Now and then I'd rope a friend into going along on the ride with me and they suffered like animals. Only one guy named Scott didn't suffer. He had a nice bike and knew how to ride it, but most of the time I rode alone.
I'd sleep in the basement of my parent's house and I'd keep my bike down there next to my bedroom. There was a stairway out of the basement that went up to the backyard. I'd walk my bike along the house through a gate to the frontyard, ride down the sidewalk to the end of the block and out into the street. I'd ride under the canopy of trees out of my neighborhood and out of town to the interstate. After ten miles riding west on I 90 I'd turn north on highway 93. Leaving Missoula on my bike like that was like leaving orbit and venturing out into space. The distances seemed vast. The reality out on the open road was often harsh. Wind heat and highway traffic. It was nothing like riding a bike around town.
I can never drive down highway 93 now without thinking back to those summers and all of those bike rides.Today the clouds were closing in on the mountains and it was very bright and hard to get a picture without just blowing out the sky. So this is kind of a wierd picture.