To Montana on a bicycle

Sweet Jesus, I'm tired! And it's related to biking to Montana (well, almost), but we'll get to that.

So now I've survived my first week of classes here in America. Of course, nothing much actually happened since it was almost all introductions ("You will be graded on your attendence [...] GPA [...] office hours"), but still some sort of milestone. To my considerable glee, I only have one bonefide lecture-and-exam class this semester (Biochemistry), which means more time for actual work (i.e. research) and climbing (hooray!). Nevertheless, one professor has already managed to put the fear of God into me and presumably most of his students: I swear the guy is some long-lost twin brother to my physics teacher from junior high (Olle, for those of you who were around then). The only real difference is that Olle wouldn't have worn those loud shirts...

Speaking of loud shirts, let's makee some cultural observations regarding the Americans. For one, most of them are not snappy dressers. The professors and other professionals do don shirts and slacks from time to time, but mostly the all-pervasive uniform is jeans and t-shirt (or cargo shorts and t-shirt). On one level it's liberating, but on a Swedish cultural level I think they all look less than impressive. Really, guys, would buying some nice outfits be be too much to ask? But naturally, within the year I'll look the same.

Another oft-stated opinion about the US is that everything is bigger here. And it sure as hell is. For instance, I just had a muffin that actually contained more calories than my entire lunch (some lovely Gulaschsuppe). The cars -- or rather trucks -- around here are so big that I keep looking over my shoulder expecting to see a bus or 18-wheeler zoom past me when I bike to school. The streets are wider, the cups of coffee are more voluminous (but tasteless), the veggies look like GMOs all the way, and people... no, people aren't actually bigger here. I haven't seen more than about five real fatties all week, which is considerably less than in London. People tell me it's the altitude: it just makes you waste away. I'll believe that, and hope for it: still have hundreds of pints from British pubs to atone for.

More specifically, Laramie is nice so far. I came here looking for a break from the high tempo of big-city life, and the town sure delivered. The traffic is leisurely, people are polite, and no-one really seems to be in a hurry anywhere. Of course that comes back to bite you every so often: the raging incompetents at the local electronics store aren't just dull-witted, they're lazy to boot. I've been trying to buy a power adapter off them for two weeks, and still no sign of it. Eventually I just gave up and asked my parents to send one from Sweden. Indubidably it'll be faster.

And the bike ride to Montana? Well, it's tied into "everything is big". I don't have a car, and since my climbing plans on Saturday fell through, I thought I'd bicycle to the nearest climbing spot instead. Roger's Canyon was supposed to contain decent limestone, and be placed just "ten minute's drive out of town". That works out to about 10 miles, or 13 if you count going from my house to the edge of town. So I set off, thinking that I could easily bike 10 miles. Hell, I'd done so in less than 30 minutes before! Unfortunately, I failed to take several things into account:

1. Altitude gain. The canyon lay in the hills to the north-east, and they were of course higher than the surrounding plains. I don't know how much higher, but I sure spent a lot of time in first gear.
2. Road condition. Roger's Canyon Rd turned out to be under construction, and half of it wasn't paved. Going uphill on gravel pretty much sucks.
3. The wind. A bit silly to forget about that, but the wind always blows in Wyoming. Yesterday, in 40 mph gusts. Biking into it meant shifting down to about 0.5 gear.
4. The distance. You can see so far around here -- looking north you can almost imagine Billings, Montana in the distance -- that everything seems close. But in fact, it's miles and miles and miles to go still.

So what I actually did was bike there, sat around in an exhausted daze, half-heartedly pawed the rock a bit, and then started home when thunder started breaking over the hills. Going home was marginally easier than heading out, but by the time I came home (25-odd miles later) I couldn't quite decide whether I should pass out, seek medical attention or just sit down and cry. In the end I opted for just lying still for about four hours. If this doesn't get my red blood cell count up to Tour de France levels, I don't know what will.

And that's it for now. I just told Joe I'd see him fairly soon down at the climbing wall, and I need to swing by my apartment to pick up my shoes first. But next time, I promise, some pictures!