Really mediocre spaghetti and meatballs cannot be redeemed by huckleberry pie a la mode.
That’s all I have to say about last night’s feeble attempt at carbo loading.
After a motel breakfast of Frosted Flakes and Eggos (my touring diet is totally embarrassing) I hit the road to Paradise. As any Finn Brother fan knows, Paradise is wherever you are. But not in Montana. Endless Montana. I’m beginning to think the other 49 states were nuked by our pal Rocket Man. Montana is this long so that you’ll really appreciate not spending more than 24 hours in Idaho.
The road was a downhill joy, winding along the Clark Fork River through the Lolo National Forest. Around every bend there was a wow moment like this.
Or this. (Looks a tad unstable to me.)
After 21 miles of traveling northeast I turned west on Highway 200 which I’ve been riding on since North Dakota. I’d been advised that this is a nasty stretch of road but with a steady downhill and a 10 mph tailwind in dry 70 degree weather you can run Winnebagos up my ass all day and I won’t complain,
But there was light traffic. Everyone was celebrating ‘Merica by fishing and rafting and drinking cheap beer in blue cans.
In one area the mountains to my north looked like they had just been pushed to the sky. Signs advised to look out for bighorn sheep up on the mountain. I kept looking but didn’t see any.
The town of Thompson Falls cape 10 miles later than my maps said. I stopped at the first place with sitsown food, a fried chicken shop inside a grocery store. I was hungry and, you know, ports in storms.
A mile later came the actual town with actual restaurants. My tummy didn’t care.
The post lunch cycle proceedings were harmed by warm air. Temperatures rose into the 80s for the first time in a week. People have been walking around in what passes for winter coats in DC.
There were a few logging trucks. I think they were going here:
When I rolled into Trout Creek (the town, not the waterway) I started scouting for a place to rest my head. One motel on a lake was outrageously expensive. There seemed to be some sort of public access to the forest down a long dirt road. Or a modest second motel. I chose what was behind door number three. It’s a fine little place, the kind you see all over Vermont.
I walked down the street to the grocery story for dinner and liquid refreshment.
My hotel’s TV advertising pretty much tells you the political landscape around here. I’ve never once seen a motel advertise MSNBC.
I suppose it’s the flyover version of the Confederate flag.
Miles: 77.5
Tour Miles: 3,202
Tomorrow we’ll find out if Idaho is more than a BoDeans song.
A Few Spokes Shy of a Wheel 