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CLUB MEMBER SPOTLIGHT RIDING ALONE FROM KALISPELL TO LIBBY On the day the relationships started I was about a mile out of Kalispell and it started to rain. I stopped, put on my rain jacket, checked the panniers to make sure there were no strings hanging to wick water back up into the packs, and checked to make sure my sleeping bag was secure in its plastic bag. As a last step I put a plastic hood over the GPS just in case the Garmin people were wrong about how waterproof it really was. That was probably good for the GPs, but it meant I could no longer see the screen well enough to read the numbers. A couple of hours later the rain let up, and I took the hood off the GPS. I saw that my average speed was 12.0. Almost immediately 12.1 flashed on the screen. Before I was even sure it had really been there it flashed off again. Seconds later it was back, and then gone again. Clearly, that number was flirting with me. Well, I could play that game too, and I pushed a little harder. As soon as 12.1 came back, I let up and she disappeared. I was, frankly, a bit ashamed to be flirting with a number that I wouldn't have looked at twice if I hadn't been riding fully loaded, but there I was flirting back, and with a twelve no less. A long, level stretch came along and suddenly we were no longer just flirting, we were in a full-scale romance. Not much later it was looking like a real relationship. Then, out of nowhere, 12.2 popped onto the screen, clearly flirting as well. 13.3 was fun -- bubbly, effervescent almost, a pleasure to be with. Just when I thought we might be developing a meaningful relationship, along came the more serious 13.4. For a time this, too, looked like the real thing but she dumped me near the top of a long hill. I passed over the top and minutes later she was back, all smiles as if nothing had happened. I, of course, welcomed her back but I knew in my heart that she couldn't be trusted and began to move on. 13.5 didn't last long, nor did 13.6. Then suddenly there on my screen was 13.7, no flirting, no toying with me, she was just there. This was clearly a number looking for a relationship. We rode together for a long time getting to know each other well. We talked about our fears, our regrets, our hopes for the future. Did she believe in an Ultimate Prime? Where did we come from, a Heavenly random number generator, perhaps? Thirteen-Seven was insecure about her shape. The seven was too straight, too angular, too severe. She wanted more curves. ‘Like 13.3,’ I thought. But I didn’t say it aloud; numbers do not like to be compared. As we rolled into the edge of Libby, I was sure this was a relationship that would last, when suddenly there was 13.8 flirting with me. Thirteen-Seven was furious. "How could you?" she demanded. “Seven,” I said (I had taken to calling her Seven, not even considering that I had chosen as a term of endearment the one physical characteristic about which she was most insecure). “Seven,” I said, “Don’t worry about 13.8. She won't last through the first traffic light." And, of course, she didn't. A few blocks later, when I pulled over to register at a motel near the west end of town, Thirteen-Seven was still on my screen. Since that day there have been other numbers, some with more curves, some straighter. A couple of devastatingly exquisite fourteens, come to mind. There were even a couple of primes, but none has stayed with me the way Thirteen-Seven has. We still run into each other from time to time, usually on group rides, surrounded by people. Occasionally, we stop long enough to say, “Hey, how are you?” and “Hope you’re having a good day,” but usually, we just smile slightly and nod a quiet acknowledgement. Sometimes we look wistfully at each other, but we both know that our moment has passed, that there will never be another day like that day riding alone from Kalispell to Libby. So, here’s to you, Thirteen-Seven. Thanks for the great ride. Dale Blanchard |