A dirty little bike touring blog. Mostly about bikepacking and rigid single speeds. By Montana Miller
We've just crossed the Alabama Florida line, and the 15th and 16th dogs that day run out of their yard to chase me, and I snap. "Arff arff arff arff arff!" they yell. “Fuck you fuck you fuck you!” I yell, and boot the closest dog in the head. Four really good, solid kicks, excellent … Continue reading Florida and Mississippi
We're in a Mexican restaurant that's playing twangy country music. New Year's Eve. It was a long day, not much above freezing and heavy rain and we had no choice but to ride 60 miles to get here, Ozark, Alabama, because it was the closest place with a motel. I look over the available beers- … Continue reading Alabama
A little black and tan chihuahua sprints flat out down the hillside. "Ahrahrahrah!" he yells at us. We're on a nice quiet road outside of Athens, Georgia. "Look at this little guy," I say. He keeps coming, hits the raised shoulder of the road with those tiny little legs, trips, plants his face in the … Continue reading Georgia
"I can see a trail down there. We should turn around," says Colleen. We're 20 feet above the swamp, balancing our bikes on a railroad trestle that's being rebuilt as a bike bridge, but isn't quite done. It has some real janky boards to walk across, which makes me feel like we're some old timey … Continue reading Railroad Tracks and Raccoon Trails Across America: South Carolina
“I think I left your water bottle in the mini van, let me grab it,” Colleen says. It looks like someone filled the bottle with beer. She unscrews the top. Scrunches up her nose. “This is full.” She pauses and makes another face. Kinda the face you'd make if you'd just sniffed 24 ounces of … Continue reading Mystery Pee (and we’re riding cross country)
“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
