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When we look back on our trip (with much fondness, I might add), Ben and I agree that the first three days of biking were — without question — the hardest. They were killer. We had told ourselves that we were going to take it easy in the beginning, get our legs under us, but this was not to be the case. We went through the toughest area in the remotest location with the least preparation and after we got through it (and we barely got through it) the rest was cakewalk.

Lemon cakewalk.

Standing by the side of Route 410 looking at the winding entrance to Mount Rainer’s closed facilities we experienced our first taste of defeat. It wasn’t a strong taste or even a bitter taste but it was a taste. The day prior had been like so much mother’s milk that the sting of our adversaries hand across our mouths hurt us — not on a physical level but on psychological one.

We pulled out the maps.

“Where is the nearest town?”

“Packwood.”

“And how far is this, this, Packwood?”

“Maybe twenty-five miles.”

“What does that thing on the map mean?”

“What thing?”

“The thing with the elevation marker?”

“Um … I don’t know.”

“Damn it man! Don’t play coy with me! Tell me what I need to know!”

I shook Ben at the collar.

“That’s a pass. 4,600 feet. We have to go over it.”

“How high are we now?”

“Not at 4,600 feet.”

I pulled out a bag of Sharkies, shook them at him menacingly, and opened the package dramatically with great swooping gestures, sulking. I didn’t want to share them but I did because we didn’t need Separatists at this juncture — we needed team players.

“Have a Sharkie,” I said.

We ate them silently.

“Phone doesn’t work?”

“No.”

“Twenty-five miles, you say?”

“Yes.”

“4,600 feet?”

“Right-O.”

And then a thought came to me; something I hadn’t considered until that very moment, mid-chew with recently spent Sharkie juice dripping down my chin; an ear splitting, nauseating realization:

“I’ve got to call #6! I’ve got to tell her not to meet us here! I’ve got to warn her!” I flung the half-empty Sharkie bag over my shoulder, jumped on my bike, pedaled a few feet, got back off again, ran back to pick up the bag, stowed it away properly, got back on my bicycle, and pointed myself up the incline.

It was worse than being hungry; it was worse than being beaten by a hill. #6 must be warned! I might not see her! And: perhaps she wouldn’t want to go the extra distance to meet us wherever the hell it was we ended up. Perhaps she couldn’t make it. Perhaps I couldn’t get a message to her in time. Perhaps she had already forgotten about our lovely lip-locking embrace and was only thinking about her next trip to Taco Bell. I had to hurry. O! goodness me! We had to get going! There was no time to waste. No more dilly-dally. There were miles to travel and we had to knock them off immediately.

“We’ve got to find a phone.”

Ben shook his head sadly and then followed.

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