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After we returned to our campsite and checked to make sure our wash had frozen solid properly on the clothes line, we crawled into our sleeping bags and watched ice form on the walls of our tent. The conversation that Ben and I had started about #6 and the nature of love back in Stevenson had been continued, off and on, for the past twenty-four hours. Sometime, during those many grunts, nods, and eyebrow shifts, we had come up with the beginning of a plan: if #6 would be willing to meet us in Crater Lake then Ben would be willing to stay at one campsite over the entire Fourth of July Weekend, from Friday all the way until Monday. He had been convinced to do this partly because I begged him on hand and knee and partly because every campsite south of Alaska and north of Mexico was reserved over the entire holiday weekend, which would make moving from day to day very difficult. Every campsite, that was, except those at Crater Lake, which did not accept reservations by anyone at anytime for any reason — it operated on a first come first serve basis and this made us very happy. As long as we could be the first ones there Friday morning, we would be sure to get a campsite.

I had talked to #6 on the phone earlier that morning and, when pressed, she hadn’t said no to coming to Crater Lake and, as any man will tell you, if a woman doesn’t say no then she might as well be saying yes. My fear up until that point had not been that I wouldn’t be able to see her (there were a lot of obstacles to overcome in order for that to manifest) but that she wouldn’t want to see me. All signs, however, were suggesting that the opposite was true: instead of losing her I was in risk of actually winning her, bit by bit, a little more each day. I’m not sure which was scarier, in the end, but they were both terrifying and kept me awake at night and composing letters during the day that I never had time to write.

Ben and I agreed at Frog Lake that regardless of whether or not I could guarantee #6’s arrival we would still make the push for Crater Lake in order to be there over the holiday weekend. Our original plans to continue biking down the Cascade Mountain range on our way towards California were immediately discarded — we would never make it to Crater Lake by Friday morning if we kept going up and down 4,000 foot climbs. Instead, I suggested that we pedal first to the east, into the desert, and then hightail it straight through the flatlands to our destination, avoiding all the large mountains in-between. While this was a more feasible option (in that it was actually humanly possible) it wasn’t going to be easy. When we woke up on Wednesday morning we had forty-eight hours to travel well over two hundred miles; forty-eight hours and a weak ankle, but a very, very strong resolve. The carrot had been placed in front of the horse and the spurs had been applied — it was time to move.

DAMON: Tomorrow, we are riding a 150 miles [laughter] because we have to. But both of our ankles are feeling a little bit better.

BEN: But why do we have to Damon?

DAMON: And we’re going to do that because of a girl. [laughter] And Ben’s going to do it just because he likes the challenge. Over and out.

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