Americana

I hadn't remembered this town, this urban mix of old, brick-laden main street stores, and new neon signs attracting visitor's hard earned cash to their casinos, but I had been here before. We had first visited here in the winter of 1983/84 as an innocent busload of Stettlerites pushing their luck at an international hockey tournament. The second was 10 years later, when I kidnapped my best friend in Red Deer, only to be crying in our beers the next morning in a run-down hotel room at the spectacular Canadian disappointment of the Lillehammer Olympic Hockey Games.
Today, the Starbucks in Great Falls, Montana was the extent of my experience here. As the sky seemed to instantaneously fill with one, massive, black-as-hades cloud, I chat with the server, and ask her what these clouds mean, assuming she's got some meteorological experience of the local area. "They'll blow over soon enough." I flirt with her a bit and tell her she's got the looks and personality of a weather woman and that she should consider that as a job. "Oh, thank you." she replied. What she probably meant to say was "Hey, old man, we close in 5 minutes. Get your butt back on that motorbike of yours and get out of here!" Enough not said.
It was 9 pm on a Tuesday night. 'Anyone with brains in their head', as my father would so eloquently state, would not have ventured out by the look of those clouds. He's right, but I just felt it would be fine, and I was anxious to get on the road. Besides, it would have been rude to ignore the Starbucks Weather Girl.
We ended up winning it all in both divisions we competed in. Although I was too young to appreciate it, I know now of the pride and excitement our parents must have felt. By 4 am, I wish I had been able to conjure up that same mood. I had made it to Mile 0, supposedly the demarcation point between Montana, and Idaho, but I couldn't be sure. I chose to take that exit, and upon finding no services available at the town denoted on the blue sign, postured a moment, and considered my extreme tiredness might require some downtime. When I had woken up, the weather had turned downright chilly. I checked the watch: 6 am. I was beginning to regret my entire decision to ride to Brazil, especially considering the trip had only begun. A few moments of self-pity elapsed, and after a quick run back and forth over the dirt road, I had gotten back on the bike. Within a few minutes I stopped at the next town of Spencer, opal mining capital of The USA. I pulled up to the lone pair of turn-of-the-century gas pumps, and prepared to put my kickstand down. As I leaned the bike to the left, the enormous weight of a 500 pound bike, and 100 or so pounds of items stored on the back, won the battle. The bike fell over - a travesty for any rider. The first attempt to right the vessel failed, and for a moment I really thought I was stuck. The bike had stalled by now, and I only had one choice. Turning around, I searched for a strong hold on the side of the massive backpack strapped to the rear of the bike with my left hand, and with my right, grabbed onto the handle bars. With what was everything left of my back strength, I slowly lifted it back to the balancing point. I dusted myself off, inspected the bike, and after finding no damages, hoped for a change in fortune.
Dillon, Idaho came as an oasis, after about 20 minutes of riding: a large gas station in the middle of the prairies complete with a store boasting a fast-food restaurant and warm coffee. The fellows that frequented the 7 am fill-up spot came right out of a cowboy western movie, with spurs-a-janglin', and snuff neatly pocketed away in their cheeks no doubt. It was a little taste of home, and a welcome respite from a harrowing journey.