This is a chapter from Your Mileage May Vary, the memoir I've written about the 1998 GTE Big Ride Across America--the largest cross-country bicycle journey in U.S. history. While this chapter doesn't necessarily describe what a normal day of riding was like, it does recount one of the most memorable of the forty-eight days I spent on the road that summer.

REBELLING

Day 17

Hardin, MT to Sheridan, WY

That night after dinner under the Big Tent, the mosquitoes did their thing. Out came the citronella oils and spray cans of insect repellent, all of which riders shared freely, but they were of limited value. It was one of those stunning evenings that bathed our camp in a rich, orange light, and I determined to stay out and soak up that light as long as possible. While Ron cleaned his bike in bike parking, I attempted to install the new cycling computer he had purchased on my behalf a few days back. It was a lost cause. Between all the swats and slaps, there was little time or energy for anything else. I managed to read the instructions and program the computer, but gave up short of actually attaching the sensor to my front wheel. Packing it all up in desperation, I bee-lined to my tent, hoping that I had none of the pesky creatures attached to my body as I dove through the door and quickly zipped myself in. Such was the beginning of a new nightly ritual.

In the morning, I packed and ate quickly since we had been warned at dinner the night before to get through the first pit stop early. If we were late, there was the possibility we would be held up by a parade. The route map told us we were in for 85.5 miles of riding, most of it uphill as we finally said good-bye to Montana and entered Wyoming on our way to Sheridan.

Apparently, I didnt leave early enough. Just past mile thirteen, I crossed under I-90 and came to a small town overrun with Big Riders. A large wooden sign with a feather-festooned peace pipe carved in the corner welcomed me to Crow Agency, and Welmoed stood on the curb waving and calling for me to stop. I pulled over and learned that the parade the managers hoped we would miss was to celebrate the inauguration of Clara Nomee, the Chairman of the Crow Tribe, and the other officers. The parade was scheduled to begin at 10:00, and it seemed a shame to miss this piece of American culture. I quickly decided to join Welmoed and the others in staying to watch.

Zoi found me almost immediately, and we went into the Mercantile for candy to keep us entertained until the parade began. Out on the sidewalk, the townspeople were lined up in folding lawn chairs waiting in the shade. Further down the street, we found someone selling cups of lemonade and across the street, women were serving hot, homemade fry bread topped with ground beef, lettuce and cheese. I was happy to partake!

I sat on the curb attempting to eat without becoming a greasy mess and surveyed the small town and its people. From what I could see from this particular vantage point, the Crow took great pride in their automobiles, which were much newer than the small, square, well lived in houses that lined the street. None of those shiny cars and trucks arriving in town for the festivities, however, transported only one person. Rather they were filled front and back with families, friends, and neighbors eager to participate in the goings-on.

On a platform further down the street, the parade's announcer, Burton Pretty On Top, frequently announced that the parade would begin presently, and joked about being on Indian Time. I gave up on the idea of making it to Pit 1 before it closed, more than happy to be operating on Indian Time myself.

There was no possible way for us Big Riders to blend in with the crowd of Crow onlookers who very politely welcomed us to their town. When Burton Pretty On Top learned who we were and what we were doing, he announced our presence and asked us to join him and be recognized. There were about forty of us milling around the streets, and we all huddled at the base of his platform to be presented to the Crow Tribe and to pose for pictures. The crowd cheered and honked car horns.

And then Mr. Pretty On Top made us a wonderful offer. He invited us to ride in the parade and to stay for the entire day's festivities, which included the inauguration ceremony, a feast, and a dance, as guests of the Tribe! It was an exciting opportunity, but Mr. Pretty On Top must have anticipated our hesitation. He quickly followed his invitation with an explanation of Crow hospitality: if you have a guest, you dont bother to ask if they are hungry, you simply bring them food and drink; conversely, if you are a guest, you accept the hospitality that is offered, even if you have already eaten. So there it was: a public offer of hospitality we would be rude to refuse. I immediately felt the tension between wanting to stay and needing to get to Sheridan before nightfall.

I was standing next to Welmoed, which if you were a Big Rider at that moment, was the only place to be. She immediately went into action, explaining to the Crow women nearby that we didn't want to offend anyone, but if we stayed we would be without the support of our ride and more than seventy miles from camp--a camp that would cease to exist after 8:00 a.m. the next morning. Angie Good Luck responded without hesitation. In a matter of moments, she had offered to let us sleep in the tepees set up behind the school where she worked and promised us all transportation to Sheridan in the morning in time for the 8:00 a.m. ride-out! She said the tepees could hold about ten people each, and that she and her family could provide blankets for us.

How could we turn down such a gracious offer?

I admit, I was briefly afraid of agreeing to such a daring plan--if anything went wrong, I would be stranded. I was not traveling with a credit card. Did I have enough money left in my account for a hotel or a bus if I needed? I had no other clothes with me; would I be warm enough dressed in cycling shorts and a jersey until tomorrow? How many tampons did I have with me and would they get me through the night?

These doubts lasted only a moment. A voice from somewhere deep inside reassured me that I was resourceful enough to handle any outcome of this decision. Besides, I reasoned, I would not be alone. It would prove to be the single best decision I made the entire summer.

Welmoed excitedly accepted the offer on our behalf, then set about finding the other riders and relaying our good fortune. All in all, nineteen of us decided to stay.



At last, the parade began. It was led by the Sheriff's silver pickup followed by men carrying the U.S. flag and a blue flag that I didnt recognize but assumed represented the Crow Nation. Behind them on horseback came men in ceremonial dress and cowboy hats or feathered headdresses, and young girls, also dressed in their traditional best, with colorfully patterned blankets spread across their laps and the backs of their horses. These riders were followed by floats, including one from the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous, one that carried a drumming circle and brightly costumed dancers, and another bearing a preserved buffalo that Burton Pretty On Top joked had beat the Big Riders to Washington, D.C. where it had recently been part of a Buffalo Pastures Conference. As the floats passed, pieces of wrapped candy flew into the streets and were quickly snatched up by the crowd's youngest and most eager participants.

At the end of the long line of floats, Mr. Pretty On Top invited us to join in, and we gladly did so, riding slowly through town and down a short road to the newly constructed Multi-Purpose Building where the inauguration ceremony was to take place. As we lined our bikes up against the outside of the building, Zoi decided to keep moving down the road in an attempt to catch up with the Ride again. I was sorry to see her go and worried about her safety as we had undoubtedly been passed already by the caboose who would have taken down all road marking signs and closed the first pit stop. The benefit for the rest of us, however, was that when she arrived in camp, she would be able to tell the ride managers where we were and what our plans were for the next twenty-four hours.

I was impressed again by Zoi's independence. Most of the women I met on the ride had an air of self-reliance about them, but Zoi had something more. She seemed truly comfortable in her own body, always confident in her choices, and perfectly happy to set off on her own when things got dull or no longer met her personal needs. Yet, she was so friendly that you never felt it was you she was attempting to escape. She floats through my memories of the Big Ride like a ghost, appearing practically everywhere I happened to be, though I know that at least some of the time I have inserted her there falsely.

Inside the building, which doubled as a basketball court with a shiny, perfect floor, we took off our shoes to protect the wood and found seats in the bleachers. The stage was set up at one end of the room and two drumming circles were already singing and beating out a rhythm on either side of it. The Crow people danced their way into the hall in a large arcing line and found seats in folding chairs on the floor or in the bleachers with us. Clara Nomee was being inaugurated as the returning Chairperson along with Joseph Pickett, Vice-Chairman, Dennis Big Hair, Secretary, and Cornelius Little Light, Vice-Secretary.

As the room filled and the speeches began, it started to get warm, despite the open doors. Several Big Rider heads, including mine, began to bob. By 2:00 it was obviously a losing battle. As cross-county cyclists, the only defense we knew against the exhaustion our bodies felt and the hot afternoons in the American West was to keep moving. Several of us decided to ride into town a little further to wake ourselves up. There was lots of movement on the floor as other spectators used the restrooms or stepped outside for some air, but we felt guilty and conspicuous as we crept across the floor toward the door in our brightly colored attire. I couldnt decide which was ruder: staying but sleeping through the ceremony, or leaving. I knew the Crow were too polite to comment one way or the other.

We rode just a few minutes and found an air-conditioned gift shop and restaurant outside the entrance to the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. We perused the goods for sale before squeezing together around a table in the restaurant for pie à la mode. It was my first opportunity to meet some of these particular riders and learn more about the "real lives" of some of those with whom I was already acquainted. Jon from Texas, for example, was an artist who taught at Washington University in St. Louis, and Wayne worked for the military. At first, under the impression that Wayne taught U.S. soldiers how to engage in chemical warfare, I was determined not to like him, no matter how well spoken he was or how kind his appearance. After asking for clarification, however, I discovered that his duty was to train U.S. medical personnel how to treat the effects of chemical warfare. What a relief! I so did not want to waste energy disliking someone based solely on how they earned a living.

After a quick trip to the smoke-filled casino next door in search of an ATM machine, we headed back to the inauguration ceremony, representatives of the American Lung Association's Big Ride Across America stinking of cigarette smoke! When we arrived, the ceremony was still underway. We slipped back into the stands with the other riders and watched it conclude. Again, we were recognized and thanked for our presence at the ceremony and for "adding to the occasion." We also were invited to join in the Honor Song and final dance that carried participants out of the hall and into the bright daylight of the parking lot. We fell in among the Crow dancers and shuffled across the floor and out the doors. I spent seven years studying music as a child and generally pride myself on my ability to keep time. But, somehow, wearing black cycling shorts and a neon yellow jersey and surrounded by all those people in ceremonial dress who had been moving their feet to music their entire lives, my sense of rhythm failed me. If my already sunburned face could get any redder, I'm sure it did. This experience was one I'd waited for my whole life--to be part of a modern Native American ceremony--and I was failing, both because my body refused to respond the way I wanted it to, and because I was too self-conscious to really enjoy the experience.

Once outside, I rode back along the parade route to a payphone I'd seen at a gas station. I called my parents, my sister, my aunt, and Hans, excited to tell them about our invitation from the Crow. Everyone agreed it sounded like a wonderful opportunity, and no one seemed concerned that I was now off the official route. Hans was the most envious, and I was sorry he wasn't with me. As I had grown stronger on the bike, I had been playing with the idea of doing the Big Ride again the next summer, and the sound of his voice convinced me that we did indeed need to do this trip together.

When I returned to the Multi-Purpose Building, large canopies were set up outside over a buffet food line and tables and chairs. The feast had begun. A small Crow man who was obviously in charge of this portion of the day's festivities kept shouting, "Where are the riders? All the riders go to the head of the line!" We attempted to resist his urgings, but were corralled to the front anyway.

There was a wonderful selection of food: roast buffalo, mashed potatoes and gravy, fry bread, watermelon and cantaloupe, and corn on the cob which I had dearly missed eating that summer. There were large bins of soda and a chocolate cake to finish it all off. We ate around a few of the tables or standing up while the Crow, who were happy to have us as their guests but not quite sure what to make of us, ate at separate tables.

Midway through the meal it began to rain. I realized it was the first warm rain of the summer and rushed out from under the tent to enjoy the smell and feel of it. It was only a sprinkle that didnt last long, but other riders picked up my enthusiasm and stood with me. The drops stirred a sermon, and I began yet another lecture on the beauties of living in the moment and being unconcerned with time. Luckily, these particular riders had not heard these rantings from me previously, and they listened quietly. Welmoed surprised me entirely, however. When I finished with the story of how my cycling computer had broken on Day Two, and I had taken that as a sign to enjoy the ride without worrying about deadlines and statistics, Welmoed removed her watch, marched to the nearest trash can, and tossed it triumphantly in.

My jaw dropped. "Welmoed, you dont have to throw your watch away!"

She beamed in reply.

Jon, who had been watching the exchange from under the edge of the tent, walked out now and straight to the trash can. He reached in, grabbed the watch, and said, "If you dont want this, I do. It's nice!"

Again, Welmoed smiled and gave Jon her blessing to keep the timepiece that just the day before she had been worried had been ruined in a swimming pool, leaving her without a morning alarm.

I was still amazed. I also was unsure whether I should feel guilty for prompting Welmoed to such an action, or whether I should feel honored that she had heard and understood my message so deeply. Since she seemed happy with her decision, I decided I would be, too.

After dinner, Cedric and Angie Good Luck arrived with their pickup and horse trailer. We loaded the bikes in as carefully and tightly as we could. We managed to stand fifteen of them upright, then laid the remaining four over on their sides on top of the others. Perfect fit. Yet again, the universe had given us just exactly what we needed when we needed it.

The Good Lucks agreed that we should stay for a portion of the dance, so we moved back inside the building where the band was warming up. All the riders sat on the first row of bleachers and did a line back rub before getting up to dance in their socks on the shiny floor. The band played some rock songs they admitted they wouldn't play normally for this event and were probably amused at this oddly dressed group of mostly white people who didn't know how to dance. Tony, however, was the exception. As he moved from partner to partner, the women he danced with nearly swooned. (In all honesty, I've never really seen someone swoon, so I can only guess that this open display of attraction qualifies.) I stayed mostly on the sidelines and took pictures as the others writhed on the floor with their feet in the air or did other similarly silly things, until at last Welmoed coaxed me onto the floor for two songs.

During our shenanigans, we began noticing the doorways filling up with Crow who were either too polite or too afraid to enter the room while we were flailing about. Just before the dance was scheduled to begin at 9:00, we asked the band if we could borrow the stage to thank the Crow Nation for their hospitality, then we all quickly vacated the premises so they could enjoy their dance. Somehow we squeezed all nineteen riders into Angie's car and the cab and bed of Cedric's pickup for the twenty-mile drive to Lodge Grass, Montana, a community of 517 individuals, where we would spend the night.

As we drove, the sky darkened, and lightning flashed behind us. Luckily, the rain never caught up. When we arrived at the school, we found four tepees set up behind it and a large bonfire blazing a good distance away. The wind had picked up, and we were grateful for the fire. As we shared log benches, we learned that the Good Lucks had arranged for even more entertainment for us. Women arrived bearing more food--hot dogs and sausages, buns, ketchup and mustard, and marshmallows! Another group of visitors arrived also. They were high school students doing volunteer work on the Reservation for the summer. They had great energy and joined in the wiener roast, then divided us into two groups and taught us a call-and-response song and dance called the Boogaloo. Jon, always making up humorous songs and in search of an audience, created a verse of his own based on the signal for rider in distress and dedicated it to those of us who saw no shame in sagging.

When the high schoolers left, two more men arrived to teach us about the tepees in which we would be sleeping. The men were teachers in the summer immersion program here at the school to teach Crow children about their language and history. The Nation had discovered that by living in these tepees for six weeks and being surrounded by Crow culture, the children gained a deeper understanding than if they were taught the same information in a day school setting. The program had just ended, and we were lucky to find the tepees still standing and available for our use!

The story the men relayed taught us not only about the tepee and its structure, but about which animals had given the Crow which poles to use, the significance of living in a tepee, and how to respectfully enter, exit and move through a tepee. Welmoed captured the story from memory the following day in her journal:

Everyone has three mothers: the woman who birthed you, the earth who provides for you, and the tepee who protects you. The tent opening faces east to greet the new day. The four main poles are the compass points (correspond to the four directions). The two poles on either side of the door are the mountain lion and the bear; they protect the tepee. The two long poles which hold the top flaps and stick out most are the owl and the coyote; they are watchful for enemies and harm. The short sticks holding the canvas flaps together over the door are the eagle's feathers. The stakes holding the tepee down are the badger's claws. Upon entering the tepee, you should turn to the left (and move clockwise around the tepee). The man of the family sits against the back wall of the tepee, facing the door, so he can see danger approaching. Leaving the tepee in the morning is being birthed into a new day; you make a complete turn to the left (to signify this).

After hearing this story and asking as many questions as our brains could muster after such a long day, we shuffled off to bed in the tepee nearest the school. Ten of us had gone to sleep earlier in the tepee next door, leaving us remaining nine to pile into the other. Angie had a large box of blankets outside the door, and we each reached in for one as we entered. Inside, we spun a circle to our left and continued around the tepee in the prescribed clockwise direction until each of us had found a space on the ground. Incredibly, we all fit.

I was at the back of the tepee with my head toward the center. To my right was Jon who was sandwiched in by Jane on the other side with Welmoed at our heads. I could see a starry black sky through the round hole in the roof, and there was plenty of light inside the tepee. The bottom of the tepee fabric was about two inches above the grass, yet I felt no hint on my feet of the cold wind that blew outside.

I drowsed on and off throughout the night and woke around 6:00 feeling as though I had slept on a cloud. There was a brilliant blue sky directly over my head with the occasional fluff of white, and I was lying on green grass. It was the best place in which I have ever awakened!

As I circled to my left upon my rebirth into the world, I felt the most peaceful, and the most grateful, I had felt on the entire trip. The green of the grass was washed in a white gold light that streamed out of the blue above. In the distance we could see the peaks of the Wolf Mountains, and I suddenly felt I was in the most perfect place on Earth.

I wished this morning of superlatives could go on forever as I traipsed off to the girls bathroom in the school that had been opened for us.

The two unused tepees had been taken down before we emerged from the two we occupied, and we learned that friends of the Good Lucks had spent the night awake around the fire, watching over us and our bikes. The hospitality of these people touched and amazed us. Without hesitation Angie had offered us accommodations and transportation, and then made a series of arrangements with family and friends to provide for our comfort, safety, education, and entertainment. It all had been seamless, as though it had been planned well before our arrival. When I tried to imagine myself in Angie's place, offering hospitality to so many strangers, I wondered if I had the resources and network of family and friends to pull it off. So many of the people I loved and counted on lived thousands of miles from me. I longed to be a member of such a close-knit community as we all piled back into Angie's car and Cedric's pickup for the sixty-mile drive to Sheridan, Wyoming.

Montana had shown us her best and her worst; her residents, by far, among the best she had to offer. Despite the excellent spirits in which a night in a tepee had put me, some part of me knew the best day of the Big Ride was coming to a close. Some part of me did not want to let go.

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