People keep asking me about the little black keg strapped to my trailer. Stumped, they try to guess it’s purpose. Is that your water? Is that your battery? I must be out of bear country now.
In Dickinson, North Dakota, I locate a chainsaw/bicycle shop conveniently located next to a grocery store. One stop shopping.
Before I finish deploying my kick stands, four people pile out and the Q&A session begins. Inevitably, we get to the “where are you from” business.
Having established a rapport, I seize the opportunity to stick my head in the lion’s mouth.
“California. I just rode all the way through Montana and nobody seems to like that answer there. What am I going to find in North Dakota.”
“We don’t like ‘em either.”
“Good to know. So tell me, what should I do when people ask me where I’m from?”
“M.Y.O.B. Mind your own business.”
I think M.Y.O.B. is at least part of the reason why I have gotten fewer questions about the bike in these parts than, say, California or Washington state.