400 miles under 100 degrees on the pretty highway 200 …. Then…
Montana. This state has a different flavour to quiet rural Idaho. Helmets are allowed in Montana; one lunatic overtook me on the freeway at 150 with just his headscarf and a t shirt.
In North Idaho, I stop to look at a beautifully restored International pickup, circa 1946. I was owned originally in the same town and was left to the owners grandson before being sold to the guy selling it… and…… he appears asking me if I wanted to buy it. He returned from Iraq transporting diesel from the refineries in Basra to keep the generators going in Bagdhad. Teams of lorries risked roadside bombs and ran round the clock to accomplish this. On his return his wife had found another man and he had to sell all his belongings as part of the divorce settlement.
Under the bright clear sky pop red white an blue fireworks . With computer accuracy, two USAF jets scream over us at 1000 feet – we all flinch – “YEAH!” the crowd howls. A man in black leather chaps and a cowboy hat at the top of a 50 foot pile of dirt appears and tells the expectant townspeople how wonderful America is… America the beautiful is played.
It is the last day of Evel Knievel week. Butte Montana is where EK was raised and the town has 50,000 bikers in it today, allegedly. I doubt he figure suggested to me by a dribbling unwashed biker, more like 3000. The bars of the old town are filled with tattooed women and men, the women’s’ bosoms crammed into leather bras, the mens’ stomachs pour over their western belts. What a contrast to Skycliffe monastery! Streets lined with Harleys and revitalised and startling custom cars. ‘Correct’ regalia and accessories, booze and food stalls, a band plays, idle cops huddle together giggling at a group of imbeciles surrounding a bike burning out its back tyre. I walk into the main bar and have a few drinks with a group of people that look like they should be behind bars in the county correctional facility down the road.
My camera battery went flat so you are spared all the gory photos of bikers…
Anyway all jolly good fun and all on my arrival with intention of purchasing new tyres for the bike. Red Line Motorcycles did their utmost to help me out but the EK week has dried up all tyres for 500 miles around. They order a new set and promise to fit them on Tuesday.
We waited for Evil Kneivel’s son Rob, (or is it Ron?) – I cant be bothered to find out… to jump 34 saloon cars on his light trails bike, yawn. I was there at Wembley Stadium in 1975 to watch EK sail over 13 London buses – to crash in a heap under his Harley XLCR – a bike highly unsuitable for the occasion all dressed in tightly fitting white leather and a stars and stripes cloak. Very camp. Very NHS as well… London Ambulance whisked him off to do a 6 months recovery.
But this is Butte Montana. Corrupt police force until the late 40’s you could signal a bribe to the cops by holding up two books of matches. Evel Knievel pummelled a writer half to death with a baseball bat, who dared to say he was let off from a misdemeanour. EK is not a nice person having served time in the past for burglary and several other offences. Tonight, Evel Knievel week, ends with his son’s jump. I left the rowdy bikers with the flat bed truck challenging people to arm wrestling and the inevitable wet t shirt competition. I left behind the stunt BMXers from the US air force . I left behind the tank with the national guard volunteers who had returned from a tour of duty in Iraq, let them play with their tank, swinging the turret round, aiming the gun at the 100 year old Victorian buildings in the high town.It was a rowdy lawless whorehouse of a copper mining town then. The Sheriff ran the place like a Mafia Don, terrorizing the mining workers who endured 12 hour shifts down the copper mines.
They cannot get a replacement tyre (tire) anywhere, Red Line Motorcycles rang everywhere so I am here in my comfortable room until Tuesday morning. I will take the chance to soak in the pool and wander around and find a little more about the place.