In optimal conditions, a single rider, no trunk, no luggage, my bike gets 220 miles on a full tank of gas, 5.6 gallons of premium unleaded. When fully loaded, single rider, trunk, in optimal conditions, I travel a maximum of 200 miles per tank.
Traveling between Medora, ND and Bozeman, MT, the conditions were not optimum. The head winds, though not fierce, were steady, occasionally gusty. Also the elevation varied, usually in the direction away from attaining the best gas mileage. I filled the tank when I left Medora and the next "major" city was 184 miles away, Forsyth, MT, a bit beyond my comfort level but certainly within range, typically. I passed through Miles City, MT, at 140 miles and my gas tank just hit the low fuel gauge, 1.5 gallons left, and 44 miles to Forsyth. It would be close given the conditions and I'd stop along the way, maybe 20 miles farther up the road.
If I had had the boss along, she would've insisted that we fill the bike at Miles City, the conservative, safe approach. Looking at the green travel signs along the highway, it looked like there were at least two cities along the way within range.
I arrived at the first "city" and there were no services. I'm twenty miles into it and bullishly optimistic, even though the grade was elevating, the winds only getting stronger. The next "city" was Rosebud, about 14 miles away.
There it was, that sinking feeling, range anxiety. I checked the instant fuel mileage gauge: 25 MPG. That put me right at 175 miles. Rosebud would be my last chance. As I started the last ascent towards Rosebud, 174 miles on the trip counter, the bike popped out of cruise control, not enough fuel.
I downshifted to fifth as the bike began to backfire, lurch. I crested the hill, shifted to neutral, and I hoped to see a gas station sign.
Nope. There was a steep descent, a sharp ascent and nothing on the horizon but trees and cows. Rosebud lay at the bottom of the hill and I coasted down, considering options. I saw a couple of farm houses to the north. I pulled off onto the Rosebud exit. The bike sputtered, surged, sputtered and I had just enough gas to pull into the driveway of the closest house, a white ranch with a motorhome, a tractor. As I made my way into the residence, I noticed an older gentlemen, in t-shirt and jeans. Looking at him, I could see that he had seen many long, hard days of manual labor in his day.
"Hi," I said.
"How's it going?"
"Well, my bike's out of gas," I shut the bike off, stepped off the machine, removed my helmet. "You wouldn't happen to have any would you?"
He looked at my bike, said, "That's a Victory. Nice bike. I've been looking at them, used to ride a Kawasaki 1300."
"This is an 1800," I said. "Over a 1,000 lbs. when I'm on it. I ran into some strong head winds on the way and miscalculated my range."
"I have a gallon around here that I use for mowers and such."
"That would be great," I said. "How much can I pay you?"
"Oh, maybe three, three-fifty."
"How about five?"
"That'll do. It may take a moment to fetch it. I hope you're not in a rush."
"All we really have is time and I'm glad to spend some of it with you."
He paused, nodded, then went to one of the open garage bays to find the gasoline. I wondered if gasoline had a shelf life then realized it didn't matter much. I needed the gas to get to Forsyth, ten miles away.
"I brought a funnel. I use it for all sorts of things but it should be clean enough."
I poured the gasoline into the tank and paid him the $5.
"Thank you, sir," I said and I went to shake his hand. I noticed that his hand had difficulty closing and when I shook it, it was as dry and rough as unformed concrete. I flipped the start button, hit the ignition and the bike kicked over as though it had never been starved.
I thanked him again, waved and headed west to Forsyth to fill the tank. As Napoleon Bonaparte said, it's better to be lucky than good.
By the time I passed through Billings, the landscape had shifted from the wonderful cumulative flow diagrams that describe the aging bluffs to the mountain ranges that poked from the green land like smoke-charred incisors. Montana is a beautiful land and each time I travel through it I find myself agreeing to its adage of big sky country. At times, on small rises, the sky appeared so large that even though I rode uphill, it felt as though I were actually riding down.
The Yellowstone River, pregnant with the season's run-off, threatened to flood the highways, and I nervously watched the occasionally stormy sky hoping not to be impeded by standing water. Fortunately, I didn't encounter any rain, just wind, a lot of it, and made decent time to my friend Kirsten's house.
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