Two Wheels on my Wagon

by Paul Howard

  On closer inspection the town consisted of no more than a crossroads, the branches of which were populated by half a dozen motels, a couple of diners, a post office and two gas stations with convenience stores attached. And JR’s Taxidermy Studios (‘Mounts on Show!’); just as long as they hadn’t taken to stuffing cyclists. It ill behoves a rider on the Tour Divide to moan about such a broad array, but somehow Lincoln’s practical benefits were outweighed by its sombre ambience. The forest seemed to have thickened again and its tentacles had enveloped the town.

  Or maybe it was just me. Progress had been good and the scenery stunning, but I felt listless. Glum, even. Maybe Ovando had been too welcoming. Maybe I needed to avoid such creature comforts in order to better endure the rigours of the ride. I used the payphone at a gas station to call home and relay how much fun I had been having. Clearly I was not very convincing.

  ‘But you’re doing so well,’ said Catherine, unprompted.

  ‘Am I? I mean, I am?’

  ‘Yes! You’re not far from catching a group ahead of you, and there are still people behind you. Benjamin’s very proud – you’re not last.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  It seemed churlish to take offence at the surprise that had accompanied this last remark. I, too, had come to the conclusion that all those further back would have had the good sense to give up and go home. I had assumed the Lanterne Rouge was mine for the taking.

  ‘And everybody here is addicted to watching your blue dot on the website, so you’d better keep moving.’

  People outside my immediate family were watching li’l ol’ me? Almost instantly I was transformed, in my own perception at least, from lonely wanderer to mountain bike racer with a global fan club, an ambassador for adventurers the world over. Did the good people of Lincoln – which by now seemed a much more charming place – know who I was, I wondered, as the gas station complemented my spiritual nourishment with more practical sustenance. Fortunately the question remained rhetorical.

  I breakfasted on the porch: two pies, two pastries, two chocolate bars, two cups of coffee but only one banana.

  ‘That sure saves on fuel,’ said a man, motioning to my bike, not what I was consuming. ‘It’s costing me a fortune these days.’

  I noticed that the truck to which he returned after buying his groceries had been left with its throbbing V8 engine running all the time he’d been inside. It seemed wise not to say anything.

  Replenished, I resumed my journey. It was just after 10 a.m. High clouds obscured half the sky, but the weather seemed set fair. The aim of the day was to reach Helena, Montana’s state capital and one of the biggest settlements on the entire route. In the intervening 65 miles there were two major climbs, not to mention the first three US crossings of the Continental Divide itself. There were also several sections of route described on the map as ‘rough’.

  The first of these materialised after less than an hour.

  ‘Next 4.4 miles are extremely steep uphill, but they lead through fascinating country with several stream crossings,’ read the description.

  ‘Extremely steep’ turned out to be an understatement. It was also stretching a point to suggest the admittedly delightful woodland, though perhaps not fascinating, was sufficient distraction. Previously, with the exception of the connector, all stints of bike-pushing had been brought on by seasonal modifications to the underlying terrain: snow; mud; overflowing streams; fallen trees. Here, it was necessary to push because of the underlying terrain. Not only was it steep, but the trail consisted almost exclusively of a succession of boulders, some fixed, most not. It was tiring work.

  At the top, the reward was to traverse a flower-strewn meadow to the east side of the Continental Divide for the first time since before crossing Elk Pass in Canada. I staged a photo of relief masquerading as joyous celebration. Then came a freewheeling descent, through a noticeably more arid landscape, that immediately paralleled the nascent Marsh Creek. It seemed quite feasible, and almost equally appealing, to swap the bike for a canoe and continue downhill all the way to the Mississippi delta. At the junction with Little Prickly Pear Creek, however, our routes diverged. Huckleberry Finn would have to be left for another day.

  It was nearing midday. I treated myself to an apple pie. Quite why such a simple dish required a list of ingredients that covered the entire back of the packet was a mystery, not least because most of the ingredients were either unidentifiable or unpronounceable, or both. It was delicious.

  What goes down must go back up. Another hour-long climb, rideable this time, returned me to the western side of the Divide. It also heralded another change in scenery. I was now in mining country. Or, to be more accurate, I was in what had once been mining country.

  So far every habitation on the route had been predicated on exploiting the area’s natural resources. Most owed their existence to primary industries, mainly logging and agriculture; only Banff and Whitefish had transcended this reliance, though being service centres for visiting tourists ensured the essential link with their surroundings was unbroken.

  Here it was mineral wealth. The precariousness of such a dependence was abundantly clear. Remnants of mining camps and the mines themselves dotted the scarred landscape. Not all of Montana was so fortunate in its abandonment as Ovando. I rode alongside a giant, crumbling lime kiln. It was as if a modern Ozymandias had briefly passed this way, but his legacy was no longer lasting than that of his ancient counterpart.

  ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.’

  Here, the despair was not just the dilapidation wrought on such mighty constructions in scarcely 100 years. It was also the despoliation of the surrounding landscape that would take much longer to heal.

  The day’s final crossing of the Divide was a simple affair, the route for once having deigned to remain near the crest of the ridge between passes. The roughness of the trail persisted, however. Boulders vied with ruts and roots to cause havoc to passing cyclists. It came as something of a surprise, therefore, to turn a corner and find a man ostensibly mending the track ahead. Alone, and bereft of such modern conveniences as a digger, I suggested he had his work cut out; an Ozymandias for straitened times.

  ‘Oh, I’ll just keep doing a bit here and a bit there.’

  He may not have been much of a road builder but he was a considerable mountain-bike enthusiast. Although appearing to be well into his 60s, he had recently ridden more than 300 miles off-road across Iowa, and warmed visibly to my description of events so far.

  ‘Say, when I get this ol’ rock moved you could come and stay at my house. I’ve plenty of room and you could give the bike a once-over.’

  It was a kind offer, but his house was 7 miles off-route, which seemed too high a price to pay. More importantly, an innate fear, fuelled by Hollywood, of psychopaths haunting just such locations to lure unsuspecting passers-by to meet a gruesome end, possibly later to be featured on an extreme reality TV show, was another factor in my decision to decline. He took it well, and showed no ill-feeling by recommending I stop at Van’s Thriftway supermarket on the way into town for supplies.

  The rest of the descent into Helena passed almost too rapidly, dropping 2,000 feet in 15 miles and half an hour, most on the smooth tarmac of US Highway 12. It seemed like a cruel taxation on the day’s efforts thus far, though no doubt I would have plenty of opportunity to earn it again tomorrow.

  The outskirts of town marked the beginning of 2 miles of hideous strip development – a procession of prefabricated showrooms selling everything from air-conditioning to real estate, interrupted only by parking lots and the streets of the town’s grid layout. Weeds grew in the cracks in the sidewalk. The sun, up till now a benign presence, began to beat a tattoo on the bleached, dusty concrete. And on my head.

  I came to Van’s. Like its neighbours, it appeared cheap and not overly cheerful. A boy scout standing at the entrance selling popcorn to raise funds to attend a jamboree agreed to watch over my bike while I went inside. The fi
rst priority was to replenish my depleted stock of elastic bands, which I used to hold various bits of kit together. I asked a passing shop worker where I might find some.

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER 11

  SIGNS OF LIFE

  DAY 8

  Following 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.