Carpenter's Dream

Eighty miles per hour is the optimum speed for the Victory Cross Country Tour; the RPMs hover right at 3,000; the gas mileage, no wind, bike fully loaded ranges between 42 and 45 MPG. Eighty miles per hour also happens to be five miles above the posted limit on I-94 West, leaving Fargo, ND, heading to Medora, ND, home of the North Dakota Badlands.

The 180 miles of pavement between Fargo and Bismarck, North Dakota's state capital, classifies as a carpenter's dream: flat-as-a-board and easy-to-nail. I'm not nailing it, no need, just tooling along at 80 MPH, not even bothering to slow down as I pass the troopers, just a nice, little wave. There are cars and pickups, though, that roar down the road, easily pushing triple digits, moving fast, clearly on important business.

If this portion of highway were set to music, it would be the last 42 seconds of the Beatles' Day in the Life, a single piano note, in this case held for 180 miles. It's the wet season here. The lakes are full, gullies turned to ponds. The smells as I roll along the long, flat, barely turning road are comprised of wet manure, diesel fumes, boredom. The red-wing blackbird flits from pond to pond, cheerfully tended to its business, whatever it may be.

I pass through Jamestown, ND, home of the world's largest buffalo. Do I want to go see it? I do... not, thank you, keep rolling, listening to XM's Classic Vinyl. It's during these long spells, that my mind gets bored and I feel pains, lower trapezius, knees, itches, insects. I know it's is just my mind at play, trying to get my attention. I focus on the pain. Is it real? What's the scale of one to ten, ten being something that needs attention. It's a three. I breathe, focus, it goes away. Then another and another. Silly mind.

Bismarck, a relative metropolis in North Dakota, has four exits, I believe. Annie told me during breakfast that Bismarck is the start of where North Dakota becomes beautiful. And, certainly, I can identify a distinction between I-94 east of Bismarck, and I-94 west of Bismarck; it's ten degrees cooler, the wind stronger, at least today, at my back, multiple elevation shifts, rolling grasslands. East of Bismarck contains virtually nothing of interest, just farmland, open. Pull over, let your dog off-leash, let him run in the fields - he can run forever, you'd be able to see him as far as he wants to run.

I can see Annie's point about I-94 west of Bismarck: it is pretty but it's pretty as an intellectual exercise, the way Beethoven's Pastoral Sonata, number 15 in D major, is pretty, lovely even. But it doesn't grab me as does the fifth or the ninth. I like my scenery the way I like my wines, bold up front, interesting middle, strong finish. I-94 west of Bismarck is an immature wine, long legs, but disengaging, the smell of clover, hay, mud.

And right smack in the middle of these pastoral hills glower cities brimming with Americana kitsch, New Salem with a gigantic cow overlooking the town, giant sculptures of pheasants, geese, on the Enchanted Highway, jarring and a bit disorienting, like dropping Little Richard in the middle of Beethoven.

It's not until I reach mile marker 32 that I begin to see the beauty of North Dakota, the emergence of the Badlands, painted blisters jutting from the earth, ravines filled with snakes and prairie dogs, fields of wild bison and horses.

The next ride will be through the Theodore Roosevelt National Park in Medora, North Dakota.