Believe it or not, I slept in. When I woke up, the Dutch were planning the rest of their route over a meal they called "breakfast." I've never heard of this before. They said it usually gets eaten before noon. Sounds suspicious to me. I think it must be a Dutch thing.
Jan and Titia
I hit town for the day. I stopped by the Adventure Cycling headquarters and picked up a few more maps. I haven't quite decided where to go yet. It's basically boiled down to these two lovely contenders:
1. Up to Glacier, west to Seattle, or
2. West to the Oregon Coast, down to San Francisco.
I'm leaning heavily toward Glacier, since I haven't see in in years, while I visited northern California a few years ago.
After picking up the maps and riding around the University of Montana's campus, I shot over to Barnes & Noble to look for something to keep me occupied. I ran into Travis, who invited me to get a drink and play some pool. We hit the road, stopping first at a bar called "Charlie's Bar." If you're ever in Missoula and want to creep yourself out, go there. The bar's walls are covered with 8x10 photographs of dead regulars. That's right, pictures of the drunks that you see hanging out at 11:00 am on a Monday, drinking beer and talking to the bartender as if they are close relatives.
It was the single sickest, freakiest, creepy-as-shittiest moment of the tour (other than eastern Kentucky and all of Missouri, and the infamous Betty encounter). Standing there in the dark and gloomy bar, facing about a hundred bloodshot stares from beyond the grave (they seem like they're looking at you no matter where you walk in the bar), I decided to get the hell out of Dodge before someone tried to take my picture.
And so Travis and I (also Travis, no relation) ended up at the Iron Horse Grill, where I plowed through the bar's 18 draft beers and Travis plowed through an unheralded string of 13 consecutive pool defeats (I scratched on the 8-ball in game 14). Sorry Travis, had to mention that.
Travis (of Ohio) tries to decide which ball to miss.
As the evening wore on, the regulars of Missoula started to filter in, including one cheese with sunglasses on (it was raining outside). Tearing my eyes away from his superfly shades and studly hair, I noticed that his shirt was completely unbuttoned. Our mission soon became simple: Land a shot of this ladykiller for my Web site, ensuring that his legend does not die with us.
It wasn't easy to pull off our little hidden camera trick, so after about 90 minutes of failed efforts, Travis (of Ohio), bolstered by quite a large quantity of courage (administered in pint-sized doses), brought in a ringer. I think he just wanted to talk to her, but if it got me closer to my coveted photo, I was willing to play along.
After explaining our situation and arming our lovely assistant with a camera, we approached the subject. Kay (our partner-in-crime) made it look easy, telling him that he looked just like her "Uncle Benny," and oh, by the way, how about letting me get a picture to show my family.
Unbelievably, the guy ate it up, posing in the most ridiculous I-think-I'm-Fabio way. I nearly fell off of the barstool when he struck the pose, then I realized that Kay -- our bold-but-clueless friend -- couldn't work my camera. Before you all freak, let me just say that I did make an appearance and take the picture myself. The pose I got wasn't as classic as the first, but it'll do. And while I'm fairly certain that Uncle Benny's female companion knew we were mocking him, I don't think he did. I say that because he shook my hand three times as I retreated.
After washing my hand (also three times), I checked out our handiwork. So without further delay, I present to you
(I hope you aol users realize that you have to click the name to see the picture)
The rest of the night involved Travis (of Ohio) chatting up Kay, while I sat and drank and listened to her friend talk about her kids and their upcoming basketball tournament. But I got the picture of Uncle Benny, and baby, it was worth it.