As we roll down the bumpy trail, a jingle emanates from Chris. In addition to bear spray, he had the wise idea to purchase a Timber mountain bike bell. Mounted to his handlebars, it has two settings; you can lock it so that it won’t ring, or unlock it so that the vibrations of the bike make it ring.
I’m not sure why, but my long hair has bothered me much more this trip than it did for our cross country trip. After mixing with sweat, bug spray, sunscreen, and dirt, it is nearly impossible to get a brush through it. After only a day or two of riding, it quickly begins to resemble a giant dreadlock.
Accordingly, I have been dreaming about chopping it off. Usually when I get a haircut, which is only once or twice a year, my conversation with Chris beforehand goes something like this:
R: I’m thinking about getting a pixie cut.
Long pause
C: I’m not good at dealing with change.
The second week of our summer-long trip down the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route took us from Ghost Station Campground near Cochrane, AB, through British Columbia and across the international border into Eureka, MT. We had a relaxing day in Canmore, and then headed north along the highway before looping back to the South, returning to the mountains and mining towns south of Banff.
I’ve mentioned several times how much we love Maine Bike Works, and we now have one more huge reason. Before we left Massachusetts, Jason told us multiple times, “We are just a phone call or text message away if you need anything!” Chris and I had no idea how soon we would need to take him up on that offer!
* In case you aren’t sure, it’s OK to laugh at this; pretty sure Chris was either rolling his eyes or laughing inside the entire time
For those who haven’t had the chance to ~really~ get to know me yet, here’s a fun fact: I have some anxiety and fears. Needles definitely top the list, but I’ll save that one for another day. Lightning isn’t far behind, and that’s what this story centers around.
I think it all started with a few bad climbs up Mount Darby in Wyoming involving some late afternoon thunderstorms when I was a child. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever climbed up Mount Darby and had it NOT storm sometime during the hike. My mom calls it the Devil’s Mountain. These experiences inspired a poem/song the summer that I turned 12, and even a paper when I was a senior in high school.
