The day before I left, Jason, who ran the bunkhouse, had told me about other cyclist he had hosted who told horror stories of headwinds. One poor traveler, exhausted, had actually called and asked if Jason could pick him up because he couldn't make it the final 12 miles. After hearing those stories, all I could think about was how awful it would be to be stuck in a 50 or 60mph headwind.
Of course, I had a headwind all day. Fortunately it wasn't 60mph, or even directly in my face, but it did make pedaling much harder. Going down hills was slow, and going up them was even slower. It was very challenging. However, I kind of like challenges, and set about to see how far I could ride.
I realized two things that I really disliked about the wind, aside from the obvious. One, the boredom of going so slow, two, the sound. I enjoy going fast on just about any kind of vehicle, so when I've got a tailwind and can effortlessly cruise at 20mph, it's simply fun. Going 8 on a flat, on the other hand, is pretty awful. The gusting wind noise doesn't really pose any physical strain, but for some reason its very mentally stressful.
To combat these two problems, I tried a variety of means. The noise was partially remedied by plugging in my headphones and cranking the volume way up. My first strategy to make riding more interesting was popping tar bubbles. Apparently, when it gets hot outside, the tar patches bubble up into taught, 1/2 inch or so bubbles. Occasionally, these bubbles, when run over, give off a deliciously gratifying "snap". Running over bubbles kept me occupied for a good 45 minutes.
After the bubbles ran out, I tried weaving in and out through openings in rumble strip, but soon realized that it was only entertaining at reasonable speeds.
I had stopped at a gas station at about mile 60, when suddenly the solution to riding boredom hit me. Books on tape! Or mp3, rather. I quickly logged onto the convenient internet and downloaded the first two chapters of Charles Dickens's "A Tale of Two Cities," and was whisked away from boring North Dakota to France, in the year of our God, 1775.
After 80 miles of very hard work, I decided to call it a night. So, I kept a lookout for likely places to stay, and upon spotting a fencerow, rode 1/2 mile off the highway and set up camp.
June 11
In the morning, the first thing I checked was the wind. I was very pleased to find out that it had swung around, and was now at my back. However, I saw flashes of lightening in the distance as I disassembled my camp. Fortunately, the storm passed well south of me, and I didn't see so much as a drop of rain.
The tailwinds held up, and I rode the 35 miles to Bismarck in a frightfully short time period. For miles and miles I crested hills at 16 or 18mph, and then flew down them at 25 or 30.
In Bismarck, I had a bunch of things to do, and ended up spending like 4 hours there. Disgusted with my time wasting, I once again rode very fast, not yet sure of where I was going to stay. I was originally planning on staying in a town called Glen Ullin at another cyclist bunkhouse, but upon calling I discovered that they where already full. At 70 miles, I rode into the town of New Salem, and decided to stay at the city park, which permitted camping.
A few hours after I got there, another cyclist arrived. I ambled over to chat, and Leon and I spent the evening discussing bicycles, panniers, tents, and whatever else came to mind. As we parted for the night, Leon offered to buy me a real breakfast at the local restaurant the next morning.
I was glad to be staying in a picnic shelter that night, as a brief but intense thunderstorm passed through.
June 12
In the morning, Leon made good on his promise of breakfast, but we had to wait until 9:30 due to more rain. I enjoyed an excellent meal, and after thanking Leon, we set out in opposite directions. By the time I had everything packed up, it was past 11:00, so I figured I'd have to pedal quick if I wanted to make it anywhere.
I stopped at a gas station to refill my water bottles about 25 miles into the ride, and there happened to be some guy unloading goods off a semi. We exchanged pleasantries, he asked me where I was going and all that, and I rode off not thinking twice about the encounter. 5 miles down the road, who should pull over, in his reefer truck, and offer me a ride to Dickenson, but the same guy. For a moment, I thought about accepting, but it seemed like kind of a strange situation, and the weather was really nice, so I decided to decline the offer.
I was hoping to secure a place to stay in Dickenson, which was 80 miles from my starting point. Unfortunately, nobody responded to my couchrequests, so I had to come up with an alternate plan. The alternate plan turned out to be another city park, this time in the tiny village of Gladstone. When I arrived at the park, which looked rather unkept, the first thing I did was look to see what the nightly fees where. Low and behold, there was a court order taped onto the fees sign which pretty much said that for some reason or another, these people where not allowed to charge public fees, blah, blah. Essentially, camping was free! Of course, the water didn't work, and the bathrooms where a mess, but I suppose you get what you pay for.
My fence row campsite in the process of being taken down. I should have gotten a pic when I had my tarp up, it looked pretty tribal.
A massive gum ball spill in the middle of nowhere.
The court order.
Very pretty sunset.
I've always wanted to put a penny on a railroad track.
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