I wanna say it was Hengen Lake, MT where we had pulled over for lunch. It wasn’t lunch we had one our minds it was the dark skyline covering most of the “big sky” horizon Montana is well known for. We had left Yellowstone on our bikes early that morning and I can’t recall what the next town we were headed for maybe Butte? Missoula? This was back in 1999 man my memory storage can only hold so much. All I remember was we had to pedal 77 miles to our next campsite before we were done with this leg. Our commitment to todays ride was about to be put to a test. We had stopped in Yellowstone for the night and did some touristy things looking for large apex animals, sniffing in the sulfur air around the springs while elbowing other tourists.

My best good buddy David and I had gotten a wild hair to do half of the trans American trail from Alexander, KS to Astoria, OR on our bicycles for three or four weeks in August of ‘99. Probably 1800 miles of cycling if you never got off your saddle. We had David’s grandfather “Pappy” sagging our necessities around in his Surburban while towing his Hi-Lo RV. Our daily plan was to spot a campsite on our map, give Pappy our future coordinates and he was to drive ahead and stake our site while we pedaled for 8-12 hours a day. During his downtime he’d set up his little fishing spot, if available and wait for us. It was a good one two combo when things went according to plan.

Well this day Mother Nature would snag the moment and alter our plans a bit.

Montana is beautiful but it’s rather large too. To have ridden through such vast valleys, rolling over high Rocky Mountain peaks the whole experience was breathtaking. The Rockies are something to reckon with. They produce their own weather patterns and usually it’s without warning. If you’re in one of these amazing valleys and you hear thunder then go ahead and find some shelter. You have between 5 minutes to 5 hours of having a healthy, raging downpour.

It was overcast when we began our journey northeast towards Idaho. Most of the weather forecasts during this time were to be found by reading USA Today newspaper or asking a local. A cellphone would’ve been nice to have around those days. David had one at the time but you could barely get a local signal much less one in Montana. Still can’t to this day.

We left the campsite well before Pappy did and gave him our next destination whichever town it was I can’t recall and as this story progresses you will understand as to why. I do remember it being 77 miles away. I remember numbers better than most other things.

It was a chilly morning as are most mornings in Montana regardless of the season. A typical summer day in Montana you can wake up to frost on your tent and then sit under the shade of a tree later that afternoon to keep from getting heat stroke. We had some mild splotchy rain the past two days nothing serious to report just enough to make the arid pavement stink of rain. Our first leg of the morning consisted of riding parallel to a beautiful blue water lake for about 20 miles or so. We had used the day before to rest our legs and be tourists so we had fresh ones for the ride. We were probably 2 hours into our ride when we noticed some not so fun clouds coming over the horizon. With the skies of Montana the storm could’ve been 40 miles away but the stretch of road we were on would provide no shelter for us should the shit hit the fan. Even driving through Montana you can go two hours without passing any signs of civilization. We were pedaling and we were 100% exposed to all things. When the head wind brought our cadence down to 6mph we decided to find shelter. By chance we came upon a little saloon right next to the lake called The Happy Hour Bar. Montana isn’t known for it’s well thought out branding. It was a little bar right by the lake made look cabin ish on the outside. There was a long gravel road that lead you to the bar from the road. If you were driving from out of town there’s a good chance you’d drive right by it without seeing it. The locals knew were it was and that’s all that mattered to them.

It was around 11am and the bar had just opened. The storm looked like it was going to hang out for the day and we had to contemplate our next move.

Do we take shelter and ride out the storm?

Do we wait for Pappy to drive by unannounced and flag him down to give us a ride into the next town?

This storm could take hours. Next stop was a two hour drive or a 6 ish hour ride and we didn’t know how long Pappy would wait before coming to look for us. Our plan was to be safer than sorry so we parked our bikes next to the turn off on the road marker hoping Pappy would see the bikes and pull over. There was no other way to get his attention other than staying with the bikes the whole time. The thunder coming from the dark rolling clouds over the horizon was shaking the entire valley. Our asses we’re going indoors. Locals didn’t seem too pleased that two grown ass men wearing head to toe spandex with giant shells on our heads had come into their little watering hole. I think the clientele there enjoyed the candid location and wanted to keep it intimate amongst the locals. The looks on their faces mirrored that observation. We were somewhat oblivious and as we walked in David of course says “What’s up guys!?” David is 6’1” or 2” and probably 230lbs at that time with mini dreads with giant shaved legs and colorful socks. He’s also about as aggressive as a golden retriever unless extremely provoked but a handy friend to have around especially when you have a mouth like mine. We slid up to the bar, me trying to remain as unremarkable as possible. I just wanted some wings, beer and ride the storm quietly. No one wants to fight in spandex and clip shoes

Without concerning ourselves with the possibility that Pappy may not see our bikes roadside we got comfy and cowboyed up at the bar, ordered some lunch and had a beer. One of the tap handles read “Moose Drool” a local favorite of that town I suppose so I ordered us both a pint.

By this time the storm was raging outside. The little hole in the wall bar was rattling with the thunder. You could barely see the cars passing along where we had our bikes hitched. The air chilled fast and all we had were some lightweight rain jackets in our jersey pouch. We decided to buck riding and enjoy our day. Surely Pappy would see our bikes literally 5 ft off the road. Hell we even had little orange flags flying off the back of our saddle bags. The Moose Drool was delicious and cold. I proceeded to order a pitcher for us.

After all it was 11:45 in the morning.

Once we had solidly dented the first pitcher of Drool we decided to mingle with the locals. Alcohol loosens lips and well our lips were flapping like the little orange flags on the back of our bikes in the storm. Once the locals had decided that we weren’t extras for the Village People they loosened up a bit and we all became temporary friends.

Man that Moose Drool was good.

12:15 we order another pitcher. Good vibes were pouring out of that glass pitcher there was no way Pappy would miss our bikes. We could no longer see the road other then blurred blobs due to the downpour. Why were we even riding bikes anyway? This was where we were meant to be. The bar was cozy, we were dry and cheeks covered in wing sauce. Fuck cycling, fuck rain I was comfortably numb. Could not wait for Pappy to pull over so we could get to our next site, change into regular clothes and relax.

As we downed the second pitcher of Drool I had struck up a conversation with a woman at least 30 years my elder so I could bum a smoke off of her. She had a pack of Marlboro lights and handed off a stick and I obliged. I hadn’t smoked the whole trip and man that cigarette tasted sweet. So sweet that I decided to buy a pack from behind the bar.

1:00pm we were on our third pitcher of Moose when we saw Pappy, oblivious to our folly, drive right past our bikes. We looked at each other and laughed. Everyone in the bar laughed also. After the second pitcher was drained we had already told our life stories, our current situation and had written down everyone’s address to be pen pals forever. My thirst had really kicked in so I bought a round of jager for me and my 60 year old girlfriend that resembled Bea Arthur if she had platinum blonde hair and bangs.

I don’t recall how many cigarettes I had smoked in fact by mid afternoon I don’t remember much more of that day. 1999, there are no Ubers, no cellphone shout outs. Hell there were probably 4 taxis in all of Montana. Our only option was to ride the storm and saddle up once it breaks. When it did the sun came out and it turned out to be a beautiful day. Everything was in fact beautiful because we were in fact heavily intoxicated. We still had 6 to 7 hours of pedaling to do.

We stumbled to our bikes full of wings and Drool. We were fortunate there was a wide easement between the road and ditch. Not that it mattered we were pedaling 3mph. David had decided to relieve himself while riding “that’s how they piss during the Tour De France!” – he exclaimed while he pushed his spandex down to his bike seat. All the while singing “Tour de France Tour de France”! by Kraftwerk at the top of his lungs. When he turned to pee side saddle he and his bike both went tumbling down the short hill filled with tumble weeds and thorns. I pulled up to see if he was ok and his face was locked into a painful grimace. I thought immediately he was badly hurt but it wasn’t a grimace after all he only knocked the wind out of him and he was trying to laugh but lacked the necessary oxygen. Also his spandex had found their way down to his ankles. By the time I had pulled him out of the ditch a local sheriff patrolled had slowed down to inspect our current situation. David, helmet sideways, weeds in his whiskers and a big ass goofy smile. I met eye contact with him and did what any nervous person would do in this situation and I saluted him. Rather crisply too I’d say. I’m sure the aviators hid the eye roll I received and he drove away.

It got toasty once the sun came out and for some reason I become very dehydrated which didn’t make any sense I had plenty to drink that day. $80 worth to be exact. The combination of cigarettes, Drool, wings and jager and 90° sunlight didn’t set well with me and I proceeded to deplete myself of these ingredients orally. David was oblivious to my roadside issues and kept pedaling all the while singing kraftwerk. He came back about 20 minutes later to me with my head in my hands sitting cross legged in a ditch. I didn’t know you could get a hangover so early in the day but here we were. I was trending downward and David was just finding his second wind. I straddled my bike and sort of glided with both feet dragging the concrete to stay level. We were on a very slight downward slope and I was extremely thankful. At my current pace we would’ve made it to our destination 50 miles away by October.

I’m not sure as to why Pappy decided to come back and look for us we weren’t missing for that long. In fact he found me roadside still with my head in my hands around 3 when we were expected to arrive around 5. David had pressed on. I had insisted that he did and that I had wanted to die alone. I had planned, worse case scenario on hitching my way to the next town and if I had came across some axe wielding maniac then so be it. Just make it quick. It couldn’t have been worse than what I was going through at the moment.

Pappy loaded me up in his Suburban all the while giggling his ass off at both of us. I kept my head hanging out of the window the whole time. David had already arrived at our site all the while stating that riding for 5 hours in the sun was the best hangover cure in all of the land. He might’ve had a beer in his hand just to prove his point. I proceeded to crawl into Pappy’s Hi-Lo and went to bed at 6:30pm.

I would say we learned our lesson but I’m pretty sure we closed down all of Missoula two nights later and that’s a whole ‘nother story.

I drove by that lake last year when I was up in Montana and had to call David up to remind him of that adventure filled day. I’d do it all over again if I could.

The ride that is..