Beware of Evil Hitch Hikers

Duluth, MN to Hillsboro ND, 260 miles.

I spent the day doing another more detailed tour of the factory with Kim, another of the top dogs, and then Andy invited me to dinner with them. When I was finally ready to go Nick, another employee/biker guided me out of town on his new dual sport, and I took the route Andy recommended: “200 goes all the way across the US to Idaho from here. It’s a neat route I’ve done it 4 times.” I Left with my liner and long sleeves on. It was cold at first, and then after dark further west it warmed up significantly.

I rode on and as it got dark I’d only traveled about 60 miles or so. I saw signs for a vacancy at a motel. I blew it off—60 miles was not enough for the amount of time I needed to put in. Part of me was kicking myself for not leaving sooner, but I was having fun and didn’t want to leave so I had nobody to blame. I rode past the motel without another thought. I started seeing a lot of “no vacancy” signs after that. As it had gotten very dark and most camp sites are not well-lit, I didn’t want to pull in and wake people up as it got later and later. It was now almost 10:30, but I wasn’t sure because I don’t wear a watch and no longer had my cell phone.

Went through Walker, a bigger town along the road. Checked all three hotels. All full. I passed over Lake George, and saw the bright moon reflected and thought how beautiful it must be in the daytime. I looked back and saw the moon and it was beautiful just as it was. Passed Itasca state park, and the source of the mighty Mississippi river.

Saw stretches of highway where the sign said “Do NOT pick up hitchhikers.” That seemed like a bad sign. If the bike broke down I’d be in trouble because nobody would pick me up. And as I had no way to call for help (no cell phone) all I could do was hitchhike. Worse still, it was obviously a place frequented by evil hitchhikers, hence the warning. So if I broke down I would have to deal with a broken bike, and them. Evil hitchhikers suck.

Passed a horrific smelling turkey farm, with lighted row houses on several acres of land. Passed lots of churches and thought about setting up the tent in one of their parking lots. It would be un-Christian of them to kick me out in the middle of the night, right? I also considered Andy’s previous recommendation of camping in a ditch on the side of the road. But there was really no place for that.

I saw a guy in Ada walking his puppies in the backyard around midnight. You’re best bet’s to go back to Mahnomen, about 37 miles, he told me. “There’s a casino hotel there if the hotel in town is closed. Kind of spendy but should have more options than here.” He spoke with that North Dakota twang everyone knows from the movie Fargo. I decided Mahnomen was too far to backtrack. Always keep moving forward I say. Just on principle.

Rode into Halstad, population 600. Stopped into the swinging hot spot (it was Friday night, after all). There were about fifteen people inside. One-fortieth of the population of Halstad actually. They all knew each other very well, and they stared at the spectacle I made walking in. Reggaeton was playing inside. Of all the things to hear in a town of 600 in Minnesota at midnight it had to be reggaeton. For those who don’t know, this “music” combines all the worst of Latin rhythms such as Cumbia, with the most foul-mouthed drivel of hardcore rap. In Spanglish. All the hours I’ve suffered bartending with “Gasolina” blaring simultaneously on the dance floor and on the Mexican cook’s 15 year old ghetto blaster in the kitchen in NYC only to find it here at midnight in Coyote’s Ass, Minnesota, Population 600 with bad taste. I really hate reggaeton.

But in a way it all makes sense of course. Small, remote towns crave the big-town stuff even more than people in the cities. City folk are constantly exposed to the marketing machinery of every industry. They hear all kinds of music and see all the latest fashions first because it’s more profitable to market the largest demographics of course. So the people in the small towns see it on TV, but the hippest stuff is never so accessible to them. So crap like reggaeton is more appealing to them than catnip to a three-nosed tabby.

Otherwise, the people inside were very friendly and polite, and advised me to ride to Hillsboro where they said I’d find a motel.

I crossed the North Dakota border after the witching hour. Spooky. It was as dark as it looks in the photo below. No streetlamps, no stars, and the moon had disappeared. Just the lone light of my high beam and the distant second-story bedrooms of the infrequently passed house. An utterly black night:

I found a room at the Hillsboro Inn for 38 bucks. Great price, smelly room. Had to put the AC on full blast to try to kill the smoke/funk/old-feet bouquet. Woke up the poor little woman who was napping behind the desk. I felt like an idiot blithely rolling in around 1am, but then I noticed a couple even more idiotic than me, across the street at the 24-hour gas station. They were together on a big v-twin and seemed to be having a tiff. I didn’t want to interrupt but I did say hello, just in case they were having bike problems or something and I could help. They said hi but seemed annoyed at having to get back on the road together. Maybe they were lost or looking for another place. They rumbled off and I went to bed.

posted by goat hill dreamer @ 11:37 AM