Day 18: Loose Gravel

I imagine that truly seasoned travelers have as many words for road surfaces as Eskimos allegedly have for snow. For me, riding a road bike, gravel, dirt and sand are the worst. Then there's the tricky one I'm calling composite gravel. I don't know the proper term for it. It's like asphalt that's had all the tar baked out of it, so that it's solid, but gritty, like sandpaper. As with sandpaper, the grit falls away in nubbly bits that find their way into corners. On the road, these loose bits of gravel are flung to the gutters, where they accumulate into drifts. I respect and fear the stuff, and I'm careful to ride the breaks on downhills. I often have to stop to pick bits of gravel out of my tires.

On crossing from Idaho to Montana, highway 200 promptly shifts from smooth asphalt to composite gravel. I'd been riding the stuff all morning. I was approaching a slight bank in the road when a column of five bikers moved to pass me. Three had passed already. I was watching the column in my rearview mirror, so I saw every second of biker number four's long slide when his bike went down on the gravel, just yards behind me. In my mirror, it looked like the cycle might slide right into me. I jumped off my bike and laid it against the metal guard rail.

The cycle had actually stopped some yards behind me, raising a dust cloud into which the rider had disappeared. I ran into the cloud and saw that the rider had been thrown or slid another dozen feet. He was lying on his back, starting to struggle up. He was probably not comforted by the command I barked, "Lie! Stay down!" I knew he needed to remain mobile, and that was the best that came to mind in the moment.

Fortunately, biker number five had also stopped. He straightened four's legs and removed his helmet. Four was revealed to be a man in his 50s with a spot of blood on the bridge of his nose. Five retrieved a clean cloth from his own bike and wiped the blood away. Five had the situation under control, and at this point, I felt pretty useless. I'd turned on my phone in case 911 was needed, knowing too well that I wouldn't find a signal.

I sat with four as the rest of the party caught up. One of them, a woman, spilled her own bike coming to a stop. Four tried to sit up to see; I told him she was all right. I asked him his name, told him mine. His was Bob. He had a spot of blood in his eye and I couldn't tell if it was from the bridge, or if he might've been concussed, but I wanted to keep him talking and moving slowly. He did manage to sit up, and the leg I'd thought looked broken was fine. "I knew I shoulda taken that turn slower," he said. His friends kicked the gravel, "Like driving on marbles."

With Bob standing, his buddies lifted up his cycle. The fairing lay in shattered pieces, and the cycle had leaked gas into the gravel. They began inspecting the cycle for specific damage. I felt the need to be useful, but it was clear that I had nothing to offer. I returned to my bike with ambivalence, watching over my shoulder; and pulled back onto the road.

I was shaken. Surely not as much as Bob, but shaken nonetheless. It wouldn't do to lose my nerve. If I did, I might as well just pack it all up and find a train home. I just kept pedaling.