower in the girls bathroom, since dad was using the guys side. The whole time, I was on edge, worried I'd be walked in on; that would have been mortifying. After the shower, I cooked dinner, while everyone else went off in search of beer. Bill and Pat came back after a short while, disgusted by the towns lack of stores. Ten minutes later, dad and Dave returned, triumphantly carrying 6 Bud Lites. Bill grunted disgustedly, but still took one. "I know, it doesn't really count as Beer." Dave said, "But it's the best we could do. we started talking to one of the guys out watering his garden, and before we knew it, he had invited us inside. His name is Butch" (Butch is in the picture above, between dad and Dave).
"Downstairs it was like a shrine to the New York Yankees." Dad said, taking up the story, "He also has a giant pantry, stalked up with all sorts of food because the nearest real store is 70 miles away. We told him we were looking for beer, and this is what he gave us."

"It might be better than nothing." Bill said, taking a drink.

JULY 3 Goodrich to Cooperstown ND

Again, another long day on the prairies. As Bill predicted, "The wind's coming from the South. A front's moving in." I never really noticed a 'front'. Still, he has an uncanny knack for predicting the direction of the wind; probably comes from being in the navy. Luckily, the wind had a slight bent to it, carrying us along all day.

That afternoon, when it was just dad and I riding together, we passed a beautiful, abandoned Lutheran Church, built in 1919 (there are tons of Lutheran Churches out here, you can barely go a mile without seeing one; I think it's because a majority of the original immigrants to this part of the country were Scandinavian, who are traditionally Lutheran.) Dad and I stopped to take pictures and read some of the names in the cemetery. As we stood in the midst of all the graves, up drove a silver car and out climbed two middle-aged ladies with curly blond hair. Dad and I began to head back to our bikes as they took pictures of the church, and as we passed we decided to stop and talk for a second. "Beautiful church, isn't it?" Dad said.

"Yes, definitely." one woman said, "Our grandparents used to go here. What I'd give to get inside."

"Oh, wouldn't that be cool." dad agreed.

"Yes. We're looking for our grandparents graves. No one in our family knows where they are. We even have an aunt who washed my grandma's body and sat with it for three days, but no one remembers where they're buried. We hope we'll find them here." We wished them luck in their hunt for their wayward grandparents, then climbed back on our bikes and rode off.

In Cooperstown, we met three new cyclists setting up their tents in the city park. We said hello, but soon rode away to set up camp by Pat, Bill , and Dave. After everyone had showered, we headed off to dinner. There were two options in 'downtown' Cooperstown: the Coachman Steakhouse, which was highly attractive to the Wisconsin Crew (Bill and Dave especially) because it offered a good selection of beer. The other option, the Pizza Ranch, while it didn't have beer, had an even stronger attraction: while Bill and Dave checked out the Coachman, a short man with white hair came over to us. When he talked, he displayed all of his upper teeth, "Y'know, you should eat here. An all ye kin eat buffet. I made it thru two plates. An' big sodas. Ya go ta the other place, ya only git what what ya order on your plate." He told us this at least three times, but our minds were made up after the first: an all you can eat buffet is like heaven on earth for a bicycle tourist. I ate until my stomach ached and bulged before I felt content.

JULY 4 Cooperstown to Fargo ND

During the ride out from Cooperstown, I got to know the three rider we had met at the park the day before, Bob and Barb (picture left) from Grayling, MI, and Jay (pictured below) from NC. Jay is a 67 year old who spent 20+ years in the marine corps. in 1976, he read an article about biking across the country, and wanted to do it until 2001, when he complete Adventure Cycle's Trans-America route from Oregon to Virginia. I'm amazed that he was able to wait 25 years before realizing his dream;I was getting antsy and eager after only two. This year, he decided to cross the country again, this time on the Northern Tier with his friend Jim. Everything went well until June 24th, in Eastern Montana. Jay got an early start, riding into a rainstorm, and expected Jim to catch up with him later. When Jim never showed up, he assumed they got separated in the rain. Jay arrived at his campground, he was accosted by a sheriff. Jim had died of a massive heart attack back at the last campground. He never even started riding that day.

"You're four years older...doesn't what happened to Jim make you a little worried?" I asked when he had finished telling me his story.

"No." Jay replied evenly, "I know my body. I know what I can handle. What I don't know is how many heart beats I have left. You can't know that." I thought that was a very good way to look at life.

At one point during the ride, I glanced in my mirror to see a car patiently waiting behind me. I quickly pulled in and waved apologetically to the driver (I later learned he'd sat back there for at least ten seconds.) Minutes later, dad rode up next to me, "Use your mirror or stay to the side of the road!" he scolded sharply. For some reason (probably a mixture of deep fatigue due to lack of a rest day, no trees, constant winds, and a high pace day in and day out) I became furious. I rocketed ahead at 16, 17, 18 miles per hour, ignoring the winds around me. Eventually, once I thought I had calmed down, I slacked off the pace a bit and let everyone else catch back up. Unfortunately, the anger wasn't quite out of my system, so dad and I soon fell to arguing. Luckily, a couple of miles along down the road I had calmed down, and we had both forgiven each other. I guess it was too much to hope for to make it all the way through the trip without bickering at all.

Our Fourth of July evening was pretty mundane. No fireworks. No parades. No parties. In truth, it was far better than that: we had a house to stay at. We stayed with the Grays (pictured left), whose son Beau is one of Pat's room mates at St. Olafs College. Beau, his brother Andrew, and his dad Brad were all rather quite, but his mom Cindy was very friendly and talkative. She was an amazing hostess, making sure we all had a place to sleep and enough to eat. At 10:30 that night, she walked up to me, "Were making smoothies with blueberries and strawberries. Whould you and your dad like one?"

"For tomorrow morning?" I asked, confused.

"No, right now." dad and I declined, being more than ready for bed, but someone must have taken her up on her offer, because before long we heard the whirr of the blender coming from the kitchen.