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Whereas we had depended on good old Triple A to get us from Seattle to the Californian border, Ben had purveyed the official bicycle touring maps of the Adventure Cycling Association (insert heavenly chorus) to guide us through Northern California. These maps, unlike their Triple A brethren, were heavily detailed and broken into small daily trips that took a rider from point A to point B, day by day, mile by mile, all the way to San Francisco. To their credit, they were truly accurate and never was there not a campsite when the map claimed there should be one and this was reassuring. However, the makers of these maps (and perhaps even the people who buy them) seem to enjoy a Family Circus type approach to pedaling from Point A to Point B. Ben and I do not. Ben and I are much more interested in getting to Point B and being entirely done with Point A as quickly as possible.

It took us only two days of dedicated map following to realize that, while accurate, the roundabout and scenic routes were testing our patience. More specifically: my patience. I was not interested in crisscrossing over Route 101 to find a sheltered cove or a quaint ice cream stand or an out of the way bistro; I was not interested in pedaling twelve extra miles just to avoid one mile of traffic lights and one hour of exhaust fumes; what I was interested in was claiming a space in the breakdown lane, lowering my head and shoulders, and pedaling as fast as possible until we had arrived, unloaded our stuff, and sat back to relax. I cannot relax when I know I still have further to pedal; a mid-day break (exception being given to the post-prandial nap which is not so much a break as it is a way of life) is not my style and, as far as I am concerned (and Ben finally acquiesced to my point of view), Route 101 is the most terrific highway ever created and one should never leave it while bicycling down the Northern Coast of California.

We left Crescent City in the fog and wove our way to Tahiti where we took an afternoon siesta (much to my disappointment) at the bottom of a cliff that required us to trample and uproot much endangered wildlife during our descent. We lingered too long at our sequestered hideaway trying to outmaneuver, outsmart, and outlast each other in hopes of securing the best resting place against a large rock. Ben, having cleverly placed the sunscreen out of reach knowing that eventually I would need it and have to get up to use it, won the battle and the rock and the million dollar prize and the hearts of his viewing audience. Our dilly-dallying and merrymaking caused us to arrive in McKinlyville (our destination) much past dinner time and much past the point at which both Ben and I are still fun to be around.

To make matters worse, our foolish maps instructed us off of Route 101 and down what is possibly the bumpiest road in the world. So bumpy, in fact, that, not fifty yards after we reached the bottom of this staircase to hell and only fifty more yards from our campground, my rear inner-tube gave way and I experienced my first and last flat tire on the trip.

The sensation is always odd. Even if there isn’t an explosion or a loud pop a flat tire still takes you by surprise. My rear began to wobble and shake and it felt, during the moments before I realized what was happening, as if I were riding on ice or through a bowl of red Jell-O. And it was frightening. Not the loss of control, necessarily, but the loss of security. It was as if I were being made aware that, ultimately, on this trip (and maybe in my life), I hadn’t any control over anything at all. I stood there, for a moment, next to my bike unable to perform any useful function, with a tight pit of tension in my stomach and thought:

“What is this all about?”

It was a most unreasonable feeling but still it was there. Ben was off ahead looking back over his shoulder, just out of shouting range, waiting for me to continue onward with his head tilted to the side perplexedly. But I couldn’t. Somehow, this simple flat tire had awoken in me the most base of human fears and I was helpless in confronting it or even articulating it. I was a lost soul with a flat tire and the world was closing in on me. This was my claustrophobia. This was my monster in the closet. I was all alone and I would never, ever, escape this bike trip, this strip of pavement, this exhaustion, this hunger, this dreadful flat tire.

Ben rode back, acknowledged the flat, and then glared at me staring at my bicycle and said:

“Are you finished being dramatic? I’m hungry.”

DAMON: Today is July 8th, it’s about 8:30 in the morning. Ben and I woke up in a beautiful grove of eucalyptus trees with soft spoken light dancing upon us. It’s quite amazing, actually. The funny thing is that, last night, when we were coming past this ugly RV Park sign — or actually just near it, near enough to pop a tire, in fact, which I did, and then we replaced, and then I bent the tube and I had to finagle it just to get air into it — we found our little coconut grove of joy. And then we went to a movie — actually first we went and ate all of God’s creation and then God, himself, was upset so we ate him and then when we were done [crazed laughter of a man who knows he is eternally damned] and when we were done we rode over to a movie in the tit-alizing cold and we watched the Star Wars film, which is possibly the worse movie — ever — created. Followed by the second film and the first film, which were likewise: bad. This one only being good because it was the last one, which means I never have to go and watch them again, which gave me some solace. Every minute I watched it I thought: “this is the last time I ever have to watch this movie — this is wonderful.” Other than that, today we’re taking the day off, we’re going to the beach, we’re chillin’ out. We’re trying to kill time so we don’t end up in San Francisco by Sunday. That’s about it, over and out.

I don’t like my helmet. The visor is taped on with electrical tape and it is dented and scratched and the buckle comes undone and it slides too far down the front of my face and it really is just too big altogether and makes my head look disproportionate to the rest of my body. I don’t like it. I like that it protects my head and that is all; we (my helmet and I) have nothing further to discuss. Whereas Ben carries his helmet with him wherever he goes I place my helmet in conspicuous locations so that it will be stolen or so, at the very least, I will forget it. Most often, when I lock up my bike, I take a few steps away and toss the helmet over my head behind me hoping it will shatter and break into a million pieces. Yet nothing bad every comes of it. It is as it always is — right where I left it.

When we finally made it dinner at Navene’s Restaurant in McKinlyville, I threw first my helmet, at a distance of eight paces, and then the combination lock for our bikes, at a distance of almost twenty, over my shoulder blindly and towards Ben. The helmet hit him and struck the pavement and then the combination lock ricocheted off of the handicap parking sign and grazed his shoulder. The lock was never the same again: the front of it had been dented and in order to get the dial to spin you had to apply a certain monk-like attitude that required both pushing and pulling at the same time while applying no pressure whatsoever and maintaining a pulse-rate of under fifty beats per minute all the while chanting Om and thinking pure thoughts. Any sharp or uneven movements or negative thoughts froze it entirely for hours and no amount of cursing or banging could save you. Of course: my helmet was fine.

Ben was nonplussed.

“You are an idiot,” he said.

And he kicked my helmet and this made us both feel better. Though nothing bad came of it.

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