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Speed of Lightning
Heading north in the one-hundred degree heat was effortless. It was midweek, and the Montana traffic was thin. I wasn’t concerned about my speed. It seemed adequate for these open plains, and my destination was wherever I found myself at sunset.
I crested the brow of the Bull Mountains and there it was. A textbook example of the late afternoon prairie thunderstorm–the black skirt, the green torso and the brilliant white headdress.
I slowed, flipped up my visor, and enjoyed a sharp, undistorted view of this beauty. Nature’s western heavyweight.
One of the pleasures of cruising the Great Plains states is the panoramic view. Rolling hills of winter wheat and empty rangeland provide the eye with a very large picture. It is also possible to understand weather systems at a glance. What you see is what you are going to get.
Although my present highway was leading me north, it would soon bend to the right, taking me east, and home, in a couple of thousand miles. This thunderstorm, complete with vicious black horizon, had similar plans.
I cracked the throttle to give me 5000 revolutions. Already in sixth gear, this motorcycle was now going fast. My son had assured me there were no speed limits in Montana. This bit of folklore may have been fact at one time, but the posted 70 mph signs at the roadside seemed at odds with his enthusiasm.
The storm was at least 50 miles distant. I had rain gear in my panniers. A motorcyclist, when faced with approaching rain showers, is well advised to halt at a roadside layby and pull on the rainsuit. It is best done before one gets soaked, as the leather jacket takes days to dry. Working against such logic is the laziness of a comfortable (for now) solo motorcyclist, ripping across the Montana Flats.
So what is the ground speed of a mature, towering cumulonimbus cell? Surely not more than 60 mph. I can do better than that. If this damn highway would just hurry up and turn east.
It is a beautiful, constant radius right-hander that I take with steady throttle that brings me into Roundup, Montana. Now down to village speeds I have the opportunity to come to a complete stop and don the gear. Now, a yellow rubber suit in the bright afternoon sunshine might look stupid, but the good ranching folk in these parts would surely understand. This solid reasoning evaporates as I chug through the town. I am soon encouraged by a highway junction. It reads, ‘Highway 200 East.’ Now I have a chance.
This highway is beautifully surfaced, deserted, and in all ways unfettered. We all have this dream. This is the ‘open road’.
The storm is over my left shoulder and a lot closer. There are no annoying speed limit signs in immediate view, so I pretend my son is right, and increase the revolutions. The machine with its four cylinders is quietly comfortable at this work rate, suggesting there is plenty more available. The air temperature drops 10 degrees. The sun has disappeared behind the towering cloud, but that is not the reason for the cool air. It is the first indication that my storm is gaining.
This highway is a curvy one, so I must concentrate harder on handling my two-wheeled rocket. Proper throttle reduction before the corners, sometimes with braking, then gradual acceleration as the turn radius is understood. It is cooler and very exciting.
Here the Great Plain is cut with the feeder gullies of the Missouri River. They look bone dry. The highway has to bridge these draws about every mile or so. I cross the Big Dry River a dozen times. This causes some concern. I am going too fast to see for sure, but I think these low-lying draws must have some damp spots because the insect life is abundant. At every crossing there are a dozen wheeling swallows, feeding on the wing. Surely I can’t hit a bird in flight. There are dead birds on every one of these bridges though, so I am forced to tuck behind my puny windscreen to avoid a headstrike. I don’t slow down.
Recovering the plain after another draw, the lightning bolt catches me out. To the left and in front of me. And close. No thunder though, as the wind noise past my helmet is too loud. There is buffeting with the cross-wind that has sprung up. The air is being sucked into that looming monster behind me and it cuffs me around. Over my left shoulder I can see sheets of rain dropping out of the cloud. A solid black curtain stretching across the western horizon. Don’t they have hail out here? Whoa. That would hurt. More throttle.
The pronghorn antelope is trapped in the highway corridor. He can’t find his way through the right-of-way fencing. In the distance I see him cross the pavement twice looking for an opening in the wire. Why can’t he jump it? He looks stressed and unpredictable so I must bleed off the speed in a hurry. As I drift by in second gear, he finds his hole in the fence and squirts away. I feel the first heavy raindrop on my gloved hand. My visor has a dark tint, and I’m wearing sunglasses so visibility is becoming an issue. A mile ahead of me a rancher pulls onto my highway. He’s headed east too, so now we are two. Montana pickup trucks have one speed though- 80 mph- so I’ll slow down and keep him in front of me. Sort of a pronghorn vanguard.
I can relax now, behind my guide. We are both on cruise control, and I sit up and get a better look around. The air is a luxury of fragrance, every scent mysterious to this city boy. The black part of the storm is dead behind me. The green and boiling leading edge is directly overhead. The big sparks are frequent now. The sun hasn’t set yet, but it certainly has deserted me. I try cracking my visor to improve the brightness, but there is still the odd heavy raindrop and they hurt. This is the moment critique. If I stop to suit up, the storm will overtake me. I will get soaked just putting on my gear.
My pronghorn-guard pickup slows and pulls off the highway onto a section road. Maybe he wants to wait out the giant hail. So, no choice now. I call on the four pistons and the 93 octane. The bike comes alive. I sink deeper behind the windscreen. There is less noise in that position, but I do it mainly to hide from everything around me. Antelope, lightning, sparrows.
I take the curve at maximum courage. The bike will go much faster with a proper rider, but it’s the best I can do. Road signs jump out at me. 35 mph. Motel. Jordan, Montana.
There must be a room available. Please. I get the last one, she says.
The downpour soaks me thoroughly as I offload my gear from the bike.
It feels good after the heat.
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