The three of us, Kirsten, Chuck and I are sales professionals, folks known for their hard partying, and the evening went late, even though it was a school night, 12:30 A.M., several bottles of beer and three bottles of red wine later, a mad mixture of the grain and the grape.
We drank the night away, chitter-chatting about work, Bozeman, the ridiculous amounts of money that the celebrities pay for their second (or third, or fourth, etc.) home in order to ski on a private mountain, that includes the ability to build your own private lift. Chuck sells windows, large, very expensive ones, to the celebrities and to the various companies needing them. We regaled ourselves with sales war stories while Izzy, their rescue dog, a five-year-old bitch with the energy of a puppy, the power of a pitbull, all sinew, muscle and bone, slept fitfully on the couch, obviously annoyed that she was the only one with the good sense to go to sleep at a reasonable time.
It was a great night until it was morning and I awoke early to write the blog. Chuck had left already for work by the time Kirsten and I made our way to historic downtown Bozeman for breakfast. I scratched Izzy, gave Kirsten a hug, thanked her again, and sauntered away on the bike, feeling too blah to make an exit statement, instead slinking away, mildly alcohol concussed.
It wasn't until I hit Butte, 85 miles outside Bozeman, that it hit and hit hard. It was too early to take a break but I needed it, the bathroom at Wendy's, a diet Coke. I was on my way to Spokane, Washington and my travel had started inauspiciously.
And, gentle reader, I must confess that as I sat at Wendy's I contemplated cancelling my reservation for the Hotel Montvale, an historic Spokane hotel in the heart of downtown, and instead crossing the street to the Butte Holiday Inn Express - just give me a room! - where I could curl into the pillows, childlike, sleep the day away. I had made progress, after all, 85 miles, and that should count for something.
But very good sales person knows that no matter what toxic damage you did to yourself the night before, you persevere, you show.
It matters not that your angry liver kicks you so hard during the morning that you alternately flop sweat and urine shiver every fifteen minutes or so.
It matters not that your eyes feel as though they are bleeding. Internally. And that the tears produced from the ducts are hot, thick, and coagulating.
You're a professional, damn it.
Back on the bike.
By the time I hit Missoula, I felt better but not great. Kirsten had told me that Missoula was hosting its annual "Testicle Festival" and I pulled into the city to get gasoline, check as to where this spectacle might be. I talked to the hipster behind the store counter, asked where I could find the festival and, obviously, I wanted to ascertain whether the testicles in question were bovine or human, the latter of which I'd frankly not much desire.
"We're not Bohemians," he said, meaning I take it that the testicles belonged, in fact, to the bovines, Montana being beef country. "You go west on the highway. There'll be signs. You can't miss it."
I headed west, never saw the signs and, frankly, I wasn't sure my stomach could handle the sight or the smell of Rocky Mountain Oysters and so I sauntered along instead, wondering but not really caring who participated in a "Testicle Festival".
I stopped for gas earlier than usual, again, about 100 miles, needing another break and the restroom. Another motorcycle pulled in next to mine at the pumps, a Honda ST1300, a V-4 touring bike, and a darling among the long-distance riding crowd. We introduced ourselves, his name being Tom, and we agreed to ride together, at least to Coeur D'Alene. Tom hailed from Vancouver and had ridden all over the northwest region for years. He pulled out his maps (physical maps!) and he recommended an alternate route to Neah Bay, one more scenic, that would avoid the Seattle traffic that he assured me would be terrible, especially on a Saturday. His suggestion was to take Highway 2, to 174, to 97, to Highway 20, all the way to the Port Townsend ferry. I'd take the ferry across, continue on 20 to 101 and travel to Neah Bay, the fourth corner.
We enjoyed a brisk ride to the lovely city of Coeur D'Alene, I-90 having incredible views of the Lake Coeur D'Alene, alternatively leading across the rather interesting, downhill, and rather sharp corners that run across the pass connecting Idaho to Washington.
We pulled over at an exit, said our farewells. I toured through Coeur D'Alene then headed to Spokane, back in the Pacific time zone, just a few days from home.
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