Day 20. Havre to Malta, 88 miles

Today was so hard. I think it was the hardest day of riding I’ve ever done.

Knowing I had a long day ahead, I set out just after 5:30 to try and get in as many miles as possible before the wind and heat got going for real. I sunscreened up before leaving, figuring I’d ride straight through the first 30 miles. Which I did. The first 20 were grand: cool, windless, and green. Trees reappeared east of Havre, not just as a carefully maintained windbreak (never quite reaching the road, because why would you waste water shading the road?), but as an apparently natural feature as well. I also saw a bit more water in the form of creeks and rivers, the Milk River being the only one with something like a current. The Bear Paw mountain range runs just south of Havre, and I have come up with a theory that mountains = runoff = trees. Anyone out there who can confirm or deny?

But in all cases, this meant shade opportunities, and I took one at my 30-mile break. By 8 a.m. the wind had kicked up for real, and the last 10 miles of that stretch were work. I didn’t know the half of it. There are nearly no pictures from today after the morning because I was too busy being miserable from riding into 70 miles of intense, face-blasting, ear-whistling headwind. There was not a mile of that ride I enjoyed, I kid you not. The one pleasure of the day was (were? mom?) the clouds of alfalfa in all different shades of purple lining the road, giving off the sweetest scent in the heat. That and the white and yellow sweet clover and a lovely grass called squirreltail made some moments tolerable.

This historic marker expresses as clearly as the bullet marks on the Lewis & Clark monument the present rage and pain of the Blackfeet. It made my heart hurt, as it should.

The wind was like this at noon and more later when I was too drained to stop for more video.

I yelled at the wind, but couldn’t hear myself because it just tore the words from my mouth. I would have given up if I could: taken the first ride offered, stayed somewhere closer, laid down at the side of the road. I tried to get a room at an alleged B&B in a town 17 miles short of Malta called Dodson, but the town turned out to be dead, and the lady never called me back, and I had to keep going. On the record: Joyce, you are correct that headwinds are worse than mountains.

Brief comic interlude as I arrived at the edge of town.

After 14 hours on the road and 3000 feet of up and down—my second-slowest day at just above 8 mph average—I landed at the Edgewater Inn & RV Park and opted for the inn portion. Too tired to consider dinner, I drank an ice-cold soda, showered, texted with Andrew, confirmed that tomorrow is supposed to be all tailwinds all day, and went to bed.

I do have this closing thought. One of the printable things I shouted at the wind (definitely a good cliche about wasting energy) was “THIS IS TOO HARD!” But exhausted and with a bod aching from pushing through strong resistance all day, I can sit with the fact that it *wasn’t* too hard. I did it.