Crested big hole pass at 7400 and one other lower pass before I barreled 18 miles down hill, smoking the discs, trying to keep it under 30. Straight mile after mile, the big sky, passing fellow bikers loaded for bear. One guy came screaming (literally) past me as I was granny gear climbing up the pass. On my way down, my body was peppered with mosquitos. It wasn't until I rolled into Wisdom and stopped to check my map that I was swarmed by the bloodsuckers. My god, no more than ten seconds and the attack began. No wonder I didn't see anyone on the Main Street of Wisdom. I started peddling and fighting off the bugs as I gained speed. Open ditch irrigation during the month of June is a huge breeding ground for misquitos. The next eighteen miles I had to make twelve mph or better, hills included, to ward off the bugs. The vacuum created behind my thighs and on my back allowed the monsters to land and suck. I couldn't even stop to take a leak. I rolled into Jackson a bitten wreck. There was a nice lodge with a hot spring pool and a cavernous main room with moose heads on the outer walls. The bartender found a can of Cutter for me. In the back of the building there was a nice lawn for me to set up my tent. The bugs were tolerable but still a formidable obstacle to staying outside. Being a one blink town, the dining options were limited. Across the street, the only street, was a restaurant with a Bassett hound to keep me company during my dinner. The whole town was there, mud and all, juke box playing and the owner's inherited large oriental spread across the floor, a real nice rug in a totally inappropriate setting. On my way back to my tent, I stood in the middle of the road looking miles each way into nowhere. Sleep was a wonderful thing that night. The next morning I found a restaurant adjoining the great room. Good food, slow service but I met a few cyclists. One guy had ridden six weeks from DC (what is the rush?), the other guy joined me for breakfast. He was a TransAmerica racer gearing up for a few hundred mile ride east with a high protein, carbohydrate loaded meal. All us cross country riders are dedicated members of the clean plate club; see food, eat food. Before I started out another racer wished me a safe ride as I did to him. Riding across the country has its crazies. Give me fifty/sixty miles a day, that is reasonable, two hundred miles a day is nucking futs! Different folks, different strokes, we all have our goals. I want to see what these younger guys will be doing when they are sixty-five.
Tired of two nights of camping, the local Catholic Church took me in; Father Pins rides a Harley and is
pushing 70. The church set him up with a BMW, black paint job of course, to make his rounds. His diocese is larger than Connecticut!
Sleeping in a upholstered bench was marginal but I was inside with a private bath. In the middle of the night my numerous mosquito bites wanted into hyper itch mode. The door jamb and my back became one. After catching some much needed zzzz, I checked out Dillions new brewery. So good, I had trouble stopping at two IPAs. God, I am hooked on the stuff. Tomorrow, who knows where my wheels will take me. Montana, I like this place.
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