North Dakota in 10 Days Part II: The Bike Ride that Almost Killed One of Us. Ouchie.
The previous five days had been leading up to this. I found myself getting actually nervous. I had all these thoughts in my head like, “What if I can’t do it?” “What have I gotten myself into?” “Are my bike shorts going to chafe the hell out of my crotch?” I suppose I should start a bit back to give you the lowdown.
Over the summer, I think sometime in June, my dad and I had had a sort of fight. We exchanged heated words over the internet of all places. It seems that we had been bottling some things up and needed to reconnect. I missed him. He missed me. I think mostly Dad missed the adventures we had when the boys and I were little kids. We needed to talk things out, and I needed to show him that I was still his girl--that I was still there as his buddy forever and always. After we wrapped our little chat online I had a thought. I immediately called him and said, “What if I come home at the end of the summer, and we ride our bikes to Medora? Would you do it with me?” I don’t even think he hesitated. He may have been surprised, yeah, but he was in. The next day I booked a ticket home for two months later.
If I go even further back I was five years old with my purple Boss Schwinn bike getting my first helmet. (From that day on I’ve never ridden without one.) Dad had told me about the cycling trip he’d taken from Bismarck to Seattle as a young man with his best friend. Two weeks of riding over the Rockies and to the edge of the world. I had never heard anything so magical. All I could think about was doing the same. Of course, being a realistic optimist, initially I set my sights a little closer to home. I told him I wanted to ride to my favorite place--Medora, North Dakota. By then we had been riding back and forth from Mandan to Bismarck, so I was sure Medora would be a cinch. (My house in Mandan to his studio in Bismarck=10 or so miles. We would ride around all day, so I imagine we did at least 25-30 each trip. Still, Mandan to Medora is roughly 150 miles on Highway 10.....Yeah.) Well, we never did it. Life inevitably happened as I had friends and summer theater, and he had jobs across the world. So 25 years after--at the ages of 30 and 60-- that I first uttered the desire we finally made the trip.
The morning of I awoke bright and efffffffing early at 6:30 as we were setting off at sunrise. The plan was to ride and just keep frickin riding for a good 12 hours on old scenic Highway 10. Mom and the boys were to set out hours later to meet us somewhere along the way and make sure we weren’t dead. They would be carrying extra food and water and providing much-needed moral support. Dad’s bike had three bags attached to the front filled with water and extra socks and snacks. My bike was incredible and was on loan to me from a family friend Jennifer Morlock who owns Dakota Cyclery in Medora. She had sent it to Bismarck days before to have it ready for me to ride. I can’t thank her enough. It was a beautiful gesture of goodwill. And Sam and Mom were so sweet to get their asses up to film our departure. Mom drove alongside for the first 10 minutes with Sam shooting out the window. If anyone else in town had been up to see it, I’m sure we would have looked like quite the interesting bunch.
It was a little after 7am, 48 degrees CHILLED and perfect. The sense of adventure was palpable. Or maybe it was the goosebumps all over my frozen legs in my padded bike shorts...(quick aside: whoever decided to color the inside padding of female bike shorts RED needs to be punched in the side of the head.) Seriously though, it was COLD. Before we even got out of Mandan we came across a flock of turkeys on the sidewalk. Things couldn’t have been better. I was in heaven.
Twenty minutes in we hit the first of the one million huge hills that we would have to climb. Whose idea was this again? I mean, they seemed to stretch forever and never level off. We’d catch a slight break only to hit something worse around the next bend. But let me tell you, it was incredible. The scenery was so picturesque it was better than a dream. Pastoral. Untouched. Naturally I stopped to say good morning to a cow. I fed it some grass and said my last, “Goodbye, I love you!” when as I turned around it let out a bellowing moo as if in response. Holy crap. North Dakota.
Speaking of cows, all we could wait to see was the head of that giant bitch Salem Sue (The World’s Largest Holstein Cow) in the first town of New Salem. Around every bend we were hoping to catch a glimpse, but she eluded us for what felt like an eternity. FINALLY we saw her touching the sky. I really really just wanted some pancakes.
Instead we called Mom and told her to meet us in the next town of Glen Ullin. After all, it was only about 25 miles onward. Little did we know that the next stretch was a horror show of pure gravel. I’m talking, inches deep and loose. (That’s what he said.) Our tires immediately seized up and turned in place. We actually had to get out and walk our bikes, well, more like drag our bikes. We were losing so much time. Construction trucks were zooming past providing a lovely cloud of dust around us to fill our eyes and lungs. Needless to say, I was glowing like I had just had a spa day. An SUV passed us going the opposite direction and quickly turned around. I looked back to see them approaching us and pull over. “Where are you guys headed? Are you okay?” said two of the most lovely human beings upon which I had ever laid eyes. We said yes we were fine, but we wondered how many more miles of hell we were to expect. They confirmed what we feared--the road to Glen Ullin was paved with, well, no pavement. Nothing. Shit. These two beautiful ladies immediately offered to take us. “Get in the car. We’ll take you there.” Of course we protested. We were disgusting and for some reason my leg was bleeding and it was the opposite way they were going and and and. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we graciously accepted. After all, they were providing me with my first hitchhiking experience. Yet another adventure. We took apart our bikes, and had to really finagle the crap out of everything to fit them in, but we did it. I’ve never been so happy to ride two miles in a car. I’ve gotta say, these women exuded the best of North Dakota warmth. They were immediately familiar and willingly offered us personal details about their lives and their family’s history. I wish I could remember their names because I would give them a shout-out from the bottom of my heart. Alas, two blond women in your 50s, you are angels.
They dropped us in Glen Ullin. I walked into the gas station to ask where we could grab a bite to eat. “Hebron.” Say wha? “Our cafe doesn’t open until 4.” Ohhh boiiiii we in small town America. We laughed in exasperation, and had no choice but to continue on the next 13 miles.
By this point my back and forearms were killing me. All that hunching over made me want to stretttttttttch. I was well aware that the likelihood of injuries was high since I had not one drop of training in me before this ride. What can I say? When I get the impetus to do something, I just do it. Don’t do what I do, kids.
A lovely surprise approached in the form of my aunt Terry and uncle Jeff. A goofy lady was waving at us from the back of a Harley, and I thought, “Wow, this state really is friendly.” Turns out it was family. (And she is goofy, by the way.) All the moral support we got from everyone was insane and so heartwarming. They came to say hi, and we left with some Milk Duds and happy faces.
Mom met us right outside of Hebron, and we continued on for lunch. We were starving, and the sight of the Wagon Wheel Cafe was glorious. Inside we found a nearly vacant room. A single man sat alone at a side table eating chicken and fries. An old couple sat close by with coffee. They all looked at us like we were aliens. We sat down after washing up and ordered what I can describe as the best meal of my life. Any meal after riding like a beast is the best meal of your life. Everything on the menu was $5 or less. I’m kinda thinking that every time I head back to North Dakota I want to head over to Hebron to eat here. It holds a special place in my heart. Especially the air tank/respirator sitting next to our table waiting for the owner to arrive and use it “soon”. “He’ll be here soon.”
I should probably mention the weather here. I have neglected to share how perfect that day was. Everyone knows that the wind heading West is infamously strong. We were worried that it would be hot and gusty as hell, pushing us literally and figuratively back home. BUT GUESS WHAT?! No way, jose. The sky was overcast, and the breeze was at our backs. After eating, this trifecta of energy gave us the boost we needed to continue on. Mom went ahead to the next town of Richardton.
Dad decided to get out the ‘ol Go Pro and see what kind of wacky footage we could get. Since the bike bags were on the front, he had to place it sideways facing out towards the road. You may know that Highway 10 has no shoulder. It’s very unforgiving in that way, so we mostly rode right in the middle until cars came in either direction. We were very vigilant and quick to assume our single-file position near the fields.
The camera was on, and we were flying so fast. I was so proud of the first chunk of our day. We were side by side. And suddenly we weren’t.
It was like in a movie when the world moves in slow motion. Dad’s bike stopped dead as if he’d hit a brick wall, slamming his head straight into the concrete. I can still picture the expression on his face as it met the ground. I yelled “Dad!” as it happened. I had to slam on my breaks and skid to a stop as fast as I could. I threw my bike off the road and ran back to him, screaming “Dad! Dad! DAD!” the whole time. He was lying on his back somehow, legs tangled in his bike, not moving. There was blood on the ground and the bike bags were bent at odd angles with their contents smashed. As I got to him he lifted his head, sort of shook it around. I didn't even have to help him up. He stood up, and I kept asking, “Are you okay???”. Ric Sprynczynatyk is the strongest man I know (because let me tell you, there have been so many times some damn thing or other has tried to kill him, and he just gets right up every time). He of course said he was fine, but “My tooth. I lost my tooth.” Fuck. I grabbed his bike to try to get us out of the middle of the road. A car pulled up simultaneously to ask if we were okay, said he saw the accident from afar, asked if we needed to go to the hospital. Dad said “No no no, I’m fine.” Meanwhile I was desperately trying to locate the bandages I packed in one of the bags. I hadn’t even been able to assess the damage yet, I had just seen blood. I saw all this pink liquid and thought that there was more blood than I initially thought. I opened the bag and realized that his coconut water had been crushed. Whew. Not blood. I rummaged for the bandages and found them all to be soaking wet. Only one was useable. I grabbed the napkins we had placed in a Ziploc baggie (thankfully) and went to him. He had a gash on the bridge of his nose where his glasses had smashed into his face. His lip was cut up to his nose where his tooth had been cracked out. His finger was cut to what I thought was the bone at his joint where his ring had been nearly ripped off. His knuckles ripped to pieces. His elbow. His left knee was extremely swollen. I wiped the blood from his finger and placed the one Band-Aid we had around it.
What the fuck had happened?!?!?! (I know I abuse expletives from time to time, but if there were EVER a time to use them, it’s now.) Turns out, he noticed that one of the bike bags was starting to disconnect. The exact moment he reached down to adjust it it got caught in his spoke along with his finger and flipped him completely over. There was no forward momentum at all. Just straight to the ground. His face broke his fall, and his knee got twisted with his feet strapped into his pedal clips. I swear to you all, I thought I had lost my dad. The way he smashed and the force with which he hit, I thought that was it. The fact that he walked away and didn’t break any bones, didn’t break his neck, didn’t crack his skull, didn’t DIE is frankly, a miracle.
I immediately wanted to call Mom to come back and get us. He wouldn’t hear of it. “Let’s keep going,” he told me. “I’m fine.” I kept insisting that while that’s great news, I was done. I wanted those damn bags off of his bike at the very least. Sure, physically we were both capable of continuing on, but emotionally I was DONE. We continued on for miles, and when we rounded another bend yet to see Richardton, I convinced him to let me call her. All I said when she picked up was, “Come back. Come back and get us.” “Are you okay?” she said. “No.” I’m certain I stopped her heart with that, but at the time I couldn’t muster any more details. As soon as I hung up I called the boys back in Bismarck to come as soon as they could too. There was no way we were getting both of our bikes in Mom’s car.
She arrived, and we told the tale. We threw the bags into her car. I knew I had to continue riding, but thought we could get Dad’s bike apart and in the little Kia hatchback. Again, he refused to quit. He was fine, he said. He could ride. So we did. We rode the 15 miles to Richardton. His bike bent and clicking all the way with Mom driving right alongside. He wanted to keep going to Medora, but he knew we had lost too much time. He said, “Let’s get to Dickinson. There’s no shame in 100 miles.” I said, “Dad, there’s no shame in 80.” Although we physically could have done it, his bike was too busted. And so was my heart.
As soon as we got to town I went into the pharmacy to grab bandages and Neosporin and ask if we could clean up in their restroom. Even though it was private, they gladly allowed us in. Sam and Ed got to us after about an hour of “relaxing” outside on a picnic bench. I am so so thankful for Mom and the boys. They were there when we needed them the most. This was our crazy trip, and they didn’t have to take time out of their days and do what they did. They rescued us. For an insane half hour in Richardton at the end of an insane day we laughed and took pictures and loved each other more completely than we had in so long. We were all together.
Dad went home with the boys, and Mom and I kept on towards Medora. I had to return my bike, after all. It wasn’t until we were turned around and on the way back East that I finally let myself explode. I began crying uncontrollably in the passenger seat next to my mom. Sobbing. I kept replaying the accident over and over in my head. I felt so vulnerable seeing my dad so vulnerable. There was a moment before we called Mom that I was riding ahead of Dad single file where the tears welled up, and I almost let them fall. I couldn’t let Dad see how his hurt looked to me. Only once we were all safe and my bike was tucked away could I let it out.
When I got in bed that night after 10:30pm I felt broken. My wrists hurt, my ass throbbed, my back ached. And the strange thing was, it was all in my head. It was all emotional. Because the next day I woke up completely fine. We had made it 80 miles, and I was fine. No soreness. No pain. I couldn’t believe it. But what was even more unbelievable to me was that Dad was fine. I took him to the dentist that morning. His tooth got fixed. I had never once in planning for this trip thought that it could have been dangerous. I thought it would be incredibly difficult and wondered whether I was physically capable. Turns out I was. I surprised myself there. I thought it would be hard, but I never thought it would be scary.
I can say with everything in my bones though that it was one of the best days of my life. Despite the near-tragedy that stopped us short (literally), it was incredible. Things could have been so so so much worse. And we made it so far for two oldies that don’t do this kind of thing. I feel closer to my dad than ever. We’ve shared something so special, and I’m beyond proud. And somehow we came out stronger and more insane...we’re planning what we can do next summer. xoxo
