Today I explored Whitefish, Montana.
It came highly recommended. I was greeted by a quaint resort town full of expensive boutique stores, real estate offices, and pricey farm-to-table restaurants. It felt as though Montana Avenue in Santa Monica, CA had been plopped down into Northwest Montana. The town was so crammed with traffic that it took me almost 10 minutes to go three blocks on my bike. People love Whitefish.
People also hate Whitefish. The shaggier-looking RVers consider it hell on earth. "Worse than Jackson Hole," one insisted. I was excited to render my own verdict.
Advised that the best burger in town was a mile outside of Whitefish's crowded city center, I found the spot and walked in. The vibe was, I guess, upscale rustic gastropub. The hostess, who may have been the owner, looked me up and down and asked me to please eat outside, even though there were 10 tables available inside. I was dressed comfortably but not at all nicely, and she clearly thought I was bad for business if people laid eyes on me before being seated.
The patrons included a few regular Montana people, but most seemed to be wealthy out-of-towners who might look at home vacationing in Aspen.
The conversations I overheard were what you'd expect from the Aspen crowd. I learned that this town of 7,000 had at least three yoga studios. The real estate market was hot. I devoured my delicious locally sourced bison burger, topped with crisp prosciutto and huckleberry goat cheese, and then jumped a small wall after paying my check to get the hell out of there without having to step back inside.
This was a helpful moment. The people weren't evil or that different from most, and I think it's fine if this is your kind of place, your kind of town. You might feel that you belong here. I know that I don't.
* * *
Motorcycling is usually a solo pursuit. I'm alone on my bike, further isolated by the sound of the engine and the wind, as well as a giant helmet and the rest of my bike gear. But there's a wonderful sense of community out there on the road among bikers, and it's communicated through a simple signal, sometimes called the "motorcycle wave."
Stock photo of said wave:
It's kind of an upside-down peace sign, and I'm told it means "keep both wheels on the ground." Almost every time I pass someone on two wheels, I flash the sign, and 90% of the time, I get it back. From time to time, somebody will improvise and maybe point at me as if to say "You're the man." That usually happens if I'm about to encounter a delightful stretch of road or some beautiful scenery.
The best motorcycle waves are from the burly, bearded and tattooed Harley guys, the kind of dudes you probably wouldn't talk to if you met them on the street. They have a little windup before they flash the sign, extending their arm down low really slowly, and then dramatically unfurling those two fingers when they're good and ready.
Every variant of this secret handshake thrills me. It gives me a sense of community as I ride alone, a feeling of membership in a club that understands how fun it is to see the world on a motorcycle. I've been known to give a little whoop into my helmet after someone hits me with the wave at just the right moment.
Every time I send out a little wave and get one back from a complete stranger on the open road, I think, "I'm right where I belong."
It came highly recommended. I was greeted by a quaint resort town full of expensive boutique stores, real estate offices, and pricey farm-to-table restaurants. It felt as though Montana Avenue in Santa Monica, CA had been plopped down into Northwest Montana. The town was so crammed with traffic that it took me almost 10 minutes to go three blocks on my bike. People love Whitefish.
People also hate Whitefish. The shaggier-looking RVers consider it hell on earth. "Worse than Jackson Hole," one insisted. I was excited to render my own verdict.
Advised that the best burger in town was a mile outside of Whitefish's crowded city center, I found the spot and walked in. The vibe was, I guess, upscale rustic gastropub. The hostess, who may have been the owner, looked me up and down and asked me to please eat outside, even though there were 10 tables available inside. I was dressed comfortably but not at all nicely, and she clearly thought I was bad for business if people laid eyes on me before being seated.
The patrons included a few regular Montana people, but most seemed to be wealthy out-of-towners who might look at home vacationing in Aspen.
The conversations I overheard were what you'd expect from the Aspen crowd. I learned that this town of 7,000 had at least three yoga studios. The real estate market was hot. I devoured my delicious locally sourced bison burger, topped with crisp prosciutto and huckleberry goat cheese, and then jumped a small wall after paying my check to get the hell out of there without having to step back inside.
This was a helpful moment. The people weren't evil or that different from most, and I think it's fine if this is your kind of place, your kind of town. You might feel that you belong here. I know that I don't.
* * *
Motorcycling is usually a solo pursuit. I'm alone on my bike, further isolated by the sound of the engine and the wind, as well as a giant helmet and the rest of my bike gear. But there's a wonderful sense of community out there on the road among bikers, and it's communicated through a simple signal, sometimes called the "motorcycle wave."
Stock photo of said wave:
It's kind of an upside-down peace sign, and I'm told it means "keep both wheels on the ground." Almost every time I pass someone on two wheels, I flash the sign, and 90% of the time, I get it back. From time to time, somebody will improvise and maybe point at me as if to say "You're the man." That usually happens if I'm about to encounter a delightful stretch of road or some beautiful scenery.
The best motorcycle waves are from the burly, bearded and tattooed Harley guys, the kind of dudes you probably wouldn't talk to if you met them on the street. They have a little windup before they flash the sign, extending their arm down low really slowly, and then dramatically unfurling those two fingers when they're good and ready.
Every variant of this secret handshake thrills me. It gives me a sense of community as I ride alone, a feeling of membership in a club that understands how fun it is to see the world on a motorcycle. I've been known to give a little whoop into my helmet after someone hits me with the wave at just the right moment.
Every time I send out a little wave and get one back from a complete stranger on the open road, I think, "I'm right where I belong."
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