This story begins back on Friday during our ride from Midland to Pierre, a distance of 61 miles or so without any services or anywhere to get water. The road ran north for some 20-odd miles and then turned due east into Pierre. I got to the turn ahead of Roger and waited for him to see how he was doing on water.

There was a big older guy standing at the intersection next to his motorcycle when I rolled up. We got to talking, and I realized that I had seen him pass me several miles back. His name was Charles, and he was down on his luck.

He said he’d lost his job working on oil rigs in the Gulf as things had pretty much slowed down there in the aftermath of Katrina. But he’d decided to take a trip out west and was having a good time until his bike needed major repairs that had left him close to broke in Missoula, Montana. So he had written up a sign about being an “oil seaman needing a $ or 2” and had taken to setting up at intersections to raise money until he could at least pay for a tank of gas before moving on and heading east toward home.

He seemed a decent sort, and I did not take his picture because everybody deserves their dignity. But there was a moment early on, after we introduced ourselves and shook hands, when I was struck by how big and built he was, and how quickly he moved in grasping up my hand, that made me wonder what he was capable of. He had told me that only about one in a hundred people going by stopped to give him a little money. We were in the middle of nowhere and all alone and, though I did not have a bad vibe about him, a question nonetheless ran through my mind – does someone in his situation ever get desperate or angry enough to get violent and should I be concerned about that possibility?

I kept an eye on him and we kept talking and it was all good. I couldn’t decide if I was paranoid or prudent or both; in the end I gave him a little money because it seemed the right thing to do. Soon after, Roger came up, and he and I headed east to Pierre.

A fair bit later, Charles overtook me and gave me a big wave as he went by. I was happy for him because it meant that he had raised enough money to leave his corner of purgatory and advance a little bit further on to where he was trying to go.

And there’s a nice coda to this tale as yesterday while I was biking from Miller to De Smet a motorcycle roared by and a big long arm was raised in a wildly waving salute as Charles headed on down the highway. It was surprisingly poignant to see him again, and though he could not know it, I wished him well. There’s a funny sort of loose association that unites travelers out on the road even though their encounter is short-lived; to run into someone again is an unanticipated delight.