Day One-Hundred-Eighty-Six, Smokehouse

Two hours.  That's not enough.  I prefer to sleep ten or twelve.  But I have suffered from insomnia since I was ten or twelve years old.  Not the usual variety.  It's not that I can't fall asleep.  I just don't want to.  Life is short.  Sleep is a waste of time.

I was out of my room by nine or so, a record time for a motel.  There was nothing much about the place that made me want to stay.  A bare floor and cinder block walls, painted a glaring white.  It was cleanish but not too inviting.  What you might call prison chic.

I doubled back down the road to the old-folks cafe where I'd dined the day before.  Another uninviting place.  It is not overtly unfriendly.  But everyone there sort of glared at me.  It's their version of courtesy.  They're too polite too ask who I am and what I'm up to.  That leaves only fear and suspicion.

"Boo!" I wanted to say.  "I'm here to corrupt your daughters."  Or steal your chickens or vote Democrat.  Something to give them a thrill.

I got fed, at any rate.  I ate as much as I could.  I figured it might be the last food I got until December or so.  Odd food, though.  I was not well understood.  My biscuits and gravy and hash browns became crumbled biscuits with hash browns poured on top of them like gravy.

I was kind of soured on Chatom by then.  Everyone was grumpy at me.  Except Miss Frankie who runs the Cassanova cafe.  She was just charming.  But she wasn't around and I needed kind words before I climbed back on the road.

Call it a peculiar weakness of mine.  I thrive on the kindness of strangers.  And rather wilt without it.  I can't do this all on my own.  All I ask is that everyone be nice to me.  Smile once in a while.  Laugh at my jokes.  Encourage me.  Love me, if you don't much mind.

Thank-you.

I hit the Exxon on the way out of town to pick up some smallish supplies.  And ran into Smokehouse Jim Overstreet.  He was heaven-sent.

"Who are you?  What are you up to?" he demanded to know.  Friendly old guy.  He wasn't shy.  I was delighted to tell him my tale.

It seems a bunch of old guys used to gather there to have their morning coffee.  Until they took out the tables to make room for new beer coolers.  But a few diehards refused to go.  They gather in the aisles.  We sat on tubs of transmission oil, glad to be in everyone's way.

Good Jim introduced me to all of them.  There are lots of nice folks in Chatom.  I just hadn't known where to look.  I passed a very pleasant morning.  I learned quite a bit and had some suspicions confirmed.  That motel really is a dump.  And the guy who runs it is a grumpy old fart.

"I'm sure he has a heart of gold."

"Nope," they were all quick to confirm.  I believed them.  They would know.

I didn't leave town until noon.  That's when the party broke up.  I wouldn't have minded sticking around.  It sure looked cold out there.

And was.  Funny, though.  I felt like I was in Oregon.  Or some dank corner of Washington State.  Olympia comes to mind.  The sky was grey.  There was an almost fog and evergreens lining the road.  The world was at its most depressing.  I needed to walk fifteen miles. 

To get within range of the next town on, if I want to eat tomorrow.  As it was I managed seventeen, a fairly impressive feat.  I'd got an awful late start.  But my step was light because people were nice to me.  That's all it takes.  Seriously.  Try it on someone you know.

My little computer hasn't cheered me much.  Samsung, you know what you are.  I type this on "one percent" battery power.  It can shut off any time.  Which prevents me from getting a steam up.  Who knows what I might have gone on to say.  Brilliance leaks from me occasionally.  But Samsung Kills Art.

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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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