Day Eighty-Seven, Recumbo

I was up at six, as has become my habit. I had not been asleep long. Three, four hours, not one minute more. Far less than is decent or correct.

I had the damnedest time falling asleep. I had been too long on the road. And I was especially cheered by my victory over the once great state of Montana. And the weather was fine, in spite of the storm. It was a balmy sixty-five degrees. It has been so cold at night of late that I thought winter had already come.

The storm only briefly threatened to kill me. The winds were hard on my tent. But the lightning was never too near too long and a little rain never hurt anyone. I have been through proper monsoons, I tell you. I have seen it raining frogs.

When my rainstorm ended I sat outside my tent, staring up at the stars. It is something I don't do often enough. They're awfully pretty these days. And there was lightning on every horizon, sheets that lit up the sky. And bolts like you would see in a time lapse photo, but happening in real time. There was no thunder that I could hear. It looked like Alzada was getting hammered.

To the southeast was the town of Belle Fourche. You could see it ten miles away. A searchlight somewhere was sweeping the sky. I thought about walking again. But a little sleep now and then in good for a boy. I finally turned in around three.

In the morning I was not at all well. My every muscles was tired. Not sore but worn out and my feet hurt a bit. I had come by it honestly. I had damaged one blister leaping over the fence. The rest was good wholesome ache.

There were antelope grazing not too far off. I was afraid there would be cows. They love me, you know; they'd be all over me like so many puppy dogs. I just did not have the time. The weather report got another one right. It was in the high nineties today.

Back on the road I had no strength at all. I found a tree after three miles. I breakfasted on weeners and sardines and the last of my hsmburger buns. And half a gallon of Gatorade that I had been saving for a special occasion. A trainload of kitty litter rumbled by. It seemed to be struggling some.

I took some convincing to get moving again. It was too hot to go or stay. And I had to climb a steep hill to the road. It took almost all that I had. But soon I ran into a friendly cyclist. There are one or two, it seems.

His name is Lee. He began in Alaska. He is on his way to New York. Or Chicago. Or Miami. Or Mexico. He has time to make up his mind. He rides sixty or seventy miles a day. That ain't too too awfully bad. He travels light; he's only got one shirt and seems to live exclusively on carbs. Wiry fellow, and tall, tall. He had a spectacular nose.

He is from California but grew up in New Zealand. His accent comes directly from there. And he is not your typical cyclist. He rides a recumbant bike. With a chair for a seat and his legs out in front and his handlebars somewhere beneath him. And he actually slowed to talk to me. Not typical at all.

I sped to a four or five mile pace. He slowed as much as he could. I talked; he listened; he talked a bit too. We practically flew into town. It was a long hot stretch I was rather dreading. I did it in record time.

He didn't, of course; it was good of him. He is an intersting guy. And a Bolshevik, just like me. We Bolsheviks get lonesome sometimes. On the edge of town we found a spot in the shade and sat there for too long a time. It was nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands.

As it was, we rather cheated ourselves. We were huddled behind a gas station. Turns out Belle Fourche has a couple nice parks. There were much better places to sit. He did let me ride his bicycle. That was nice of him. It was remarkable comfortable, but scary to stop or turn.

I am afraid I wasted too much of the day, but I did enjoy our talk. When we parted ways I found a coin laundry and spent three more hours there. I was getting a little stinky in my old age, and my last shirt had gritted up some. And my computer was woefully undercharged. These are things that need to be seen to.

I did meet a nice biker from California and Kentucky, and everywhere in between. He retired from his job making quarters for the mint, but was a little too young for just fishing. So he rides around with his grey ponytail. He reminded me of Tommy Chong.

I didn't get moving until six o'clock. I still hadn't had a proper meal. But I decided to skip it and save the expense. Good food does not grow on trees. And I am sorely in need of shoes. I'll eat when I get hold of them.

I haven't had much appetite lately. That's one way to save a buck. I can lose another ten pounds without looking ill, maybe twenty without getting sick. I am still dropping maybe two pounds a week. Maybe I'll try three or four.

I did suffer a minor disaster leaving Belle Fourche. It came on all of a sudden. I was struck by the symptoms of what on the Subcontinent I called maharaja's revenge. I won't trouble you with all the details. Just know it could have been ugly. And a crying waste of the five dollars it cost me to wash my clothes.

I can't say I've yet fully recovered. Tomorrow I'll get some pills. I haven't been poisoned; it's the water round here. It's a mineral thing. On a brighter note, I think I have found another use for bentonite. Keeps a fellow regular, it do.

Explosively so.

I wasn't sure I was going to find anywhere to camp. Belle Fourche rather spreads out some. And Spearfish is a dozen miles over the hill. Their suburbs meet in the middle. In the end I found a great spot. Someone has camped here before.


BELLE FOURCHE is pronounced "Bell Foosh", which is French for "beautiful foosh." Explanations have been offered, but I am still not sure what a "foosh" is. I'm not sure I want to know. Recall that it was the French who named the Grand Tetons, or "Big Tits". To my more sensitive readers, I apologise. I merely aim to inform.

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