Day 25: M.Y.O.B.

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.

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