Day Three

Spent the night at friend Maggie's house in Bozeman. Eight hundred miles so far. First library email stop. Maggie's roommate Mark a nerdy but congenial guy. I regale him with Duke stories and together we three watch the Nightline Burning Man coverage and several Duke spots. I wonder why Maggie would choose to live with this guy and am relieved to find that there's nothing romantic between them. I tell her that he's not her type. Later, however, she jumps to his defense saying, "He hunts with a pistol. He's the best shot in Montana." Ok. Whatever. She's smitten with the guy.

Awoke this morning sure that I should get insurance before going further. Just a gut feeling. Postcard sales have been going so well that I can afford (barely) the $91 for three month's coverage and still make it to Minneapolis in gas, though how I'll get back is yet anyone's guess. I buy the insurance, feeling somewhat stupid as I walk out of the office with a yellow receipt as my "proof" and nearly $100 lighter in pocket. What a scam. But the way I choose to look at it is this: I just bought $91 worth of "assurance," not insurance. Despite whatever good it might do the system, I can now drive free of worry for the next three months. I have a valid license, registration and now insurance. So what if I'm licensed in Arizona, registered in New Mexico and now insured in Montana. I'm a man of the road and I'm legal.

Downtown Bozeman greets me kindly with postcard sales and smiles. A lovely girl named Robin is flirtatious, strolling out of her shop several time to chat. A month from now when I pass back through Bozeman, there will be a man in the shop with her and she'll be a far less friendly person. As I start up the car to roll out of town, Duke billows his usual greetings smoke. Two attractive women about my age are sitting on a bench outside a shop watching me and giggling. Apologetically, I say, "He's a little smoky." They respond with, "We're looking at you!" Which is nice.

Later that day Duke and I are running hotter than hell in the eastern Montana heat. In a gas station in Billings, I languidly clip my nails while pumping the gas. Two cop cars pull up and spit out curious cops. I hardly look up, dead from the heat, worried about my car and busy clipping my nails to keep me from chewing them off. I answer a few of their questions, give them postcards and move on. It is the least unnerved by police I have ever been.

All the while I have been freaking out watching the temp gauge climb to 230 degree and waiting for the hammer to fall, dead sure that water boils somewhere around 220 and wondering why I don't see steam. While clipping my nails, I take a moment to read the Prestone coolant jug and am greatly relieved at the knowledge it imparts. Coolant cools. Duh. Of course. So whereas I'm sure it ain't healthy for my engine to be running steadily hot, I now know that Duke's not going blow up until he hits about 280.

The overpass pillars out here say, "Trust Jesus." Birds dive bomb my car. I pull off occasionally in search of a place to jump in the river that I've been dreamily observing off to my left. The heat and the late afternoon sun together lend this deserted stretch of country a psychedelic pallor. In Forsyth, MT, I hit paydirt, a tiny, free campground that appears to exist for the sake of fisherpeople. A sign says 7 day limit on camping. Unbelievable. I put on my river shoes, a pair of $2 sneakers from the Salvation Army, and wade in. Ecstasy. Local kids cruise the campground in their cars with stereos blaring.

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Last update April 1, 2004