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After two hundred miles and four days of riding, Ben and I had come from Issaquah to Stevenson. After our first lunch and post-prandial nap in Enumclaw, we rode down Route 410 through the North entrance of Mount Rainier and up to a pass where we took Route 123 down to Route 12 and ate at our glorious diner in Packwood. Then it was on to Tanglewood, where we cut down past Mount Saint Helens, until we found ourselves beaten, bruised, and battered in Stevenson. Four days, three nights of camping, three days of biking, and we had seen absolutely no one except ourselves and #6. Between Enumclaw and Stevenson civilization has taken a permanent vacation; Tanglewood and Packwood are holding down what they can, however, they aren’t really even towns in the proper sense of the word. They are more like places people can’t escape from. If you pull out a map and look at the surrounding environment you will find absolutely nothing whatsoever — they hardly even bothered to give the roads names.

Initially this isolation was met with much rejoicing and merriment by both Ben and myself. We are not, usually, a fan of conversation, however, after four days of utter isolation from people we did not know, we began to see why other people take pleasure in the casual interchange of meaningless dialogue with strangers. It can be downright pleasurable, we found, to hear a fresh voice, a different accent, and a unique cadence. That night, in Stevenson, after we had been relieved of our greatest worry (which was finding a place to sleep), we chatted with everyone who wasn’t an M.F.D. or an M.F.B.. And though we probably sounded a bit desperate, neither of us really cared at all.

“Hello, how are you? I’m fine, thanks. Great to be here, you know? Great to be alive. And you look good, too, really, just: wow: good. It’s great to see you. Even if it is for the first time. Is that a store? They have — um — they have food there and stuff? Ice cream? Soy ice cream! Come on, you can’t be serious really? And that, over there, is that a library? Wow, well, jeez, you know, that’s just great. And it’s just been really great talking to you, too. Can I call you sometime? Just to, you know, talk? That would be excellent. Talking. Great. Wow. Thanks. Great talking to you. Good night.”

DAMON: June 27th, early morning AM. I slept like the dead slept last night, in that: I did not move a peep for about seven hours. It rained a little bit on us but our tent flaps were so saucy that nothing — not even a drop — came in. It’s probably about seven something, everyone else is already packed up they’re getting ready to go. Ben and I’s is pretty much the last tent sitting out in this once populated field. Our thoughts are, after eating an enormous breakfast that was catered and, might I add, very free. Did I mention it was free? And, moreover, they had soy milk! I was able to eat soy milk with my cereal and sit amongst the bikers and I — even then — even then! — I felt like an outsider because I didn’t have a yellow jacket or a special triangle [laughter] which they all had. Stevenson has become Ben and I’s Mecca, when we are in religious pursuits we shall, we shall always, always come here. And it will be great. We will come back to this field and lay on it on our backs and dream of things that were.

Ben and I rarely talk about emotional things. We remain fairly superficial with most of our conversations. But not superficial as in meaningless or worthless (because I do love talking to Ben) but superficial in the way that if, for example, I am sad because someone in my family is ill, I don’t call Ben and look for his comfort. This is not to say that those conversations never happen, just that it is a rare occasion and the conversations, themselves, start awkwardly. It’s not easy to talk about emotion in our normal caveman tones; instead we purchase an air of someone who’s interviewing for the position of President of the United States and end up sounding entirely insincere and phony. I think part of the matter lies in the obvious fact that Ben and I do not like to burden one another with each other’s “issues” or “baggage” or “problems.” I don’t believe we are pretending that none of these things exist in our lives, but just respecting the fact that neither one of us wants to hear about it and that we’ve each got our own problems.

But then again: this is not true. I enjoy talking to Ben about “serious” matters and I know he feels the same; however, on some strange level we both pretend we don’t, all the while knowing we do. It is an unspoken agreement. So, if we are in a bind, if we are in a sticky situation, if we are in a royally bad mood and bothered by life in general, we do not call one another. We do not complain. We do not say things like “I can’t believe she said that!” or “how could he do that to you?” or “you deserve better.” We do not ask each other advice in matters of emotion. When his parents got a divorce, we said nothing; when my sister died at birth, we said nothing; when he lost his right testicle at a cock fight gone awry at the back of a gay bar, we said nothing. Except, perhaps: that sucks, man; I’m sorry.

During these rare moments of emotive conversation there is a very careful interplay of dialogue that takes place. In Stevenson, the issue at hand was my having fallen in love. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t really want to, I didn’t think it was at all that good of an idea, but here I was and here we were on the bank of the Hood River. Just Ben and I.

“What am I going to do?” I said, finally, after days of silence on the subject.

“I don’t know. It sucks, man; I’m sorry.”

“Yes, it does suck.”

“She’s really cool though.”

“Yes, she is cool.”

“I like her.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You know,” Ben continued, “I’m really not a good person to be giving you any advice, but I was thinking –”

“I know you’re not. No use pretending.”

I patted him on the back.

“Yea: who am I fooling? Are you going to eat that?”

And that was our conversation on the nature of love in the 21st Century and how it seemed to sneak up on you at the most inopportune time and how really, what it all came down to, was that there wasn’t much any one person could do about it — except try his best with what he had been given. But I was comforted in those few words knowing that Ben had told me he wasn’t angry with me or upset, rather that he understood and empathized and was even happy for me. It was good to hear that from him, even if the words never came out.

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