Lou came swabbing down the bar with the same rag he just used to dab his sweaty forehead. “They've got roads out there now, you know. You coulda taken a car. Man, if you break down out there, you're in a lotta trouble.”
Yeah, trouble. Like when you roll into camp with a half hour of daylight left wondering how far back the other three guys in your group are. Making the effort to go in and try to help will end up in more people stuck out in the 48 degree dark. Thanks to all the recent oil activity out there, cell phone coverage is better than you'd expect. The three greenhorns called 911 and the operator found them through the phone's GPS. I'll bet Lewis and Clark are shitting in their graves. Anyway, the Sheriff dropped them off in camp around 10 o'clock. They said their bikes were in a ditch somewhere. They promptly grilled hamburgers and garlic bread, washed it down with PBR boilermakers. No shit. All that after bonking on the first day.
Lou told me that I was stupid before turning to wash some glasses. After snorting a few obscenities he started in with the scolding. “Why would anyone pay money to do that? And in that place? I drove my first and third wives through there for vacation. Miserable place.”
Going by car is different though, because you see everything from a tin can, like an amusement park ride. I prefer Hemmingway's take on it; the only way to really get to know a country is by bike. You see the land as it really is because you sweat up each incline to enjoy coasting down the other side. When you reach the top, you see the land as only a handful have seen it, in a way that never translates on postcards. It's the sight of miles of pure, wild grace that makes you forget your legs feel like they're gonna fall off. You marvel at stunning views from a car at a wayside, but after a hard climb on a bike you'll cry when you see it if you have any soul in you.
I told him that I fully anticipate something to happen on every one of these trips. The risk is part of it. That's the adventure. I'm scared to death before every ride, wondering if my legs will hold up or if I'll have a nasty crash. But I can prepare for those things...what, am I going to not go? Am I going to not know? It's in those last few revolutions of the pedals coming into camp that make every tumble, every missed turn, every cramp, everything...it makes it all worth it. You made it.
Lou said “Bet you'll never do that again.”
Actually, I would. I'd turn around and ride back into it right now if I could.
Boone chewed on the end of his swizzle stick with his eyes at half mast, locked squarely on me. He pushed the bourbon supported ice in his glass, then pointed at me all wet-fingered.
“You know why you keep going back?”
I finished my pint and shook my head.
“That's your pound of flesh. Jumpin' in the hurt locker like that, that's your offering.”
He grinned, tapping his Newport on the bar's ledge.
“You don't see it, do you? The land is your church, it's your sweat lodge. Those wheels are your prophets, your spirit guides. You're out there followin' posts, but you're really lookin' for a sign...hopin' for a vision. You get out there and bust down every physical wall you've got on that thing...that's how you get your mind right. All you have to do is finish the ride, nothing else means shit.”
Lou turned down one corner of his newspaper and said “I still think you're stupid.”
“Nah, he's still waitin' to hear, that's all.”
“Dumbass.”
Life is a lot like riding a bike; to keep your balance you gotta keep movin'. Ol' Albert Einstein said that, and he was a pretty smart guy. Hell, it might also be a microcosm of the whole damn universe.
