A dirty little bike touring blog. Mostly about bikepacking and rigid single speeds. By Montana Miller
I drive west, down out of our little old mountains toward the big new mountains. Widows down, cooking through Indiana (not cooking as in going fast, cooking as in I'm cooking like a pig in a roasting pit, it's almost a 100 degrees outside, the Shark's engine is right next to my leg and 220, … Continue reading The Divide Finish
Back from guiding a bike tour Wednesday night, no Colleen, no cat, no Shark. Duffle bag on my back, cross the bridge in the rain. Flatten a cardboard box to sleep on and cover up with a flannel shirt, because somebody forgot to leave me my sleeping bag before they took the van to our … Continue reading Colleen and the Big Race
“Now, we enter the Plains of Despair!” I say. We’ve left the mountains and are have to cross about a hundred miles of very flat farm country before Christchurch. “I really wish you would stop calling it the Plains of Despair,” Colleen says. “Los Llanos de Triste.” “God,” Colleen grunts. “You’re depressing me.” “But I … Continue reading To Christchurch
We ride into Dunedin on a sunny afternoon, then a cold rain moves in. We pay to camp at a hostel, which is a nice option sometimes— sleep in the yard instead of in a smelly, snore filled dorm, hang out in the house if it’s raining. And at the rate we drink coffee, it … Continue reading Dunedin to Mt. Cook
Milford, Doubtful Sound and Fiordland were out— we came to a pretty easy consensus on that. The last couple weeks in high and dry Otago had been so nice. No sandflies, fewer camper vans, almost no tour buses. And going back over to the fjords would be diving back into the wet, itchy, selfie-stick nightmare. … Continue reading Southland
We’re having some beers with a group of Kiwi guys and their Australian friend at the campground in Wanaka. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this,” says one of the guys. People are never sorry when they say that. “But, in IQ tests of all the people in the world, Americans consistently score near the … Continue reading Otago
The cards fly past Colleen’s head, she ducks. “Ooh, sorry bru. Been trying that one seven years, still can’t get her right,” says our new friend. He’s smelly, dreads, shoeless but wearing a shirt that has a picture of a gumboot. Just came down from some music festival out in the bush in Karamea. We’re … Continue reading West Coast
