I was cold and tired and halfway across northern nowhere on a solo cross-country bicycle trip. A mile or so back, I crested a hill and coasted on the long downhill slope, but the bike was getting harder and harder to pedal. I’d already shifted down twice and was checking to see if I had a flat tire. Glancing back, I discovered the long downhill slope stretch was an optical illusion and I was pushing the bike and my fifty-pound pack uphill with every stroke.
I looked ahead and saw a car crest the hill ahead of me. As it drew nearer, I could hear the dopplered screaming of its teenaged passengers, apparently just out of school for the summer. There was no time to react when I saw the pop bottle come sailing out of the window at me.
It hit the handlebars and glanced away from my face as the screams turned to laughter fading away in the distance. I put my back into pedaling, knowing that if I stopped I would have to dismount and push for the next half-mile.
A few minutes later, the gravel crunched to my left and I reflexively flinched away, only to discover it was a mailman. He passed me and pulled in at a mailbox a few feet further on. I pulled onto the pavement and passed him as he sorted mail into a row of mailboxes.
Only a couple of minutes later he pulled up next to me again, slowed down, and called “How far have you come?”
I called back “230 miles!” then he passed and pulled in at the next batch of mailboxes.
Pages: 1 · 2