I rode most of the day with two new riding partners, a chainsmoking Indian fellow and a geriatric chatterbox who were holding strong at last and second-to in the Trans-Am race. They were great company. We eventually parted ways as they turned towards Yellowstone and I rode into the depths of Montana, a suspiciously large state.

Rain all day. I had been scared of riding in the rain, but I guess no longer. Amazing how fear evaporates in the face of lived experience. However, there was major road construction for some dozen miles going into Whitehall. This meant miles of dirt roads. Miles of dirt roads that had been rained on all day. It was absolutely filthy. I would have paid any price to clean myself of the dirt and mud caked onto every uncovered surface of my body, as well as a number of surfaces that had been covered. And at the end of the day it looked I wasn't going to be able to find a shower, but luckily one came through at the last moment at a Holiday Inn.

This was ultimately the last day of life for my Nike sneakers. The mud and wet was too much for them. RIP.

For dinner, I had the region's famous signature dish, a pork chop sandwich, invented in nearby Butte, Montana. Ok. Pretty good actually.