Day 32 - to Superior

Leaving Missoula:

Of all the cities I’ve been in, my heart definitely connects with Missoula the most. For some reason it just feels like home. I don't know if that’s just riding off of the fond memories formed there fourteen years ago when David Andrew Sr. And Gloria, his wife came and grabbed me from up the road, or all that I already knew about Missoula. It was hard getting up the gumption to get out the door of the motel and truck down the road.

I departed around 7:00am, and pulled onto Broadway, one of the main thoroughfares in Missoula. It took me by portions of the old city and towards a bridge that I needed to take to get over its expansive railyard in the North West.

Yeah. That bridge.

For whatever reason, it doesn’t matter what route I plan, the choke point I choose is always the wrong one. The frustrating thing that I realized later is that I didn’t even need to get off of Broadway until I was nearly out of town. So this detour just caused me to wind my way through the industrial North East of Missoula.

What I saw along the way, other than the typical urban sprawl was something I’d not seen before. Camper after camper parked along the road, or in parking lots or other places. These aren’t the campers of people sitting idle waiting for their next vacation. These were people’s primary residence. It was a further sign that the housing market is so thoroughly broken in many of our cities that people are effectively being forced into Homelessness, emphasis on the less. It’s not that they are unhoused — It’s that those structures are so woefully unfit for the task of a permanent house that these people are effectively nomadic.

When I say a lot of campers were parked out in this way, I mean I saw perhaps two hundred on my way out of town. Surely some would say they choose this lifestyle, but I would say it’s far more likely that most of these people would prefer a house, or condo, or apartment that they could afford. That makes me both angry and sad.

I get the impression that Missoula is not unique in this regard, but that their laws and policies make it easier for people that other locations would consider unsightly or vagrants to simply exist unharrassed or criminalized.

After perhaps twelve miles I had fully exited Missoula and was now in the interstitial spaces between it and its exurban communities. There were still traces of industry along the interstate, and farms filling the great depression between mountains. Sporadically there were groups of houses or subdivisions. And through this valley a ribbon of tarmac formed a mixed use trail for cyclists and pedestrians, forging a path onwards to Frenchtown.

Though this is not the Bitteroot valley, it had the same appeal. Everywhere you looked there was a new facination to catch your eye. A buffet of scenery for the eye. The ride through this cooridor was restive and relaxing for me, even though I was making over 18mph.

Throughout the morning the clouds hung low in the sky, clinging about the heads of the mountains on either side. Sporadic showers of rain would pelt me as I drove onwards.

The area between Missoula and Frenchtown was flat, easy terrain that encouraged me that the day would go well.

Pastor Mari from Livingston had made contact with one of her graduating cohort up the road and hooked me up with Pastor Wade in Superior — about 67 miles from Missoula.

The elevation profile showed that while there were some large hills to overcome, that for the most part it was a steady drive down the rivercourse, and down in elevation.

As the sides of the valley pinched inwards towards the river, the going became more difficult. Not only was it becoming significantly hillier, but the winds had reversed. What was a gentle push felt like a strong blast in my face. That and the rain had become more steady and cold. So I strapped in and made my best attempt.

I was again, surrounded on all sides by hulks with their head literally in the clouds.

Soggy, cold, and swaddled in the gray of the day I rolled into Alberton, my midway point. It was to be a charging stop and potentially a place for some food.

I started my hunt for outdoor outlets. The senior center / library had none. So I checked the town clerk’s building. I noted three in a line. I went inside and asked the clerk if it would be alright to charge and she agreed without hesitation.

When I came back outside a woman was peering out of the side of the senior center yelling “Hey… come over here!”

Pastor Wade had let me know ahead of time that the senior center prepared lunch on Tuesdays (today) and Thursdays. So I mosied on over figuring Pastor Wade had called ahead. Nope. The two women inside had seen me cycling through and thought on such a day I might want a warm cup of coffee and a rest. Yes and Yes.

So I greeted both Kim (yellow) and Sharon (Blue). Later one of the seniors joined us, Linda.

I sat sipping hot coffee and then tea as Kim and Sharon went back and forth like the Odd Couple. I talked with Kim as she rested from prepping the meal.

Moreso than anything else she gave me a my people kind of vibe. A person who has a strong personality, but that immediately sets you at ease.

I sat editing pictures as the room filled with more Seniors and I greeted some in turn. Bob and June, Marvin, and others. They were all kind and welcoming to an interloper, asking questions, cracking jokes.

I enjoyed a meal of spaghetti and garlic bread, followed on by some excellent cookies in the presence of these good people. Mostly listening. Occasionally joining a conversation.

It was wonderful. It reminded me of the many senior centers I had blown through in 2011 and how they had all been charitable and kind to me in the same ways.

Eventually I needed to depart. So I demanded to get a picture of Kim and Sharon for posterity before getting a hug from Kim and saying my goodbye.

Leaving the senior center the weather had finally broken and the sun was out in full force. Unfortunately this also brought with it a change in the winds. I was now biking against a stiff headwind.

Unlike the ten miles into town, I was done with Interstate miles for the day, sticking to the old frontage road and highway 10, this lead me down a side-track.

The entire way down this gentle hill I couldn’t figure out why, but the bike felt unnaturally resistant. I had swapped the brake pads out the previous night in Missoula and had been spending the morning on any hill attempting to bed the new pads in by braking down to a walking pace to burn off the excess pad that caused unwanted rubbing while the bike moved forwards. I figured I had been successful in this task but now I was starting to think that the pads hadn’t been fully bedded. Or perhaps it was the Gusty winds. I just couldn’t make sense of what I was feeling.

The issues with the resistant feeling got to the point where I pulled off my back brake entirely to see if that positively effected my speed. To be honest I couldn’t tell so I kept onward.

This lead to a closed off bridge meant only for cyclists and pedestrians where I happened to stop to take a few pictures.

As I did I spotted a raft down below, and watched as they lazily moved down the river. I took a few other pictures. Some of the structures. Some of the colors and reflections of the waters that interested me as I waited for the drama to unfold at the small rapids nearby.

After watching them successfully navigate the rough patch I continued on down the road and spotted an oddity sitting on the side of the road.

Yeah. That’s right. It’s a Yellow submarine. Why is it here? Why is it yellow? No clue.

But I got off my bike to take a picture, and then when I returned to my bike, the reason for the resistance was clear. My back tire was hissing. I couldn't have heard it if it wasn’t for the wet roads. The water trapped in the tire tread itself was what was causing the hissing as the air was escaping.

I didn’t say it before, but I had already had to fix a flat back tire that morning before leaving. And fixing a back flat, as I have said before, is the most onerous type to fix.

I pulled out my tools and flipped the bike over. As I turned around it fell over. When I got it upright the rain started to come down steadily. I began the process of pulling out the tube and searching for the source of the leak. I pulled out three different pieces of metal from the tire, only two of which had actually punctured the innertube. I had mostly pumped up the tube after getting it into the wheel when a car pulled up to ask if I needed help.

I said that unless they had a pump I was fine. They said they did not. However there was something odd in the car with them.

Ignore Gal Gadot. Look at that goose. They had a pet goose that they had inherited when their daughter’s child tired of it. As a result they had raised it from a chick, taking frequent rides in the car where it was placed in that very basket between them.

Ok — Gal Gadot isn’t actually there, the lady in the car simply stated she didn’t like having her picture on social media… so I did my thing to protect her privacy.

They were from Tarkio, down the road a stretch, and in the pouring rain we had a conversation that lasted around twenty minutes. They were fine people and eventually they left, and I finished remounting the wheel.

After having talked with them, and they said that highway 10 petered out just ahead, I decided to backtrack a small distance and get back on the interstate. A necessary but unfortunate turn.

After a few miles of struggle against the wind the valley began to open up again, and I was in Tarkio. Literally a place in name only, with perhaps two houses, and I pulled back onto the frontage road.

Pulling through Tarkio I spotted a glint of color to my right. An LGBTQ flag flying from a decrepit tractor.

Tarkio was a beautiful area within the overall ride. Eventually it was past me though and I found myself struggling with a foundering battery. The last 5 miles had turned into a grind against the headwind, and I let Pastor Wade know that I was delayed from my initial ETA. He indicated supper would be ready for me when I arrived.

Finally mounting one last large hill gave me a view of Superior, the town I aimed for, 67 miles from Missoula.

I made the last two miles to Pastor Wade’s house on the dregs of my energy. He greeted me outside and we pulled the bike into the garage to charge. He then ushered me into the house and I met his two neighbors Rob and Elaine, and his wife Suzy before moving off to take a quick shower before dinner.

In about 15 minutes I rejoined them feeling far more human. We enjoyed a meal and conversation. Wade is planning to “ham” it up in the next local talent show — though he’s leaning more towards something like James Taylor rather than the “Gimme Three steps” which is slightly out of his range. Conversation was pleasant but I could feel my energy level dropping even further.

At 8pm I excused myself after only spending an hour or so with my gracious hosts. Not thirty minutes later I was asleep — clearly something was wrong with me. I had felt a bit woozy in the middle of the day and I think now this overwhelming fatigue was proof that I was indeed sick.

This is the second time I’ve been to Missoula, and the second time that when I left, I became ill. The first time was in 2011 when I came through the area. I ended up biking 60 miles with what felt like the flu. I hoped that this would not be a repeat. But that’s a story for tomorrow.