Day 17 - To Hebron

Leaving Bismarck:

As I said previously, Bismarck is situated on a set of hills about 200-300ft off the valley floor, and as a result isn’t the easiest city to navigate to a newcomer – especially because much of the grid style construction doesn’t respect contours. But last night I was a busy little beaver looking through the topographical setting in my route planner, and planned the path of least resistance out of Bismarck.

Before I left in the morning Pastor Cory asked what my plans were for getting out of town. I indicated I would follow highway 10 as I had been for days. He seemed extremely relieved, because there are only three bridges across the Missouri (a river that I have now crossed multiple times). One is a rail bridge, the other is the interstate and the third is highway 10 (aka business 94). Even though the last bridge is the furthest south, and I was considerably north of that, I had already understood what a heinous cluster the interstate bridge would have been for a cyclist. I ain’t trying to die to save 30 minutes and a few miles.

Leaving Bismarck the nature of the city becomes even more apparent when you cross onto the bridge itself. The city is largely built on impressive bluffs that tower above the riverbed. Honestly what surprised me most about Bismarck is that the vast majority of it seemed to have been built in the last 20 years. Nearly every house I saw, every store seemed to have that new style of construction. If there is an “Old Bismarck” I can genuinely say I entirely missed it.

I finally made it over the river, but not without what seemed like every possible street-sweeper, construction zone, or poorly planned end to a sidewalk getting the better of me. In fact as I was a long the river I was on a trail fenced off from the road, and then a sign appeared that the sidewalk was closed with more fencing. With zero way to get onto the roadway as planned by whoever put up this barricade, necessitating a 5 or so minute backtrack. Until I spotted that some equally frustrated and well armed person had knifed the plastic netting that made the barricade, leaving an opening onto the street, which I narrowly squeezed through.

Moments later I was informed that that the road under the bridge I was supposed to take to the pedestrian via that lead up to it, was closed for resurfacing, forcing me to take a surface street to detour this issue.

The bridge itself had a wide dual use path across that was separated from traffic and it afforded some good views of the river.

Once off the bridge I was in Mandan. Seemingly Mandan was where the people who don’t make 200k+ per year live. Sure it had its share of overpriced new construction, but it also had a lot of trailer parks and run down neighborhoods. I felt right at home.

As I moved through the streets I noted a repeated rubbing noise from my front wheel. I assumed it was a misaligned front brake disk. Nope. It was literally my tire rubbing against a thicker section of my front fork. At the best of times the tire only has a few millimeters of clearance on either side. I think a few days of hard riding and poor mounting on my part lead to this, so I did what I could to center it better in the available space. This was no small feat and required flipping the bike upside down, installing a spacing washer and then ensuring everything was true. All in all it took about 30 minutes to address the issue. The unfortunate result is that some of the signatures I have on my front wheel now have been partially erased.

Into the Hills:
Leaving Mandan required a slow steady climb of about 300ft to get out of the river cut level. And from here the entire day was just following highway 10 as it dipped and dived, and then rose back up the plodding hills.

Eventually the closed in sightlines of these initial hills gave way to much broader expanses in which it was possible to see perhaps 25 miles. Frequently I would see the grain silo or the water tower within a community from a distance so far it would take 45 minutes to bike there.

Unlike the endless fields of cereal grain, this land was giving way to great expanses of free pasture. Some of it national grasslands. It was like riding a great green sea over which a gentle but hot breeze blew against my back.

It was hot one of the few days I’ve experienced at this latitude above 90 degrees and I was blowing through water at an astounding pace. By 11am I had used up nearly a gallon of reserve water.

Eventually after 38 miles of green desolation I spotted a huge cow up on a hill and the words “New Salem” next to it. This was my respite for some hours. I pulled into town and started searching for a place to get food, because after 2500 calories of burn, and having only eaten around 1200 that day, I was ravenous.

I pulled into a street and saw two women piling into a truck. I called out and asked if there were any restaurants to eat at in town. Debora (sp?) replied that she hadn't lived there in twenty years but that she was fairly certain the coffee shop in town served food. This exchange piqued her interest and she asked about my travels. I gave her the blog and let her know about what I was doing.

I asked to take her picture to remember her, and she called the other young lady over. Debora and Tana (if I recall):

After I took my picture she asked me to take a selfie with them. All I could think of was that poor Tana was sandwiched between us, and me ripe with sweat. They departed and I went towards the coffee shop.

I spotted an outlet in a park shelter and pulled over to it. The two young girls sipping on their smoothies eyed me with healthy suspicion – I didn’t blame them. I tested the outlet, and satisfied it would work I locked up the bike and set out to the coffee shop.

Retro Metro is a little jem in a tiny town. The Proprietor set me up with a plate of food and honestly the best Americano with Irish cream syrup I may have ever had. I couldn’t say if it was the need for calories or if it was genuinely that good, but I’ll give credit to the coffee shop on that score. I was so impressed I asked for some stickers which now reside on my bike.

I stayed there for three and a half hours blogging as the day wore on. At one point one of my leg muscles decided to tighten up so severely that I called my retired Physical Therapist mother to verify I wasn’t going to tear something by stretching. It quickly wore off as I paced.

When 4 o’clock hit I made my way back into the blistering heat of the day.  Because of the longer days up here 4pm tends to be the hottest hour. I filled up on water at the park fountain and set off. Against the suggestion of locals I opted to continue on hwy 10, even though I knew it would soon turn into hard packed gravel. I haven’t had the best experiences with interstate and I wanted to avoid it if possible. 

The Road to Glen Ullin:

My route was set before me. I had already gone 38 miles, I had 24 more in front of me, and many of those were over a dirt track past Two Buttes which can be seen from the moment the dirt begins, but I wouldn’t pass until just before it ended.

Riding out of New Salem I had a full battery and a slight tailwind. I rationalized that I could step it up to a higher level of pedal assist. So I put her into PAS 2 from my normal 1 and made forward progress at anywhere from 17 to 24mph, with occasional mad dashes down hills up to 37mph. It was in one hand exhilarating and in the other terrifying.

I quickly learned to temper my pace and watch the roadway closely. The washboard rutting of the dirt track made my teeth chatter if I didn’t try everything I could to find the least rutted paths. Still, even those least rutted paths felt like they might shake all the screws in my bike loose.

Two Buttes loomed ever in the distance as I made progress across the hot dips and dives of this section of rural “highway”. If nothing else the ride was far more interesting than any interstate would have offered.

Eventually the flowing mounds of hills gave way to broken escarpments, showing off the multicolored strata of different layers of ancient sediments. A friend asked if I would be going through the badlands, and I said No… but now I’m not so sure. I’m certainly not going through the park itself, but this looks like its very own grassed over version.

After some time and effort I made it past Two Buttes and descended into the lower country in which Glen Ullin sat.

After not more than five miles I was in town itself. I could camp or I could attempt to use the bunkhouse. So I called up the bunkhouse — Full. I’m not a strong camper and I hate it when I have to, but if I must, I will.

So after finding a local park outlet to charge the bike I started to settle into the terrain. I quickly found a bar that serves food and had half of a bar pizza, which was far better than expected, and a Leinenkuegel Shandy.

While sitting in the bar though I started to look what was ahead, and it turned out that there was a cheap motel with rooms available in the next town over. Nobody was answering the phone, but at the very least it offered the same opportunities for camping in the park in town as did Glen Ullin. So after discussing the idea with my wife I decided that 12 more miles was trivial. Before charging I still had more than half charge on the battery, and when I returned to the bike after dinner it was nearly 100%.

Peace out Glen Ullin, onwards to Hebron.

Before I left, I hit up the dollar general though…

To Hebron and rest:

Riding out of Glen Ullin was all tarmac and the 12 miles there were swift and easy, punctuated by the low light of deep afternoon. It was 7pm at this point, and even though the sun wouldn’t set until 9:45 it had the low angle that makes the land glow.

Arriving at Hebron I finally got a hold of the motel clerk and arranged a room. It was more than I could have hoped for after 72 miles. I was tired but I could have still made more.

Tomorrow I head to Dickinson, ND and perhaps further.

Given that it’s nearing the 4th hotels and motels are jammed. So I’m frantically looking for places to stay other than on the hard ground — but if Ground is what is in store for me, so be it.