Reaching Fargo

Sailing into Fargo, North Dakota yesterday at the mercy of a blessedly cool three-quarter tail wind, we realize that we are measuring time in terms of distance (only 30 miles 'til lunchtime) and, conversely, distance in terms of time (looks like another hour or so to Fargo). Too bad the relativity theory has already been expounded.  Anyway, this thought has given rise to another poem-in-the-making, but in the meantime reaching Fargo is cause for reflection on all the reactions we have had from people along the roads of Montana and North Dakota when we tell them we are riding across the continent. Added words in parentheses are mine. Enjoy!

• "You what?  You mean on pedal bikes (not motorcycles)?"
• "You guys gotta be crazy."
• "What are you doin' (a darn fool thing like) that for?"
• "Aren't you a little old to be doing something like this?"
• "You know, they don't like bikers on the (Blackfeet Indian) Reservation. You could get shot."
• "Sure, you can camp out there behind the (tribal police) station, use the showers and all in there too."
• "Why didn't you just drive in an RV (like normal people)?"
• 
  
  "Well, if it looks like the thunderstorm is coming this way you can stay at my place.  It's not much, but you'll be safe there."
• "You're not environmentalists, are you?" We don't want no tree huggers around here."
• 
  
  "If you see a funnel cloud coming just get as far away from your bikes as you can and jump into a ditch or crawl into a culvert.  Good luck!"
• "I really think you guys are incredible, I mean, most people just fly by through here on their way to the coast. We don't see them, and they don't see us (farmers)."
• Raising funds for children in Haiti?  That's a wonderful cause. They need to know that even people out here in North Dakota care about them."

Time Out

Yellow dashes on the wet tarmac,
time passes, repeats itself in stanzas.
‘Tempo, tempo, tempo’

roars the choirmaster.

Keep in stride,
or move aside.

Time slips away,
is marked in digits
dials, kilometers, miles

Told in adverbials, growing wild
by the roadside and in fields
unfettered, unrestrained

JB

Binford, North Dakota

County Road West of Minot

These rolling hills seemed to go on forever.

Oil Country

Cyclists, beware. The stretch of highway between the North Dakota Border and Minot via Williston and New Town could easily be descrubed as the road from hell. With the exception of the preserved natural beauty of the Lewis and Clark State Park and a very pleasant stop at Keys Cove (both off Rte 1804), the route will take you through a landscape dotted with giant drills and mammoth 'donkey' oil pumping rigs, many of these setups belching huge burnoff flames that seem to come directly from the fires of Hades.  If the fumes and noise don't get you, the steady of stream of tankers, concrete mixers, and oversize semis carrying heavy equipment to service these monstrosities will. In some stretches oif 1804 and even worse, the infamous Rte 23 where there is no shoulder even the best truckers cannot avoid creating a destabilizing blast of wind that can blow you off the road.  Jean now has the scars to demonstrate this (leg gash and bruise on the bum as the result of being toppled by such a blast). In New Town, which is located on the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation, we were kindly hosted by the Three Affiliated Tribes and advised to take an alternate back route to Minot.  We were greatly relieved to pedal east out of Minot this morning to find that this area has not been 'blessed' with oil. The only sounds were those of birdsong and whispering wind.

Made in Cambodia

(Why is it that only this morning while putting on my high-tech Shimano bicycling shoes that I noticed where they were made?  Maybe it comes from thinking to the rhythm of the road day after day, but I started to imagine by whose hands. Thinking of Cambodia and its tragic recent history, the changes that have come to many poor countries along with globalization, this poem came to mind.)

Named for the moon,
her child-hands form perfect crescents,
fingers stretched into graceful pinwheels,
tracing celestial pathways, connecting constellations
in the lamplit shadows

Entangled in ageless karma,
her woman-hands repeat perfect stitches,
fingers spread across pliant leather forms,
feeding foreign markets, keeping economies humming
under the flourescent stare
of artificial suns

Discovering the High Plains

There are those who say there is nothing to see between the Rocky Mountains and the Mississippi River, but we have found that when you slow down to cycling speed on the 'hi-line' you experience an incredibly rich variety of natural beauty and deep wells of human history.  What's more, if you can deal with the wind and stay awhile, you will find that people are very willing to share their stories, their personal histories and perspectives. Some, like the story of the German immigrant Jacob Bauer and his lifelong romance with Mary Walks-With-the-Wind, you find on museum walls, others you find just by talking to people. We would like to extend special thanks to Bruce, Mary Lou and their whole extended family in Chinook, Montana for the warm welcome and great time we had playing the old songs and getting to know you. We also thank you for your concern for the children of Haiti. Here's hoping our paths will cross again.

Saco Dry Goods

Saco, Montana (population 145); June 3--- An abandoned dry goods store with traces of its 'Osh Kosh B'Gosh' slogan has been left to lean with the wind. Across the street, the old Ford auto garage no longer shows its logo. In the evening, people walk by these relics, leaving the overalls and spark plugs to yesterday, pass the old bank that was changed into an hotel, now a delapidated rooming house, and head to OD's saloon to join in the community barbeque. Norman Mavencamp saw us on the road and made certain we knew about it. Norman had supplied the meat. He runs each year in the senior Olympics. He is 86.

MJ