After logging 150 miles on my first full day in Montana, the SP200 was ready for more. This little motorcycle could take me for what seemed like forever on a single tank of fuel. At a Miles City gas station, I spent less than $4 for the privilege of riding another 150 miles, at least. The fuel range came with a bit of sacrifice, however. This was a bike which cruised comfortably at 55 mph, if one's idea of comfort was a blast of unobstructed wind smashing against body and helmet. On the return trip from Ismay, I jumped on US 12 to save time, and 20 miles later found myself in a tucked position, nearly kissing the handlebars. The tiny headlight shell offered about an inch of wind protection, and I wanted it all.
Today's ride would have no goals or destinations. My college backpack was filled with the basic necessities I needed to explore for a day. Expecting no places to buy food or drink, I packed a lunch and a beverage. The fold-up gas station road map of Montana went in the pack, just in case I couldn't find my way back to Miles City on my wits alone. I had bought my first mobile phone the year before and threw it in, which later seemed pointless after I flipped it open and had no service anywhere outside of Miles City. I planned to use all of my fuel capacity today, and these items were all I would need.
I could not possibly retrace my random path on the motorcycle that day. A nearly infinite supply of dirt roads kept me riding in all directions, fascinated with new sights. I'd never seen cattle guards on public roads or hay bales the size of school buses. At times I followed the Powder River, shallow and wide and cloudy, snaking through this rough country from south to north. Mostly, I just rode.
The SP200, limited only by its 20 horsepower on a good day, made easy work of the dirt roads. The machine used a simple carbureted four-stroke engine and started up easily with a firm kick. Each day I would check air pressure in the tires, give the o-ring chain a tug, and do a quick walkaround to confirm that everything on the bike looked as it should. Then I fired up the engine and began exploring.
On this second day of riding in Montana, overcast skies replaced the deep blueness of yesterday. With average rainfall of 13 inches per year in these parts, I wasn't worried about being wet. The terrain was brown and jagged and seemingly unfit for animal agriculture, but there they were, sparse cattle munching on any suitable plant life.
The miles and hours passed far too quickly. I had only two days here before heading south to the Black Hills. Soon enough, I was back at the Motel 6, where I loaded the bike into my truck and headed towards another motel, location to be determined. Such were the days in 1997. My tastes in vacations would eventually change as I grew more involved in the social aspect of motorcycling. The following year I went solo again, this time to Wyoming with a different motorcycle. In future years, I would continue traveling west with motorcycles, and with friends. But the Miles City trip was always fresh in my mind, it's wide openness irresistible.
Nobody does dirt roads like Eastern Montana.
