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As conventions go, this one was good, seeing familiar faces, getting eyed by the old guard, feeling strange sitting down for the awards banquet with the competition. A coworker had been visiting with a very odd looking man, slicked greasy hair, horn rimmed glasses, stiff, pressed demeanor. His pallor and manner of dress suggested he was an outsider, and snippets of his speech confirmed it. When the weekend's keynote speaker, a well-published architect from Oklahoma was introduced, this same person stepped forward to the podium, and announced a design award for the first full project that I'd ever completed. Chagrined, I thanked the greasy stranger, accepted the award, and slunk back to my seat in quiet shame for judging another person that way. After dinner we adjourned to the theater for his talk and slide presentation. Images of proud sepia people flashed on the theater screen, mingled with sky, air, and soil. Rolling hills, buttes, fiery explosions of sunset all danced as this man's pleasant Okie drawl expounded about architecture so importantly tied to place - to the air and the soil, having a spiritual connection to one's chosen home; the same thoughts and ideas that had been flowing from myself mere hours before. I saw my home in a new light - the light of inspiration. My horn-rimmed compatriot joined us for beers on the banks of the Missouri River. All was good and right in the world.
Day Two brought the fighting urge to go lay down some rubber. I had trails to ride and my flatlander lungs needed cleaning. Strung high above the river, Pioneer Park in northwestern Bismarck contains some very fine urban singletrack, miles of buffed dirt wind over and through the scrub and cactus (yes, cactus), yucca and yews, pines and oaks. Where five years before had been nothing but eroded fall line washouts, now lies enough challenging singletrack to satisfy anyone's riding jones. One loop done and another to go, I watched a trail runner negotiate the switchbacks, while the nearby highway noise mingled with shouts and whistles from a soccer tournament just over the ridge. I caught my breath, took a drink, and enjoyed the notion that we all were experiencing the outdoors in this place - all in different ways, but linked nonetheless. After dinner and more gear stowage, a call came from the previously invited friend; he would be coming out after all, and bringing a new guy from the local cycling club. They'd drive straight through from east to west, and meet on Main Street Medora at sunrise. Hold yer hats, and jingle those spurs - the Grand Forks Posse is a comin' to cowboyland! Sunset washes and rosy colored bluffs decorated the view as my Jeep headed west, west, west to the Badlands and new wonders, indeed.
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