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When I woke up at Frog Lake Campground, frozen solid at 3,500 feet, I had found new purpose in my trip. I was excited again. Maybe it was the food, maybe it was the good company, maybe it was the realization that Ben and I were best friends and we were spending the best moments of our lives together. Maybe it was the icicles hanging from my eyelids or the frozen blood vessels in my nose. Maybe it was the distinct possibility that I would be given the opportunity to find #6 all over again. Whatever it was: I was feeling better. My ankle was still stupider than a fraternity brother pledging in panty-hose while playing beer-pong, but I was better.

When we had arrived in Seattle my purpose was to find #6 — and then I did. When I left her to begin our trip, I floundered miserably. I had met my initial purpose square in the jowls and I had had misgivings about the idea of continuing onward; however, the great outdoors had slapped me into a state of reason: this was the most awesome thing Ben and I had ever done together — I should be enjoying it. The trip wasn’t only about #6 — that was just some silly idea I had fabricated because I am too paranoid to enjoy moments of rest, peace, and solitude without having a productive means by which to judge the time spent. And what is more: I hadn’t even expected to find #6; that was the whole point. It was going to be hilarious because I could spend my time searching for the impossible and chronicling my failed attempts at hooking up with some unattainable woman. I was going after what I could never have.

Of course: this had all changed. When she had said, the day before, that she would think about coming to Crater Lake, a certain cloud was lifted. Or, at least, the hail and lightening held up for a bit and was replaced by a tolerable drizzle. I realized, as I lay on my back in the tent and stared at my clouded breath, that I could enjoy the days in-between now and when I might see her next. I had found a temporary purpose to support the grander purpose: to see #6 at Crater Lake. It was my new mantra and it was my last chance. My part of the bargain was to get myself to Crater Lake — which, Ben and I quickly realized, was no small task.

As of that morning, we needed to pedal over two hundred miles in forty-eight hours time. At least, we thought it would be about two hundred miles; it was turning out to be the case that the maps Ben had brought with him were shockingly inaccurate and we were often found ourselves slandering the good name of Triple A. Whilst in the state of Washington, for instance, Ben and I accused the map of confusing cardinal directions. We were of course mistaken, however, and we both apologize. The appropriate measures have been taken. In Oregon, however, we justly admonished our map’s inability to measure both the distance between two points and the relative proximity of campgrounds to their campground symbols on the atlas. Both Ben and I have conferred and agreed that we would be willing to allow some flexibility in regards to the campsite icon (despite the inconveniences caused unto us) — only because we appreciate that that map is designed for motorists and not bicyclists. However, we refuse to relinquish our stand when it comes to the blatant inaccuracies of the mileage indicators on the maps. They were horrifyingly incorrect. Again, however, we do not plan to pursue legal action for — while inaccurate — the figures did favor us in the end. They were well over-estimated, in many instances, and though it perplexed us greatly, it always got us to our destination long before we expected.

On Wednesday, June 29th, however, at Frog Lake Campground, we hadn’t yet formulated any final conclusions about our guide. According to the map, Bend was over a hundred miles away and all we knew was that if we wanted to make it to Crater Lake, we had to get to Bend by nightfall, otherwise we couldn’t recoup the remaining miles in the twenty-four hours that followed. It was Bend or bust. And it was reminiscent of the Grand Canyon in many ways, for here we were again, waking up very early in the morning chill, with more miles to cross than physically reasonable, and yet we were going to attempt it anyway.

It was going to hurt; it was going to take a long time; it was going to be cold; it was going to be hot; it was going to be all things and nothing at the same time. But it was going to happen and it did happen and, thankfully, it started happening downhill. We got a little push from the backside of the mountain and we rode it just as long as we could. We were on our way to Bend.

DAMON: June 29th, about ten thirty in the morning Ben and I have ridden for one hour, thirty-eight minutes. We have managed to maintain an average speed of 18.2 MPH which is of Lance-like proportions. Our max speed, being only 39.7 MPH, which we maintained, probably, for thirty minutes; and the trip distance so far is 29.8 miles, which, yesterday, took us the better part of three hours — today took us about an hour and a half. And that is, I must say, the kind of speed that we need in order to make it to Bend before we pass out, die, and/or kill each other. We’ve left the mountains, we’re in the prairie, the grasslands, the desert, even. Where the sun is beating down on us and it’s about sixty-eight degrees — perfect temperature. We’ve got mountains all around, cattle, burnt trees, it is unbelievable. We’re standing at a gorge; I don’t even know what to say. It’s pretty phenomenal.

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