US 2 is basically a thoroughfare for bigger, badder pick up trucks, going faster and honking more as we progress further east. The locals enjoy discussing said trucks almost as much as they enjoy driving them, leading to us hearing stories about speed limits being ignored and incidents of trucks being "T-boned!!" This behavior has gotten out of hand with Matt and I, as we are now using the phrase "T-boned" in every possible way. Whatever gets you through.
All these little towns seem basically the same; a post office, a rail crossing, a grain elevator, a store/bar/restaurant that looks like it has been closed since 1964 but is actually operating, and a "Welcome to (town name) (town tagline)" then lists off all the local school's state championships. There is barely a point to even stop in these places, other than to break the monotony. Then it is back on the road riding through wheat, watching Ford F150's attempt to break the sound barrier, while practicing our best Montana accents while proclaiming "My truck can haul more hay bales than your truck," or "My town has more 1990's state track and field championships than your town."
Like I said, whatever gets you through.
The evening was spent with the three of us wandering the streets of Havre, Montana, carrying plastic bags filled with dirty clothing, seeking a laundromat. We ended up at the east end of town drinking tall boys of Budweiser in the lounge of a "casino" (Montanan for "room with 6 video poker machines") awaiting our clothing to dry after multiple dryer cycles at an RV park sandwiched between the train tracks and the highway. Sometimes one must sit and reflect on how and why such a situation could have possibly come to pass.
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