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To the untrained eye, Ben and my bicycles would have appeared almost identical except that his was black and mine was blue. True, they were of different models and possessed different parts, but they looked very much alike. In fact, the only noticeable difference was that Ben carried The Bob and I carried panniers and, most importantly, I had a speedometer on my bike and Ben did not. This was not because Ben couldn’t afford a speedometer or couldn’t read but because Ben has a little bit of a problem: he is very competitive. Not competitive with me, of course, because there really is no competition to be had, but with himself.

If we averaged thirteen miles per hour the first day he would be pushing for thirteen and a half the next and fourteen on the day after that. And if, dear reader, you are thinking there would come a time when he would finally reach the maximum average speed attainable and be satisfied I assure you he would not. So we limited the amount of data Ben received during our hours of pedaling. After the ride was finished, he was allowed to look at the speedometer and the statistics when he could review them without chance of improving upon them because we had already setup camp.

The only use a speedometer could have provided Ben was as a gauge for exactly how fast he was making me travel behind him. Within the first few hours of our trip I learned a valuable lesson: one must never ride directly on Ben’s tail (and this wasn’t because of the eggs). Ben’s only sense for how fast he was traveling was how far I was behind him. It turned out to be an amazingly accurate system and, unless we were drafting, I usually stayed a good distance away. If ever I pulled up behind Ben that was a signal, to his subconscious, to travel faster. And slowly, the digits on my speedometer would creep upward. If I were in front of him, we would maintain a relatively normal pace because I watched the speedometer and he watched my rear tire. He would draft behind me, enjoying the wind tunnel my panniers provided, hugging my rear wheel close enough to make contact on fifteen separate occasions. I only hit the rear wheel of The Bob three times — and Ben never even noticed. I always noticed when Ben struck me because when the hounds of hell snap at you, you pay attention.

Not long after we had left Issaquah we were in a rolling valley that emptied into a wide plain surrounded by low-lying hills, an area which was reminiscent of Illinois, sans hills. The cloud cover was thick but it was not foggy; we could see small surrounding vistas and they were impressive and I clung to them, taking deep breathes of fresh Pacific air and telling myself that love was fickle but life was eternal. I told myself a lot of things on that first day and the days to follow. A lot of different things to try to keep my chin up and a smile on my face for inside I carried with me a knotted ball of disappointment and unease surrounding the entire unfolding of our adventure. The #6 debacle had become a leaden anchor dragging behind my ultra-light bicycle.

We were in Enumclaw by 1:30. It came upon us quickly because, as fate would have it, we were on the wrong road and entirely lost even if we didn’t even know it at the time. This mapping misunderstanding became an unfortunate pattern on our trip. We had no idea where anything was until we hit California, though we did make it unscathed. We flew through the intersection of Route 410 and whatever the road was that we weren’t supposed to be on and almost continued merrily onwards towards who knows where and would have if I hadn’t smelled food. Food has an affect on me in a way that most beautiful women have an affect on Ben. I love food and can never pass up the opportunity to partake in its joyous consumption.

We pulled up behind a roadside diner, under a willow tree, and stashed our bikes. I went into the diner and ordered us a salad — I suspected that we wouldn’t be seeing much in the way of fresh greens between there (exactly where I do not know) and where we would end up (also: exactly where I did not know). Ben, as usual, laughed at the idea of spending money on food. He is more of the mindset of not eating if it comes down to parting with borrowed cash over a French Fry. Though he is better about that now. It took me a trip to the emergency room a year earlier for him to come around on the notion of purchasing valuable calories, but he finally did and when I said I was hungry he acquiesced immediately.

We lay down in the grass with clothes bundled under our heads, having taken off our shoes and shirts and eaten our fair share of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, eggs, salad, and other miscellaneous food items. We were satiated and wonderfully so.

“Time for a little post-prandial nap,” said Ben, curling up into the fetal position.

I started, for a moment. I had never heard of a post-prandial anything. In fact: I had never heard of a prandial anything. Prandial was, for all purposes, an entirely new concept to me.

“Pardon?” I said, “Did you say: prandial?”

“A post-prandial nap, my friend. A post-prandial.”

“I do not believe that means what you think it means.”

Ben replied: “Of or relating to dinner or lunch.” And with that, he went to sleep.

I lay there on my back and thought of this, this: post-prandial. I tested it out, resting back against the grass and removing my stylish sunglasses I whispered: post-prandial. I closed my eyes. And there, on that lawn, I found a joy like little other.

We had no where to be; nothing to do; no one to report to; little to worry about except where to sleep and eat. For the moment, my mind was quiet and my consciousness was filled only with the clouds above and the sound of the wind moving through the willow tree’s branches. This was all. This was our life for the next five weeks.

“A little post-prandial,” I said, “will do me just fine.”

DAMON: 1:30, June 23rd. We made it to Enumclaw at the junction of 410, had ourself a salad — something to eat — and then laid out in the sun and almost fell asleep and got sunburned. We’ve decided if the next five weeks go anything like the last five hours that we are in for quite a treat. End note.

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