Day 5

We started the day with a cool morning but bright skies. The wind had abated some, but it still buffeted us around. The speed limit was 75 mph on flat straight roads that hopefully led to happier lands, but with the winds pushing us back, none of us could top 70 and still hang on.

We left SD behind and entered Wyoming. The terrain changed a bit, but not the wind. We stopped for gas in Sundance, WY, home of the Sundance Film Festival. We decided to run through Main Street to take a look see, then detour slightly to drive by Devils Tower, of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” fame.

Before we left the pumps, we realized that S’s bike was throwing oil, as evidenced by the oil slick down the side of her camper and on the front of my bike and pant legs, since I ride directly behind her. The GPS found us the closest Harley dealer along our path, about 60 miles away in Gillette, WY. We set a course that avoided all pleasant diversions and beat feet.

Unrelenting prairie winds. Harsh and unforgiving land. Beautiful but desolate landscape. This is Wyoming, every single mile of it in the saddle. Suddenly, we saw smoke stacks and smog in the distance. This was Gillette. We got to Harley, and when I tried to get a ten dollar bill out of my pocket, it dropped out of my pocket and was whisked away so quickly that I didn’t bother trying to chase it. I gave it my blessing and hoped it might reach a needy soul when it finally landed in, best guess, Iowa.

The mechanic came out to take a look, and we asked him if it was always this windy here. He nodded a contemplatively and said, “Yeah, I’d have to say there’s most always a breeze.” We hooted. A BREEZE! Hate to see a really gusty day.

We got the diagnosis: it was a rocker box problem, whatever that means. My dad, brothers and Uncle Charlie could fix anything with moving parts. Alas, all I ever cared about was basketball, and I never paid attention to anything about the internal combustion engine. Here’s the extent of what I know about the mechanics of my motorcycle:

It’s blue.

Such a stereotypical girl thing that it pains me.

It was supposed to be a 1.5 hour repair, so while we were waiting around, the mechanic recommended a local Mexican restaurant. We were thrilled to check out the local fare instead of our typical PBJ or lunchmeat sandwiches out of the cooler and figured the diversion would do us good, as a break from the typical mileage grind.

Well, I don’t claim to be a connoisseur, but clearly neither was the mechanic. It was quite possibly the most mediocre Mexican meal I’ve ever had. Let me put it this way: Applebees is more authentic. However, it didn’t come out of the cooler, and the ambiance, though lacking, was still better than our typical chow downs at Exxon. In comparison, it was a fine repast indeed.

We got back to the dealer. They weren’t done. The 1.5 hour repair ended up taking 5 hours instead, and we closed down the place. We wondered if this was their sales tactic, since while we were stranded, I ended up purchasing a new rain suit that would, if marketing could be believed, actually repel rain. Cha-ching! Unexpected travel expense! (Are you getting the idea that a road trip is an expensive endeavor?) Plus, K bought a new helmet. She had a new one before we started the trip, but the attachment for the face shield broke during the tornado trail of tears through South Dakota, and she didn’t want to go another 9,000 miles without any face protection from rain. They shipped her old helmet back to our home dealer for replacement. All in all, it was a good day for Harley and a rough day for the trip budget.

We were leaving Harley at 6:30 p.m. with 230 miles to go for the day. Our destination was Billings, Montana, to visit my sister-in-law’s house. Not my sister-in-law, who would be out of town, but her house, for which she graciously gave me the garage code and the security alarm code so that we could sleep in real beds and use her laundry room. Some sisters-in-law become true sisters, and Sicily is one of them. We were disappointed to miss seeing her and the family, but the use of her house was a most excellent gift.

But we had a big decision to make: four hours of driving at the end of a grueling day, or stopping short tonight at a hotel and trying to make up some miles the next day. Our schedule was too tight, with pre-reserved campgrounds that if we missed one day, we’d be forced into trying to catch up or losing a whole string of daily destinations.

We decided to go until dark, until the next gas stop (120 miles) and reevaluate, unless the wind broke our spirits. But not long after, we crossed into Montana. The heavens parted and I’m pretty sure I heard angels sing. The wind stopped. The weather became mild. We could pick up speed. The terrain became interesting, then gorgeous. We hit our gas stop, and the vote was unanimous. Press on, brave riders.

As the sun sank, the skies still remained light for some time. We could all see why this was called Big Sky country. Our band of four became a freight train, changing lanes like a drill team, passing vehicles left and right, chug-a-chug-a-Choo-Choo! We pulled into Billings, exhausted and exhilarated to use a garage, to not have to pop up our tents, to have a real shower in a beautifully appointed home, and to launder our disgustingly soiled riding clothes.

S, our consummate trip bible, had a big red binder with each day’s itinerary, campground destination, mileage, and planned meal. In the cover, she had slipped a fortune from a fortune cookie she had right before the trip, “The trip is not about the destination but of the journey itself.” We had used that as our trip philosophy. But our journey itself was becoming a grind, and my back was not getting any better. We fell asleep in clean sheets and with troubled dreams.

Trip Recap: 450 miles, 2 states: Wyoming, Montana