Cali lies fetal in the front yard. Her parents are on their way to visit us in Missoula and I prepare myself for the well-deserved interrogation that awaits me. It was my idea to achieve our first century day today, and judging from her night spent puking out of the tent, I knew full well that maybe Cali wasn’t physically fit to ride a hundred miles… at least not today.
The Bagby’s silver sedan pulls up to the curb. Bill, Cali’s father, exits the vehicle, crosses the yard, and steps over his daughter, anxious to greet his old-time friend. I introduce myself. Bill gives me a firm handshake, his jaw is clenched with vigor accentuating his lower mandible, giving him an archetypal story-telling voice.
He asks if I’ve been taking care of his daughter. I give a half smile. Sarcasm? I wonder. Maybe Cali always lies fetal. I nod in response.
“Well, good,” he tells me and then begins sifting through his mind which stories he wants to tell. We’ve got three days, and judging from his wife Carla’s expressions, I’ll hear them all.
Bill is the type of person who’s great to have around a campfire or pull up a stool next to a bar. He’ll tell you stories of oil rigs in Nigeria or the reckoning of the White Devil as you drive through the mountains of central Montana.
Cali’s always been a storyteller herself, and now I understand why.
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