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Our twelve days of riding through California are not as distinct in my memory as those through Oregon and Washington. I can see where we traveled on a map — I can draw my finger along each road and point out to you the campsites and beaches — but I cannot easily conjure up the memories in the appropriate order. Everything has fallen out of place and it has all merged together into a single experience with a common theme and an abused soundtrack. We were there and here and there again but truly we were all places at once; as if we were the trip itself and the trip had become us.

The end of Crater Lake brought about a new chapter in the book of Ben and Damon. Until that point, the trip had been about two things for me and two things for Ben. For me, it had been: painful ankle, painful heart; want to fix ankle, want to soothe heart. For Ben, it had been: obnoxious friend, painful ankle; keep Damon on the trip, keep Damon on the trip.

Well, I was still on the trip. Sending #6 back to Issaquah by herself in her little car sealed the deal; there was no doubt, in anyone’s mind at that point, whether or not I would remain. I was in it to the end — friends to the end, as I had been taught — and there would no longer be any discussion of giving up. Waving her away was the ultimate testament to my fortitude for continuing onward and, I quickly realized, I no longer had to search for her. I had found #6. Case closed, cue music, roll credits, please pick up your trash and deposit it in the appropriate receptacle. The movie was over. I had found her.

Was I satisfied with the situation? Was I happy with the circumstances? Was I enthralled with the future calendar of events? No. Of course not. She was gone and I was left with a satiate mix of contentment and contemplation. I was both happy and helpless. Every time we passed a payphone I had to restrain the urge to pick up the handle and dial; every time we passed a post office I had to keep my eyes forward so as not to write a letter; every time we passed a bus station I had to bite my tongue and squeeze my nails into my palms just to stay focused. If we had had access to an internet café, I would have spent the whole day typing her electronic missives; if I had been given bottles and an ocean, I would have been looking for paper and a pen. As it were, I had to be content with sending her a letter once every few days, and thinking about her during the many moments of silence.

While #6 and my relationship was put on hold, Ben and mine was invigorated. Our time apart at Crater Lake had renewed our laughter and our sense of enjoyment of the other. No longer was he seen as the slave driving exercise and outdoors maniac that he was and no longer was I seen as the weakest link that I am. Our ankles were no longer swollen and sore and we were rip roaring and ready to play cards, toss our Frisbee and, on the whole, have a grand old time. We were to begin vacationing in earnest and our physical effort from that point forward was to become a minor footnote in the text of our glorious summer.

During the first twelve days of riding through Washington and Oregon we had forced ourselves to pedal hard uphill, pedal hard on the flats, pedal hard downhill and every place in-between. We didn’t know how far, how fast, or how much we would have to travel to make up the mileage we so desperately needed. Well, come July 4th, we knew ourselves to be well situated to cross the finish line much quicker than we had ever expected. So much of our careful planning relied on careless guesswork and as we stared at our maps that day we collectively muttered:

“How can this be?”

We were ahead of schedule.

Eight days of riding had brought just under half our expected distance; four days of relaxing near snow-capped peaks and still we had twenty-four days in front of us to cover the remaining mileage. We were coasting in ahead of schedule and, as if that wasn’t welcome enough news, we rested at over 6,000 vertical feet and were headed directly to sea level. No matter which way you sliced that piece of bread, it meant we were on our way to find some considerable and much deserved coasting.

DAMON: July 4th about 1:30, Ben and I have just traveled thirty miles — aught thirty, to be exact — from Crater Lake all the way down to Prospect and, just recently (I would say a mile or two ago) we actually we rotated our pedal once. It was possibly the easiest thirty miles we’ve ever traveled. We averaged over 17 miles an hour and that doesn’t seem like a lot considering the other speeds we’ve averaged but, it should be noted, that we have not actually pedaled the entire time. In fact, the first sixteen miles literally — no joke — Ben did not pedal the whole way. I did just to try and keep up with his huge freight train-like ass which was coasting down the hill at such a speed that I couldn’t keep up with him. Then we proceeding down a slight inclination all the way to Prospect making the first thirty miles in an hour and forty minutes. In which the only thing that is tired on me is my arms and my ass from sitting on the seat and having to hold the handlebars for so long. Other than that we’re in pretty good shape; we’ll be in California in about four hours. Over and out.

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