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“Aren’t you afraid of being hit by a car?”

This was our new Question de Jour and was soon to outpace the ever-present and ever-popular: “Where are you headed?” Apparently, the closer one is to California the more one is exposed to the meditative intimation that it was not the destination that mattered, but the journey. And, as that our journey was on a bicycle, people worried that we would be struck down by large fast-moving vehicles before we had a chance to truly enjoy the ride. So it was no longer a question of where we were going and would we get there in time but how was it going and would we be killed or maimed or excluded from having children in the process.

“Aren’t you afraid of being hit by a car?”

The answer is, no, I am not. Ben is not either. That’s why we bike tour, believe it or not: despite contrary opinion, we don’t do it because were afraid of being hit — we do it because it is fun. We like it. And if we didn’t like it, or the traffic, or the close calls and near misses, or the horns and the people cursing at us from time to time, believe you me: we wouldn’t do it. There are plenty of other activities we enjoy so that we are not merely limited to those we excel at or can afford to do.

We’re not afraid of being hit. Now: perhaps if I had already been run over by a vehicle and laid up in a hospital for a few months in a coma and lost feeling in one my legs and became disoriented sexually I would have a different opinion. But, as of yet, that has not happened and I do not worry about it happening because I am not afraid of being hit. I’m sure I will be run over one day; that is part of life and I accept it; I have moved on. I suggest those enquiring do also.

What is more disturbing, more life changing, more obnoxious, and more frightening than anything else are the vehicles that are, themselves, afraid to hit us. The vehicle that raises our ire is neither the truck that passes us at seventy-five miles an hour blaring its horn, nor the driver that slows down to lower a window and spit on our persons, but rather: the car that is afraid to pass us and, instead, finds it necessary to hover behind us for hours at a time all the while waiting for sixteen miles of clear roadway and good weather to overtake us. I hate it; Ben hates it; we curse them and yell at them and wish their internal combustion engines would spontaneously externally combust. Never do it. I appreciate that drivers are afraid of coming too close to a bicyclist, but we are not horses. We do not spook and we will not whinny. So here is advice for those of you passing a bicyclist on a roadway near you today; a little tidbit of helpful information that can improve relations between bikers and drivers alike; a gem of wisdom that can make all of our lives and our roadways and even this world a better place to live: if you haven’t hit me you could still get closer.

DAMON: July 5th, 7:35 in the morning, Ben and I woke up exactly forty-five minutes ago. We are completely packed and ready to go having used facilities, having read books, having relaxed luxuriously. And, most importantly, having packed our entire campsite without swatting — not once! once! — at any bug, any kind — not even a spider. Not even something that fell out of the sky and hit me on the head. Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. It has been, likewise, beautiful/glorious; and thus our day begins.

On July 5th we woke up in Oregon and ended the day in California. We traveled from Gold’s Hill, at our KOA (where the K stands for Kozy Komfort), down Route 199 and into Cave Junction and on to the Californian border. We stopped at a diner and succumbed to our baser instincts, consuming again more food than any two people should ever be allowed to eat. We were incorrigible and if there was one thing we didn’t learn during our entire adventure it was that it is better to stop eating before vomiting than continuing to eat after. And, as that we were unable to move for a number of hours post-prandially, we purchased a newspaper and read up on Lance Armstrong’s progress in the Tour de France. Reading of our fair Lance’s victories, struggles, and all around wow-ness was inspiring for Ben and me and, for a brief time, it gave us an extra lift on those pesky hills. For some odd reason, perusing an article about an all day climb in the French Alps at a heart-attack inducing pace put a little perspective on the slight incline I complained of ascending just to get into the parking lot of the restaurant.

Outside of Cave Junction, where I stopped to mail yet another missive to my fair lady, we began our own Tour de France leg — a slow but productive climb up one of the busy hills of Route 199. It was a steady hill and manageable and the heat was kept at bay by a slight cloud cover. We alternated front and back and moved carefully up the slope destined to reach California on fresh legs. The twelve pounds of strawberry covered waffle had worked its way into our small intestine and had begun converting itself into valuable bursts of energy. We had a rhythm, and although we were not gliding, our efforts were minimal.

But then, something happened; something strange occurred. Ben, in a moment that I can only describe as careless, ventured the following comment about our gradual incline. He said:

“I could pedal like this all day.”

I almost choked and fell off my bike. I swung my head from side to side dramatically as if I was a cartoon character who could not believe what the audacity of Bugs Bunny.

“What did you say?” I gasped.

“That I could pedal like this all –”

“Quiet!” I whispered fiercely, “I beg of you on all you hold sacred and true please be quiet.”

But it was too late: he had said it. Before I could stop him; before I could venture another word of warning; before I could explain the necessary incantations, prayers, and sacrifices that were required to reverse his curse; before I could push him into traffic and steal his Sharkies — he had uttered the words that should never be spoken. He had tempted the God of Hill and Pain.

And before the last syllable had left his lips, before the ridiculous thought had finished firing through his faulty synapses, before I could shed the first of many tears: the sun broke through the clouds and raced towards us as an earthly chuckle crept from the ground and there, pushing itself casually into view from around the bend, was a mountain. An enormous pile of earth and rock and on it lay the faint wisp of black tar that we were pedaling upon. The oxygen around us shriveled in the heat of the approaching sun and the air, fearing retribution from the God Ra, disappeared. We were left in a vacuum of smoldering pressure faced with an ascent that made my eyes tear and my head grow dizzy from the altitude.

“How could you?” I asked.

Ben hung his head. He had ushered us into the fiery gates of hell and, for the time, there was no escape. Our misery was guaranteed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so very sorry.”

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