Day 8

Pride. I’m not sure which hurt more: my back or my pride on being outed as the weakest link among strong women I admire.

Pride. Each one of us had told every single person we knew and worked with that we were riding our motorcycles to Alaska. Not that we were going on a long vacation on bikes or that we were going west, but the destination was clear: Alaska. S and K said the other firefighters would never let them live it down if they didn’t actually get there. L would also be abused by her coworkers, since she dishes it every bit as much as she takes it.

S, our trip’s Julie McCoy, pulled out the maps. For those of you under 40 years of age or who exhibit taste in your TV viewing habits, Julie McCoy was a character in the 70’s sitcom, “The Love Boat.” She was a cruise director for the Pacific Princess, and each week she was able to fulfill each passenger’s deepest desires in just a five-to-seven day vacation at sea, up to and including matchmaking to find true love between two total losers, played by washed up TV actors.

I LOVED The Love Boat, and I loved Julie McCoy with her cute little Dorothy Hamill. (For those of you under 40, I can’t possibly be expected to fill you in on all 70’s and 80’s pop culture. You grew up with computers, for cryin’ out loud: Google Dorothy yourself!) I’d like to pawn this off to the fact that I was young at the time, but my current Tivo programming list still indicates an appalling lack of standards.

Anyway, the point is that S pulled out her maps and started a new plan. Within 30 minutes, she came up with a friendlier option that would still allow us to touch Alaska, although much lower and for only part of one day. She mapped it out so that we would only ride 200 to 250 miles each day, so we would have time to stop for lunch at someplace pretty, eat together, and walk around awhile before climbing back on the bikes. We would also have time for side trips and chicken pictures.

We decided to take a daytrip to Glacier National Park, 30 miles away from our campsite, I could come back and go to the chiropractor one more time, and then if all went well, we could set out on our new course Saturday morning.

L and I had been to Glacier two years ago on our cross country ride with the Harley Owners Group. We loved it and looked forward to showing it to S and K. The day quickly became hot. Then hotter. This park truly displays the awesome grandeur of creation. We marveled. But we also failed to plan. The day became late, and we had not packed food nor near enough water. There were no options at the top of the mountain.

We headed back serpentine roads hanging off the sides of cliffs, back to the nearest town with restaurants, and we stopped at the Huckleberry Patch. Our server from the restaurant last night had recommended it to us east coasters who had no idea what a huckleberry was, except that Yogi Bear had this kind of pie in his pick-a-nick basket.

Huckleberries threw up all over this store. There were t-shirts and cups and magnets dedicated to the berry. There was huckleberry fudge and milkshakes, and yes, pie. We ordered lunch and any beverage that was ice cold. Slightly revived, we went back out to the bikes.

Riding a motorcycle for several hours on a hot day drains your enthusiasm for, well, anything. And everything. We just wanted to get back to camp as rapidly as possible. We could have seen the Holy Grail of chicken pictures: a 40-foot high statue of a rooster made out of aluminum foil saved by a thousand local school children, feet made of popsicle sticks, and feathers fashioned from rubber bands and super glue, and on that day, we would have blown by it without a moment’s consideration.

I dropped the girls off at the campground, and I continued straight to the chiropractors office late on a Friday afternoon. I walked in and said, “How’d you like to do an adjustment on a sweaty, disgusing biker?”

“Step into my office,” she replied.

Glacier was as awesome as I remembered. The huckleberry milkshake was inspired. The chiropractor a godsend. The cool shower at the end of the trip, divine.

Daily Recap: 150 miles, Still Montana