Hills, drivers and industrial tourism

We decided to head over the hills yesterday to join the hordes in visiting the other side of the giant breasts. Driving over wouldn't have been enough for my overinflated self image, so I decided to ride. Riding the hill once wouldn't have been enough either, so I decided to ride back up the other side. I figure the only way to get better at climbing hills is to climb then. It hurt both directions.

One of me 'favorite' games while out riding is to guess the type of car by how close it passes by me. I can't really guess, since I immediately know, but it's still fun to compare expectations with reality. While struggling up the pass, I had big pickups pass close by, and other big pickups give me the entire lane. The SUVs of tourists from Texas, Tennessee, or wherever always seem to pass closer than necessary. Somehow both most and least surprising, one of the cars that passed closest to my ear was a Toyota Prius adorned with bike racks.

I rode down the Wyoming side twice. On the straight sections, I easily reach 50+ mph, and in the turns, I can roll faster than any of the cars (excepting probably the Lotus Elise that went by the other direction). It doesn't matter than any car hitting 50 mph must immediately burn up their brakes in the next turn, or that just ahead is a big truck pulling a boat, they still roll right up on my ass, pissed off that a guy on a bike has the indecency to ride right in the middle of the lane. Of course, I have the last laugh, as we soon reach the turns and I'm gone (or in a slightly more dangerous move, I pass the big truck on the shoulder. I probably won't do that again).

My elitism notwithstanding, I feel I should offer a public apology to all the drivers I slowed down yesterday. I know that I cost you 5 seconds that you could have spent waiting at the traffic light, in line to get into the Park, or driving around in circles at Jenny Lake hoping to find a parking spot. I shouldn't have been so inconsiderate.

Did I mention Jenny Lake? It's hard not to think of Mister Abbey as you drive around the parking lot looking for a parking spot (we only did one loop, what's the point of two?). I still don't have the self righteousness to park in the loading zone or fire lane like so many others, so we just moved on to the next place with it's similar view of the mountains, less traveled trails, and more monkey friendly lake.

Of course, it's not all roses in our industrial tourist experience. As we're chillin' at the lake, sticking our feet in the water, and watching the monkey throw rocks, we come across perhaps the two worst types of litter you could come across in a "wilderness" experience. First, right next to where we sit down we see a bunch of cigarette butts. I'm glad they were able to hike the mile or so up the trail to enjoy a smoke with their view of the Tetons. Then even better, the monkey picks up a "stick" to throw into the water. I see it and notice what looks like a string hanging off. Turns out it's a used (and thankfully thoroughly dried and exposed to the elements) feminine hygiene product. Some frantic hand-washing later and we're marginally comfortable that the monkey hasn't suffered any long-term side effects.

I'm reminded of Mark Twain (as might happen in virtually any situation): "I have no color prejudices nor caste prejudices nor creed prejudices. All I care to know is that a man is a human being, and that is enough for me; he can't be any worse."