We have been plagued by weather problems since the very first day of this trip. Planning our traverse across flat, barren and desert like areas (this is the Rockies, but many of the spaces in between the mountains are made of sand) based on the radar report of thunderstorms. We have seen far too many lightning strikes, including one that George witnessed this morning "like a firework show in the sky."
I was reluctant to leave where we were this morning -- Dillon, Mountain. Met some fellow bikers, including my very first elder retired Silicon Valley type who had sold his company to Siemens (a company that I had some significant litigation against many years ago -- a great story but which will not be repeated here). We had taken in the annual Dillon-Butte freshman football game (or half of it) and I had unwisely stuffed some prime rib in last night and watched the Red Sox at -- what else -- a sports bar. There was a movie theater nearby and this part of the world is littered with venues where you can go and shoot a machine gun. The weather and the radar looked awful again; thunderstorms everywhere and I have to admit I was pretty depressed. Another night in Dillon sounded good.
But George rallied me and we set out, with little plan other than to maybe go to Virginia City if the weather looked bad or maybe even to Bozeman, where we have people that we know (barely). George valiantly agreed to go on Interstate 90 (this very same road goes through Greater Natick), riding the preferred cruising bike, the BMW R1200RT, while I took the smaller bike.
We ended up in a truck plaza in Bozeman by noon, ducking the storms but pelted with rain. We have not come well equipped on this trip and I blame myself for this sloppiness. Our intercoms don't work, we have no GPS, George has nothing warm and poor rain gear and I left behind a critical connector so I can't charge anything on the bike, such as a GPS (moot point) or an iphone (with a useless "GPS" that is dependent on non-existent cell phone towers). The server in the truck plaza was perfect, helping us to remove our soaked jackets and then bringing us hot chocolate (although we figured out later that her story about the recovery of her terminally ill child and her pursuit of a Ph.D. in nursing may have contained some exaggerations).
In any event, after an hour of social networking at the plaza, the booths were starting to fill up and our welcome had worn out, so it was time to leave. The sign said 90 miles to West Yellowstone and that did not seem far; the speed limit on even the back alleys out here is almost always at least 70. So we went off in the drizzle.
Several hours later, including a 15 minute wait for road construction, the picture was not so pretty. The temperature was in the high thirties (the low was 36.9 degrees according to the bike thermometers) and the rain had a hale like quality to it. We had switched back and forth between the bikes and I had generously agreed to go the final ten miles on the bike without the windshield and hand warmers (it also seems to be missing a rear brake). I was uncomfortable and scared, but probably more comfortable than George, who decided not to make the upgrade to waterproof boots that I did last year.
This little bike has a teeny windshield and the only way I could stop involuntary chattering of my teeth was to put my chest on the gas tank so that I had some protection from the rain. I knew that we would make it, but then a minute or two later, I was not quite sure. I thought that the best course might be to ditch the little bike and ride two up on the big bike, which not only has hand warmers but two stage but warmers, but that might have precipitated an argument over whose bags would be abandoned and how would be in the rear seat. So I stopped watching the mile markers which end up at zero when you reach West Yellowstone.
It's very interesting to see the look on the faces of motel clerks when you walk in with your motorcycle helmet on and don't take it off during the check in process. I wanted to say: "I hope you're not offended; I am simply too f--- cold to do anything other than hand you my frozen credit card" but that was too much information.
George's iphone is at least temporarily caput, but that has not caused the crisis you might anticipate. I talked to Celia who believes that the machine has been disabled due to George's rebuke from the bartender at the Redfish Lodge who took exception to the use of George's machines "in my bar." In fact, I would say that this is the only trip I have been on with George where his charm has not been highly effective with the locals. He had a very passive aggressive check in experience yesterday at the last Best Western in Dillon with a woman named Laura. "Hi Laura, how are you today?" Laura: "Credit card for incidentals, please." George: "What's your favorite restaurant, Laura?" Laura: "Steak house down the road." George: "Thanks so much, Laura; I hope you have a good evening."
Whether intentional or not, George's attempt to pay for dinner tonight by giving the server his room key card for the Best Western was not well received. "Nice try," Michelle said, bringing the "credit card" back to the table. George: "I wasn't trying to be forward." Michelle: "Right." But it was an incredible dinner and if you ever have the misfortune to find yourself in West Yellowstone and want to take a break from souvenir hunting, please go to the Madison Crossing restaurant. Just don't use George's name.
My knees have been hurting lately so we took a look at the RV park. Hard to decide. The temptation is to go big, with a rock star bus, but I still have this yearn for the back roads so the idea of 4 by 4 pick up trick with the camper on top. I think I will leave this one up to Celia, who will sensibly opt for a tent that we can put in the back of the jeep.
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Location:US-20,West Yellowstone,United States
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