Bikers in Yellowstone

I am not a biker, in any sense of the word, or in any manner of the bikes we own. Yet I persist in the belief that I am a biker - or at least I could be a biker.

Part of the problem, as I tell Alex, is that I'm not a "wind in my hair" type of gal. Each time we take out the motorcycle, Alex attempts to get me to wear one of our 3 faceless helmets, but I always opt for the full face one, blaming my contacts or eyeglasses - "I don't like the wind in my eyes," I say. Alex, being a good sport, has braved a few cold winds for me, content to wear his half helmet and protection glasses.

Yesterday, I attempted, once again, to be the other type of biker - on my bicycle. Despite it's lack of use, I love my bicycle. Alex bought it for me to meet my own special criteria. It has shocks, a wide padded seat and upright handle bars so I can sit up while I'm pedalling. My bicycling posture incites me to hum Miss Gulch's tune from the "Wizard of Oz." The only things I'm missing are the basket and the dog. I have fantasies of living close to work and riding the trusty bike to work everyday, but have yet to have had that reality. In Oregon, there was the rain. Of course, the rain is a good excuse to not do a lot of things. (I just finished reading "Sometimes a Great Notion," which has great descriptions of the Oregon coast rain. However, despite Ken Kesey's adept prose, it's difficult to comprehend the insidious grasp of the rain on the mind without living there.) Here, on the roads filled with tourists, riding the bicycle is taking one's life in one's hands. We left many of our possessions at home, but the bicycles are items, when I'm wondering how we still have so much stuff with us crammed into our room, the truck and the trailer, that I think would have been better left at home.

Still, I was feeling adventurous yesterday and we had the bicycles out of the trailer due to hauling the motorcycle into Bozeman to have a tire replaced (another one of my quandaries - if you have a motorcycle, it seems to me it should be ridden, not hauled around in a trailer, but here we are hauling it around in a trailer). I strapped on my helmet, put on my biker shorts and gloves and headed up the road. I had a destination in mind, but I still had to go up the road past the Hot Springs and all the tourists. Huff, huff. It was part way up the hill towards my destination, when I was breathing heavy, getting dry mouth and realizing I was not coordinated enough to navigate tourist traffic and drink from my water bottle at the same time (here's jealousy for the bike riders that can ride with no hands downhill while guzzling from a water bottle), that it dawned on me that I really am not a bike rider. In high school, it was merely a substitute when I couldn't be running due to injuries, so I didn't do it. Plus, I still have that childhood fear of hitting a rock and flipping over the handle bars, accentuated by sitting atop a tall seat on a large bike. I have fat tires designed for off-road travel, so this really shouldn't be a problem, but this fear creeps in on every downhill. Fortunately, my bike has many low gears, so I huffed my way up the hill to my destination - a 5 mile dirt road that encircles Bunsen Peak. I reviewed the bear warnings and ventured down the road, only to come upon a very long downhill. What goes down must come up, right?

"This really would be a lot more fun with Alex," I thought. Plus, it was nearly time for lunch.