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In the desert, Ben and I finally fell into formation both spiritually and athletically. Spiritually we had reconciled and redoubled our resolve to continue onward. Athletically, we began drafting and moving in formation. Up until that point we had either been going uphill or downhill and neither one lends itself to the delicate art of drafting. For drafting, one needs consistent speed and a desire to get out of the wind and, more importantly, a need to put rubber to pavement and miles on the odometer. You don’t draft when you are sight-seeing because there is nothing to see except your partner’s rear-end and, unless the partner has a rear-end that you desire seeing, it is a sight you most often wish to avoid. Drafting is about efficiency and speed and leaving Frog Lake behind, and we were in the mood to do just that.

We began to ride as a single unit with five tires, four pedals, two handlebars, and one mind. A credit card couldn’t have been inserted through the amount of space Ben and I granted between our tires and ourselves. It is wonderful when it works and we worked it wonderfully. For two to three minutes at a time, the forward rider would bull his way through the wind and then the call would come out and he would pause on his pedals for three or four rotations as the rearward rider would pull forward and take his place. Back and forth and back and forth we alternated from the lead to the coasting position and then back into the lead. We became so comfortable with the proximity of our bicycles, that it was not uncommon for us to lean against one another when riding side by side, allowing our handlebars to touch and our shoulders to rest against each other.

Ben holds the belief that if my back wheel is not exchanging free radical electrons with his front tire, then he needs to get closer. When the pavement and rubber is hot enough, we actually exchange tread, and if you took a atomic sample of my rear tire and Ben’s front, I suspect you would find an equal number of identical elements in each. Every hour, on the hour, he would bump my rear tire and I would be shaken from side to side and he would call:

“Sorry!”

And I never said anything in return because I had to conserve every last bit of oxygen in my lungs in order to keep up with the pace Ben had set. Down and down we cruised, putting miles behind us, pulling the sun over head, and pushing the mountains back into the distance.

We hauled ass to Madras.

Ben and I made good time coming down the backside of Mount Hood and we could of — and would of — arrived in Madras much sooner, but we were surprised to find that in-between Frog Lake Campground and Madras there is a canyon of sorts. I don’t see how the AAA map failed to mention this and I am not sure what the canyon is doing there but it came as a surprise for Ben and I imagined ourselves to be in the plains, the grasslands, the desert, Native American country. To the casual observer, our surroundings would have been considered flat for miles around and then, suddenly, to our right came the familiar yellow diamond shape sign that inferred we would be traveling downhill at a fairly steep grade for the next seven miles. Ben and I were perplexed. We were already downhill; Mount Hood was behind us; it was desperately flat all around us; the Cascade Mountain Range stood to the west. There was no where else to go.

That was when we saw the edge of the canyon creep up out of the horizon and we realized that not only would we be going downhill for seven miles, but that we would be climbing straight back out of it to our current elevation. I could see the outline of Route 26 continuing on the other side of the cliff. I was not amused and Warm Springs had not won my heart. Bend was still a long way off, and a seven mile climb was not really what I had in mind.

“Isn’t there a bridge?” I asked.

But Ben had that look in his eye; that look he gets when the going gets tough and Ben gets going. I think it turns him on and I think this is why he tends to shoot ahead so quickly in order to avoid me seeing his eventual tumescence over the challenge. Ben flew down the canyon walls with much glee while I traversed them as slowly as physically possible. I knew what awaited me on the other side of Warm Springs and it wasn’t a Native American with a Peace Pipe and a welcoming hug. Madras was on the other side and then another fifty or more miles to Bend and another hundred or more to Crater Lake and here I was headed to the bottom of a canyon just when the sun had woken up enough to start smoking the weak and elderly out of existence. And there was Ben, having the time of his life, flying down the hill with his hands flung high above his head.

I caught up with him at the bottom of the canyon.

“That was fun,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

DAMON: We’ve made it to Madras at exactly 12 o’clock as planned; have three hours and fourteen minutes of riding, averaging 16.5 miles per hour, 53.9 miles, which, I’d like to point out, is thirteen more miles than yesterday, in three quarters the time. End note.

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