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.
One Reply to “Day 25: M.Y.O.B.”
Maybe the folks with whom you have met are a more narrowly sampled group of Montanans or Dakotans? Maybe the problem of “the californian” has to do with the bike itself?
Consider that what you peddle probaby costs more than they make in a year?