Saturday, July 2nd
I could have stayed in bed all morning. The wind had clearly kneeded my mind into a lobotomised state in which it was acceptable to watch badly made documentaries about Mayan ruins and informecials for hideous watches or kitchen gadgets and not feel guilty about it. Images flashed on the grainy screen a couple of metres from my bed and I tried to gather the energy to make the 20 second walk to reception where I was told coffee would be served, or rather dispensed, in the morning.
I tried to roughly map out this remaining month. Using an estimate of 65 miles a day I quickly established I needed a little more time. Getting to Vancouver in 28 days was certainly possible, but it might not be enjoyable. I would shortly be entering some of the most beautiful regions of this entire country, and to feel rushed though them would be a path to regret – both in terms of what I’d missed out on, and what I’d spend my time on early in the trip e.g an extra day in Fargo, taking in slowly in Ohio.
I phoned the airline my flight back to Europe was booked in. The hold music was a mix of otherwise forgotten early 2000s top 40 dance pop, and Guns And Roses covers in the John Lewis tradition by anonymous female vocalists, and it lasted almost 20 minutes. Eventually I spoke to a very friendly Canadian who provided me some options, I also got them to clarify the airlines position on bikes – $30 to get it on the flight, not bad compared with the $200 I’d had to pay at the airport in Tokyo.
I went and bought a doughnut and coffee and considered the dates and the costs involved and decided to move my flight back to Aug 8th. Giving me 9 extra days. This would allow me to have time to relax in Vancouver for a couple of days, and possibly take in some of Yellowstone and Glacier, or at least make a nice scenic route up through Washington. I rang them back, endured another half hour of music, and made the change. I instantly felt a lot more relaxed.
I finally set off sometime after 11. The owner warns me about rattlesnakes West of the Missouri River and let’s me take as many granola bars as I want from the basket on the counter. I take 5.
The rest of the day, the cycling part, is fairly joyless as I head back out into the wind which made yesterday so unbearable. It’s the same, maybe even stronger today. Jay, the guy I’d met on my way out of Fargo, told me how his first tough day of wind had made him cry. I though that was an extreme reaction at first but now I totally understand it.
The wind, paired with this vast, empty, in some ways sad, landscape, can definitely push you to an edge.
I’m still not sure what the best way to cope with the wind is. You can stop a lot, take breaks, but then starting again gets increasingly harder. There aren’t really any good places to take a break on these roads anyway. You can of course put extra effort in, but it all feels like a case of diminishing returns.
I just try and keep steady, in the narrow shoulder cyclists are given here, and detach myself with a podcast or 10.
It goes like this for the whole day. Things get marginally better much later in the afternoon as I reach a junction of the route 83, which I’ve been on for 40 miles, and the 14. The 14 heads south west, rather than due south. Since the wind is coming from the south east this is marginally better, with only the side wind to deal with, and my pace increases just slightly.
I reach the outskirts of Pierre. It’s the biggest town since Fargo. A population of more than 3 figures. The large superstores which I haven’t seen for four or five days reappear, along with McDonald’s adverts, more traffic, and a growing sense of doom, but I think this is mainly due to the podcast I’m listening to which is all about death.
On the horizon I see a bank of hills which must be over the river from Pierre. The landscape is changing, slowly. I head down to a recreation area which should have camping, about five miles from the town centre. It’s a scenic area, right next to the river, and is full with people setup for the holiday in their recreational vehicles and caravans. It almost feels like a competition.
I cycle around thinking about asking if I can put my tent on someone’s lot, a tactic i’d been told can work well, but I’m too tired to engage so find a quiet spot near the beach and plan to move on early the next day.
I’m bracing myself for more wind tomorrow, though continuing south west it may be a little more tolerable.
Those days back in New York, when I cycled 80, 90, or 100 miles with relative ease and comfort, seemed a million miles away now.
Map
