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Perhaps a more fitting title for Ben and my trip than In Search of #6 would be: In Search of Food. Just food and more food and when that food was gone: food. On a regular non-touring day, when Ben and I are loafing about and expending as little energy as possible on the East Coast, we each burn roughly 40,000 calories. When we are on a bicycle, day in and day out, we consume 40,000 times that amount and while I like numbers, I am terrible at math, so I cannot tell you how many calories this totals — suffice it to say that we eat a lot of food. Our lives are defined by our search for food and have been since time began.

I opened my first cookbook at an early age. It was called: The Klutz Book of Cooking, and published by the same company that taught me how to juggle. I could conjure up two items from the cookbook: Sloppy Joe’s and a Balsamic Vinaigrette dressing. The Sloppy Joe’s were a hit with me because any food granting permission for sloppiness at the outset is terrific; the Balsamic Vinaigrette dressing was a hit with my grandfather. At least, he said it was terrific and maybe it was (whoever made the little packets that mix with the oil and vinegar was quite experienced) but, regardless, I was very proud of my ability to shake together liquids and solids and place them on a salad in a meaningful way and he suggested that with my prowess in the kitchen he and I should consider opening a restaurant. I told him the combination to my little money safe and he promised to drop by, on occasion, and add some loose change to it so we would have enough money to begin. I never saw any money but his confidence in my culinary expertise kept me in the kitchen. I still like to cook.

There is only so much cooking one can do, however, with a single pot, a spoon, and a gas stove whose only two temperature settings are “foolishly hot” and “off”. In Arcata, we bought a miniature frying pan and some pancake mix and maple syrup because we had had it with eggs. We were done with eggs — for real, this time. We refused to relapse and promised ourselves that we would follow our 12-steps to rehabilitation faithfully. The first step, of course, being to admit that we were powerless over eggs and then, secondly, to believe that there is a higher power that could restore our sanity.

Just beside another Million Man March on Arcata, we stepped into an Italian restaurant to be served by a waitress and brought food that we did not have to cook served on dishes we did not have to clean. We were in need of our final 12,000 calories for the day so I took one look at the menu and, from the section titled pasta, under which there existed a selection of pasta dishes, I ordered the eggplant parmesan (sans parmesan). Ben ordered a dead animal carcass, with pasta, and we both decided to split an appetizer. When our food arrived the waiter placed before me a dish upon which there was merely eggplant with red sauce and no pasta, which, according to my estimation, only possessed 42 calories. I immediately called her attention to it.

“Excuse me, kind wait-staff-person, where is the pasta that goes with this luxurious eggplant?”

“The eggplant entrée doesn’t come with pasta. Sorry. But I can get you some on the side if you like.”

“But the eggplant entrée is on the PASTA section of the menu, is it not?”

“Yes, but — ”

“Bring me the menu, let’s have a look-see. Ah: here, yes, the heading quite clearly spells the word PASTA to denote the contents of this particular section of the menu.”

“Yes, but –”

“And there is no heading for EGGPLANT or even a footnote, surely there must be some mistake either with the menu or this dish.”

“Sir? Would you like some pasta?”

“You can see how this would cause some confusion among some of your clientele? How some people might be utterly perplexed and dumbfounded at the result of their order?”

“People are often confused, sir, yes, and those people often order a side of pasta; would you like some?”

“What person, I am inclined to ask, would order something off of this section of the menu — the one that says PASTA — and expect to get a dish without pasta? That is the question I have for you.”

“Sir, I’ll just get you some pasta.”

Whereas #6 caused Ben and my brotherhood little concern or worry, another man did. We called him Bob. We met him at a KOA outside of Arcata in the hot tub and there began a friendship that I was all too happy to end. There began the tales of one hundred and fifty miles traveled in a single day, and the eighty pounds of gear for Bob and that Bob alone carried because he (bless his heart, he is so brave!) was used to biking through Death Valley — and there began my loathing. But maybe I am being unfair. Maybe Bob is a terrific person with a good heart and solid reputation of philanthropy. Maybe I was just jealous of the stark tan lines on his arm and his sporadically growing facial hair and nervous twitch. Maybe I was hurt because Ben shared a conversation with another man. Whatever the reason and whatever the consequence I did not like him and I cared not if he liked me.

After only a short while in the hot tub I found I couldn’t take his blathering anymore and I removed myself tactlessly and took a nasty shower in a bathroom too small to mention with men and hair and dirt and urine and gross smelling stuff all pressed into the olfactory gland with such force that to relate it as putrid is to underscore the very vileness of creation. After, I walked back to our hole-in-the-ground campsite and found that Bob hadn’t disappeared into the swamp from whence he came and was still talking at Ben. I say he was talking at Ben because, from my vantage point near the corner of biker/hiker camp area (which was really just a space dug out behind the office building), Ben said nothing. I suspect Ben had begun to share a similar opinion about Bob that I had immediately possessed and, at that point, he was nodding only occasionally, mostly to himself, as he prepared the stove for some post-prandial tea.

I walked the rest of the way into the campsite and did not acknowledge Bob’s presence. I started into a conversation with Ben, who looked up from his tea in a way that implied he had been waiting for me all by himself for some time, and then, after an awkward minute or two, Bob disappeared never to be seen again. I suspect Bob hated me for tearing apart his fantastical love-triangle like so much cheap toilet paper. What Bob didn’t understand was that Ben and I had already had to deal with a real love triangle and that his fantasies were far too immature for likes of us. Our only real concern regarding Bob was that he might somehow find a way to latch himself onto the final days of our trip and shadow us wherever we went begging to tag along and bake cookies. Back in the hot tub he had mentioned that he had been riding with a friend of his from Canada all the way down to the southern parts of California. He said his friend was a few days behind him, which, as far as Ben and I could tell, contradicted his first statement. For all we knew he had been telling everyone at the campsite that we, three best buddies, were riding together and had been for some time.

But this would not happen. First off, Bob, in case you were wondering: if you left with your friend you stuck with your friend and you didn’t leave him two or three days behind you so you could hit on girls in hot tubs at KOAs. Secondly, Bob, when you’re bicycle touring, you ride with people who understand that packing your Xbox and your complete collection of Playboy was unwise and you didn’t lie about how far you had traveled under any circumstances ever — especially to other bikers. And finally, Bob, we don’t want you on our trip.

I’m not sure, exactly, how I would have vocalized all this if he had asked to join us but a simple:

“No, you cannot. Under no circumstance. Never. Leave us alone. Now.” Probably would have done fine.

DAMON: Today is July 9th, it is 7:50 in the morning, Ben and I spent the night at a KOA in-between Arcata and Eureka. Literally, right behind a KOA in this weird little spot. Everything is fenced in, maybe fifteen by forty feet and there are like five campsite and you have to get back here through this weird little path. We barely made it through it with out bikes. They do have a hot tub, however, which was quite sensational. Did some laundry, did some hot-tubbing. Took a shower in the skankiest, smelliest, smallest bathrooms I have ever seen. This campground is huge, we are on site one sixty-eight, and it has the tiniest little bathroom. It is unacceptable. We finally bought a pan, which is genius, and a pot holder (which is also genius) and we’re going to have some sweet breakfast this AM. I’m going to take apart the squeaky thing on my bike, hopefully we won’t have any flats, and were going to go maybe sixty miles today, out towards The Avenue of the Giants bypassing the coastal route which is supposed to be a bitch and take us through one hundred miles of uselessness. So: that’s that, talk to you later, bye.

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