LAST SEPTEMBER I took a motorcycle trip to Montana. The trip was set in motion by a couple of friends from work who ride bikes, and they’re particularly fond of one stretch of road just outside Missoula. They left on the Wednesday, and I, still not committed to going at that point, said I’d try to make it out on the Thursday or Friday. Between lots of races in June and July, and between spending most of the summer in Kelowna with my Mom, I hadn’t had a single weekend to myself.
Indeed, the bike trip sounded kind of exhausting. While Jim and Andrew could put their bikes in the back of Jim’s truck and drive to Missoula, I would have to ride my bike down on my own, and back again. So, I kind of wanted to stay in Calgary and just do nothing for a change. But, with summer winding down, and the fact I really hadn’t spent much time on the new bike, and the fact I think part of me just needed to get away from everything, I decided late on the Thursday night that I would go.