Rapid City, SD -> Acton, MT

I haven't tried to write this drunk since Amarillo.

The sun woke me up too damn early. Its unwelcome rays lifted my eyelids shortly before 6 AM. Between that and the noise from the water heater I was easily caroused from bed. Or, should I say couch. I rode to Sturgis for breakfast. Outside of South Dakota, Sturgis refers to a motorcycle rally held in the small town of Sturgis, SD. The town of six thousand swells a hundredfold with primarily cruiser riders looking for a good time. The cops have a field day handing out DUIs. Outside of the rally, Sturgis is kinda boring. It feels like visiting a ski resort town off-season. Imagine visiting Breckenridge in June. Lots of buildings and signs alluding to the town's legendary status. Lots of large bars and restaurants with lots of empty space. It felt eerie. I sat at the bar at The Side Hack Saloon and talked to a local. The old man had always lived in South Dakota, always ridden motorcycles, and always disliked Sturgis and the rally. He never thought that he would find himself living there. It took an hour and a half for me to get in and out of that place. If they're struggling for staff now, I can only imagine what it will be like when the riders show up. Apparently The Hell's Angels will be electing their new president at the rally this year, mandatory attendance for all members. Better get that beer flowing faster.

I skipped the local twisties having judged that I did not want to be caught on a road with people who are not used to sharing the road and navigating turns at the same time. As it turns out, the fastest way from Rapid City to Billings is not via I-90, which directly connects the two but US route 212. Odd. I hopped the old two lane and pushed along at interstate speeds until lunch rolled around. The landscape changes dramatically when you cross the state line. The last of the midwest melts away for the hills and scrub brush that I call home. it fells good to be in the west again. I paused in the town of Broadus Montana (population 462) to check and see if I should stop there for lunch or keep going. When I realized that this town of not even a thousand came to be a highway control city in this area, I decided to stop. It was going to be a long way before I ran into another place to eat. I walked up to the bar and sat down next to a man and his much younger and prettier wife. I heard them speaking to each other in Spanish, her with fluency and him with a rough gringo accent, and asked where they were from. He came from Colorado, she from Peru, and they both lived in Miami. I tried to strike up a conversation with the woman after her husband wandered off and she was cagey with using her English. When I switched to Spanish her eyes lit up, you could tell she had not spoken to someone else in her mother tongue for quite some time. We discussed language, the size of the country, the sparsity of the country, and how plain the food was in the Midwest. I was just happy to dust off the Español. The couple left and just as I had struck up a conversation with the barkeep the husband stumbled back through the door. He said he needed a weird favor. He proceeded to tell us some gmish of stories about how he had grown up on a farm, knew engineering, and knew cars. Then he asked us to help him diagnose a weird noise on his car. The bartender and I quickly determined that it was a harmless brake squeak. Something to attend to eventually but not with urgency. As soon as we got away from him the bartender and I began to vent about the man's arrogance. He wasted a great deal of time bragging about his depth of knowledge and explaining his experience only to ask for help. Asshole. It's okay to be confused sometimes. The bartender told me to fill up with gas in town and not stop until Billings. Apparently the smaller towns don't take kindly to California license plates.

Billings from afar reminded me of the rust belt but in the West. I was not disappointed that tonight's lodgings were outside of town. I am once again in an Airbnb with other guests. One of them is my age and we grabbed diner and beer together at the bar which is blissfully within walking distance. He came from Albuquerque to work for the state's fish and wildlife service for the summer. He is surveying the health of the hundreds of lakes in the southern end of the state near Yosemite. He loves the work. Four days at a time backpacking in the woods with cool people getting paid to fly fish. Sounds alright. It made me think about my own career. Hopefully I'll get to start that soon. My best estimates say I'll be back in Santa Barbara in ten days or two thousand miles. Pound the interstate.

Today's Distance: 329 Miles

Total Distance: 6653 Miles