There was the meeting up with Maggie, a heavenly bath for Seven, an expensive supply run to Safeway, the barbecue at Clain's and the disappointing salmon dinner. The sky then was a lovely eclipse yellow as thunderclouds moved in and lightening began to dance about the hills around us. I was sitting in Duke chatting with Pat from New Orleans. He'd grown up there and we talked about Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest as the rain began to fall in earnest. I remember looking out through the sudden darkness and seeing Seven being pushed at high speed out of the rain and under an overhang of one of the houses.

Saturday we awoke to parade preparations. Tex removed the bubble skylight and we piled in Maggie's friends Laura and Toni, both of them tall girls, such that they had no problem seeing out over the trunk sculpture interior. The parade was triumphant, a better turnout really than that parade for which I'd raced across America just weeks ago, the Lynn-Lake Street Fair. The weather beautiful, the crowds very accepting and generous, applauding and cheering right along. Halfway through the route, my face hurt from smiling so much.

Shit. It's 1:20 p.m. already. Not like we're in a super hurry, but damn it takes forever to get going sometimes. We've got 250 miles to cover today and so far we've gone about 2.

I type to the rhythm of friend Dany Willis' dance mix tape from Wales. It's some crazy shit.

Hooray. Finally on the road. We're blowing a lot of oil these days, so Tex has asked me to take note: two quarts of oil at 77923 on the odometer.

After the parade there were margaritas for the pirates, Jen the fine wench who gave me the pin, and so on, as described in last nights late-night entry.

Duck

About thirty miles west of Bozeman, I looked up from my computer to see two kids perched high atop a train trestle over the Gallatin River and I knew that I'd be jumping next. I love leaping off perilous heights into water, especially rivers. My record to-date is some 70 feet high into 6 feet of water jumping buck naked.

We pulled over and watched the kids jump, then down the next freeway offramp we went, Tex saying, "No, we gotta make tracks" and me overriding, saying nope, I'm jumping. Seven hopped in his chair, and I hung my camera around his neck and showed him where to press. Tex moaned a faux cry of dissent, then changed into his shorts and scaled up a trestle support ahead of me. I dove from a lower height first to test the depth, then up I went and off we jumped together.

Now poor Tex is moaning for real, claiming to have landed on his ass. I don't doubt it. From that kind of height, it's very easy to lose your straight up and down posture and land funny. Or not so funny. The doctor prescribed a Darvo, and now old Tex is doing fine.

Now we're on our way down Montana Street in Butte for a rendezvous with the mirror car guy. From far off we can see this giant concrete structure on hillside on the right. It's awesome, and it's apparently the home of Robert Corbett. Wow. Or as Tex is now saying, Fuck.

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Last update April 1, 2004