by Katie Pritchard

Photo courtesy of Katie Pritchard

On the other side of the Divide in the open rangelands of Montana, my feet make one revolution after another, attached to pedals by my shoes which are attached to me. When I straddle the frame of my bike, click one foot in, push off and press the other one into place, my bike becomes an extension of myself. Body and wheels I am superhuman. My toes paddle in the space between pedals and pavement. Knees follow bending ankles and put my quads to action. I move fluidly through space, getting from one point to another. The motion becomes visceral. I can go for hours and at times forget that my legs are even working. While they transport me, my upper body shifts positions as I stretch, take a drink, pop in a granola bar, twist to see a hawk perched on a bluff. With my clothes, food, sleeping bag, and tent all attached to my bike, I am a mobile home, a tortoise resting wherever I please.

On a bike the world does not pass by me; I passed through it in slow motion with just enough time to take in the smells, sounds and tastes. The smell of freshly cut alfalfa. The sound of frogs singing for lovers in roadside marshes. The taste of exhaust from a logging truck. I pass through the landscape with my senses heightened, feeling more alive than ever. Keeping my eyes peeled for wildlife, I admire the mountains that rise up like islands in a sea of change. Brown wings slowly swoop up from a field — a golden eagle, someone shouts. I wonder what the giant bird was eating, and look down at my tire to make sure it is not going flat on the rough terrain.

The biker in front of me steers just to my left into the road and slows down letting the rest of us pass. It’s my turn to draft, to take the wind resistance for us all so that others may rest while moving. Together with three other students and two instructors, I am biking through Montana to study energy and climate change issues throughout the state. We meet with ranchers, farmer, coal miners, ExonMobil employees, teachers, scientists and politicians from Billings to Helena, up the Rocky Mountain Front and back down to Missoula. While these encounters with people and places are unforgettable, it’s the view from the seat of a bike that has changed me.

As cars pass us by I recall how safe it feels to travel inside something with a belt and airbags, and know that on a bike I have failed to be indestructible. We had just left the Spring Water Hutterite Colony and were on our way down a five-mile gravel road to our campsite on the Musselshell River. In the deep blanket of pebbles my thin tires sought a smoother path weaving left and right as we went down a steep hill. I fishtailed to collapse spraying rocks around me. In an instant I got up and spit out rocks that somehow made their way into my mouth, coating my teeth and gums with grit. They were in my shorts, my shirt, my skin. In place of the rocks pieces of my flesh were on the road.

In the adrenaline rush that led up to and followed the fall, a glimmer of excitement surfaced above my open wounds: I crashed. I hadn’t crashed like that since I was eight. In the brief moments before my group realized I was no longer riding, I wished I were somewhere else. With my elbow a bloody nub and stinging pain shifting to the dull throb of bruising up and down my left side, I pictured that I was a young girl again in my parents’ bathroom with my mom. She would pull my hair back and wipe my tears before cleaning my scrape with Bactine, the disinfectant of my childhood, the white bottle with green cap that appeared whenever an adventure went awry and germs were an enemy on the move. Forgetting my age, I longed for my mother’s comforting embrace on that gravel road. Instead I wrapped my arms around our Hutterite friend and rode the rest of the way on the back of his four-wheeler, my childish whimpers muffled by the engine and the sound of rocks spinning out under tires. At camp one of my instructors checked my body and deduced I had a broken rib among bruises and scrapes to my nipple, waist, leg and elbow being the worst. With not much to do I took Tylenol and sipped Hutterite rhubarb wine. The next morning we set off on our longest day of 65 miles, and I was ok.

To know that I am not indestructible, all the while trading the security of a car for the experience biking gives me, is worth it. Everything from road kill to the feeling of going up a hill is different. Today a tailwind pushes us along our entire route. For most of our trip wind has forced its way into our chests in an incredible display of force and energy. When this happens our energy is wasted as we push hard to simply get down hill. But today the wind is at my back, pushing me onward as my dad lovingly did the first time I rode on two wheels. One hand near the handle bars to keep me straight, the other barely touching my back to say “I’ll be here for you if you fall.” Movement forward becomes natural and effortless.

We go up many hills, but the climb is fast and the decline afterwards even faster as we reach over 40 miles per hour. Even with air pushing me I can not help but play out a certain scene in my head each time we get to the top of a hill or a mountain pass: Dripping sweat from my brow as my legs bulge with every pedal stroke to reach the summit, I reach for a Dixie cup of water from people cheering on the shoulder of the road. Everything is in slow motion and all the while Queen’s “We Are The Champions” plays loud, especially when I reach the top and push my fist in the air as I look up to the sky. “We’ll keep on fighting to the end,” echoes triumphantly. In reality this hill is nothing but a 1.4 minute ride in a car, but today this hill is my victory. TO BE CONTINUED

Katie Pritchard is a fanatic of the outdoors and the education it has to offer us. She originates from Walla Walla, Washington, and currently resides in Missoula, MT.