2400

Trabajo 

"Do you smell that?" I grin as I look at Jon and point my nose up into the air. Enticing fragrance fills our nostrils. The wind billows over each row of strawberry plants. I'm eager to reach the fruit market in Moss Landing that I went to on my last tour. Some of the most fresh and tastiest fruit lives there. It was so good that it was a highlight of that trip!

The miles between us and the market seem to go on forever. I recognize the Moss Landing smoke stacks and they don't seem to be getting any closer. We crest a hill and see dozens of people -- all Latinos and Latinas -- working the strawberry fields frantically. The expression on the workers' faces was not one of ease. Jon and I ride by in silence, making no mention of what we had mutually witnessed. The fruit market was ahead.

We gaze in admiration at the rows of colorful produce as we circle the market. Jon always jokes that grocery stores are dangerous. Our metabolism curses us with a ferocious appetite. We always do a couple laps of the aisles to make sure we didn't miss out on any opportunities. We calorie count and weigh packages in our hands in order to find the foods with the most density. If it passes "the test," we scan for price tags for the final stamp of approval. We spend far too long doing all of this.

We feast on plums, pears, strawberries, mangos, and kiwi. Even more satisfying to know we only paid three dollars. I swallow a bite of strawberry and pause.

"That's so messed up."

"Wha-- Oh..." Jon pauses and remembers."

"Did you see those workers? They were running. I wonder if they're told to do that or --" 

"Yeah, fruit's not as innocent as you think it is."

I recall the scene from an hour ago. The rapid fire of a staple gun puts together cardboard crates. A man aboard a truck yells urgent directives in Español. One woman runs with a shouldered basket of harvest. I have this cultural instinct to look at the scene the same way that I look at roadkill. Ignore. Look away. The almond farms near Modesto, the orchards of Watsonville, the rows of artichoke and lettuce in Monterey County. The land tilled, planted, and picked by brown hands. This is America, the land I choose to travel.

'Za

"I think I'm gonna go dumpster diving," I chuckle to Jon. I shake my head at my bill as I settle up for a pint, cocktail, and fries. 

My head feels airy and the handlebars especially wobbly. We sometimes joke about how easily our adventure could be ended by injuries and/or poor judgment. 

Biking drunk? Broken collar bone. Tour over.

Sprinting for the California State sign and failing to see a curb? Eating cement. Tour over.

Balance thrown off from the case of beer we're carrying? Broken parts. Tour over.

I see a Papa John's across the street and get a lucky feeling. The gate to the dumpster easily unlatches and we peer in. Pizza boxes lay on top of leftover dough the size of a human body. I open one... two... and --

"ZA!" Jon exclaims. Artichoke pizzas and barbecue pizzas. We laugh giddily as we precariously carry a box of assorted slices up the switchback climb into camp.

40 Dates and 40 Nights

"So do you guys have girlfriends?" Patrick asks out of the blue. We've ridden with him for a few days since Monterey. He's good company and offers a refreshing change up to our chemistry.

McWay Waterfall, Cabrillo Highway

Jon and I look at each other. I can tell we are both hesitating and waiting for each other to start. We've told the story a few times. My ex is probably somewhere within 50 miles of us, touring the coast, and Jon just broke up with his girlfriend. I open my mouth, about to say something --

"Well, uh, are you guys dating?" Patrick raises an eyebrow. We hesitated too long.

I grin from ear to ear. Yes. Yes we are. I'm tempted to play along just to screw with him. This isn't the first time someone has made this assumption. Jon's mom read my blog and asked him if we're having a bromance. I think it's hilarious. If anything, it speaks to our friendship and compatibility as traveling partners.

"I mean, basically. We're on a forty day date," I chuckle.

Our ticket out of Big Sur -- Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, which climbs from sea level to 2800 feet in less than seven miles

Figueroa

Sunset, Refugio State Beach

We are "sleeping" on the patio of a coffee shop in Ventura, California. A semi-truck charges through Highway 101 less than a block away. I know that if I looked up at the sky, the stars would be extinguished by all of the light pollution. Several sets of bicycle tires skid on the sidewalk just as soon as pairs of eyes fondly look at our bikes.

"What?!" Jon yells.

I roll over in my sleep. He repeats himself. The inkling of consciousness in me freezes. I hear Jon talking to someone. It's three in the morning. I hear a gruff voice mumbling. Concern and defensiveness arise in my gut, but sleep beckons me back.

"I'm glad I was awake and our bikes were locked up." Jon says in the morning. Apparently many people were eyeing our bikes, then left in a hurry once they realized Jon and I were in our sleeping bags nearby. The sounds of the city made for a poor night's sleep. Thankfully we only have one more day to go. Jon has a quad shot of coffee and we are off.

Barrelhouse 101, Ventura CA -- 101 beers on tap!!

Arrival

The In-N-Out fries and shake don't sit well in my stomach. After all, I am lactose intolerant. It's a "treat" that I've been waiting for in order to reward myself at journey's end. Quite evidently I have poor self control.

We arrive at the Santa Monica Pier. End. A flock of tourists flies through the theme park, gawking at the street performers.

"What now?" He asks. "It looks like everyone just comes here to take a selfie."

"Yeah..." My eyes glaze over. Somehow this seems anticlimactic. Somehow this seems like it hasn't been hard. Should it have been? I internalize all of the obstacles we took to get here. The roaring winds in the canyons. The failing equipment. The dried up riverbeds of the Oregon high desert. The hunger and knee pain and back aches. The blistering heat of Nevada. The fight against gravity in the Sierras. The lungfuls of smoke at altitude.

I feel these things in my past and I know they made even the most mundane experiences blissful and exhilarating. Some people shook their heads at us when they learned what we were doing. I would have doubted myself too if I hadn't known that nobody got anywhere in life by taking the well-travelled road. It takes a little oomph, a little grit, a little crazy.

I get a few ideas stirring in my head. "I think I know what's next," I grin at Jon.

Ascension

The Brighter Side

Jon and I double check that we have everything as we load up our bikes. Heather and Marco's garage is chock full of outdoor equipment that could easily be mistaken for ours or vice versa. I carefully set my belongings in a separate pile. Jon finishes to pack his bags.

Heather bids us goodbye. Marco pokes his head around the corner.

"Do you guys want a cookie on the way out?" He says with eager eyes.  Jon and quickly looks up and sets his last belonging down on a workbench, and not in his bag.

We were still full from the night before.

Jon's Blue Steel and Mount Shasta

"Oh, I think I'm okay..." Jon smiles politely.

"It's a ganja cookie..." Marco cocks an eyebrow.

"Oh..." Jon and I look at each other, surprised.

We settle in along a cool and roaring creek after a long day of rolling hills. Jon swears and stomps his foot. 

"My headlamp..."

"What?!"

"I left it at Marco's!"

I play with a ginger snap cookie in my hand and laugh at the irony. Thankfully the stars were magnificent that night.

Boiling Point

The day before, I checked the weather and saw an unexpected warning: "the valley will reach temperatures upwards of 108 to 112 degrees Fahrenheit." Not being locals, and everything seeming a little extra mountainous in the last week, Jon and I concluded we were not in any "valley." A long descent along a river proved us wrong. 

Not even 20 minutes into the day, we both unzip our jerseys for ventilation. By noon, it is already over 90 degrees. The hot air penetrates the shade as it climbs well into 100 degrees. A much needed stop for an indoor lunch only makes going back outside much worse.

"You know that feeling when you go to take cookies out of the oven and you just feel hot air in your face?"

We both laugh, but in nervous misery.

Sapphire blue water near Lassen Peak, Volcanic Scenic Highway

We begin moving again out of obligation. I ask Jon to stop pedaling so I can diagnose something on his bike. His wheel wobbles violently, which is symptomatic of a broken spoke. I feel nervous to tell Jon about anything that is wrong with his bike. He's had a lot of misfortune when it comes to his bike holding up, mechanics doing wrong by him, or salesman up-selling him.

Thankfully in a tourist town, we stop at a bike shop to buy a spoke. The one staff member seems ill-prepared and -equipped for Labor Day Weekend business. I explain our situation and it soon becomes clear that he doesn't know how to help us solve our problem (to which he doesn't admit). He offers to let us behind the counter to do the work ourselves. I am hesitant because I know it is a liability issue. However the urgency of our situation takes precedence over formalities in my mind.

I sequence the procedure in my head. The heat gets to me and I wipe sweat from my forehead, taking care not to get grease all over my face. My hands tremble in anxiety. Perfect timing, I scoff.

We were treated to a gorgeous sunset in the Sierras that evening

By the time I finish, we see the first signs of golden hour, and we still have 25 miles to go with lots of climbing. It is still above 95 degrees. Jon and I both worry about how the day will end and how the next day will start. Biking, setting up camp, and eating in the dark are less than favorable conditions, not to mention starting again after little downtime.

My temper is simmering and I know it will carry on into the day if I don't do something about it. Jon buys an Italian soda float and pays for my "stress cone" next door.

To date, that is the most frustrated I have ever been while eating an ice cream cone.

The "I" in Team

Golden hour in Lake Tahoe

A green sign reads "Lee Summit." Jon makes a hard acceleration for a good while. He taps into his matchbox of energy and burns one or two just to claim the mountain pass that coincides with his last name. I follow but I have no rebuttal in the gas tank. I grit my teeth not in defeat, but because I am suffering. He pulls away from me. It is the small rewards that matter. 

The entire tour has been an informal race. Each city, county, and state limit is a finish line. The toughest days are when we surf the highways all day. It is not uncommon to see nearly a dozen signs on these days.

There is an art to racing. How many matches can I make him burn? When do I GO? Can I get away with a cheap shot? Can I feign tiredness or a cramp in order to get the jump? Has he had more caffeine and sugar than I have today? When will that Coca Cola and jelly beans kick in?

The "We" in Suffer

You are only as fast as your slowest teammate. 

- WWU Cycling Team

It is difficult to tell whether or not we are climbing. The canyon narrows and towers higher but the road seems to point down. The wind howls in our faces and I am taking big pulls (a turn at the front blocking the wind) for Jon and slowing down to his pace. I know he is hurting by the way he clutches his back and hangs his head. He laments that he would rather ride Lassen Peak (elev 8511 ft) twice than go south on this dreary stretch of 395. Miles later, the hum of our tires on pavement ceases. I turn to him.

"I'm glad you're here, man. Thank you."

Smoke rolling in through Tioga Pass, Yosemite National Park

Sun beaming down through storm clouds, Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite National Park

Oyster

Jon uses my draft to slingshot past me. I accelerate hard to get into his slipstream. The gap between us and the cars tailing us grows larger. A steady speed of 40 miles per hour propels us down into Yosemite Valley. The landscape commands our attention with unfathomable scale and depth. I signal to stop and we both know why. Bliss overcomes us and we laugh and cry.

I feel birthed into a new world of wonders. The air anoints me with smoke in my lungs, salt on my skin, and rays of intense sun on my back. A resounding call echoes off of the gargantuan domes. It tells me: I am alive.

Half Dome, Yosemite National Park

Tunnel View, Yosemite National Park

Nomad

Alone

Jon and I shake hands and wish each other luck. Immediately, a steep canyon climb transitions into a gravel ridge that falls and rises rapidly. There are no visible cars or towns in the distance; merely a graveyard of wind turbines amongst various dead grass fields. This is where the wind goes to die and be birthed again.

The descent into Antelope, OR from Shan

My back starts to ache from the pack I am carrying, this time with a full pouch of water. Before long, I become conscious of my ration of water. 5 sips per hour. 15 ounces per hour. Channel your inner camel, Jim. The day peaks at 93 degrees.

63 miles in, I arrive at my planned destination -- Shaniko, Oregon. Nearly deserted, were it not for the curious travelers marveling at the ol' Western town. I filter water from a hose and press on, risking isolation. Never have I ever treated water so valuable.

Two hours before sunset is the magic number. Just enough time to settle in comfortably, wherever that may be. This time it is at a county road intersection with deep gravel. 

I notice the irrigation next to my three buddies (some cows) for the night. Jon joked about filtering poop water in case we get desperate. The route I am taking is known for extremely limited services and water, not to mention that over two thirds of it is unpaved. Maybe not today... 60 ounces left. 

Water Boy

40 ounces left. I took sips throughout the night, and apparently my protein bar breakfast took a lot of water to wash down. I use a slow-to-load Google Maps to identify any sources of water. The terrain is carved out from glaciers and rivers from ages ago. Bingo. A creek 16 miles down my route, next to a small town called Ashwood.

My legs struggle to overcome the morning lull. The smoke from the Western Oregon fires makes the air heavy in my lungs. I pause at the bridge into Ashwood and peer over the side... Nothing. Dried up, save for the thick algae substance bubbling with flies and water skimmers. I knock on doors of the nearly abandoned town... Nothing. I silently hope for a roadside savior, and unwillingly move on. 

Miles and miles of barbed wire separate me from scattered puddles of water in the creek bed. I sip at my Camelbak but only get air. It starts to drizzle. I open my mouth  to catch a few drops and take a moment to distract myself with the sight of something I haven't seen in a while -- my skin glistening in the rain. It is 45 miles (plus a mountain pass climb) to the next town that I know has services. I am losing hope. 

I spot my last chance -- irrigation water. I laugh to myself about the previous night's thoughts and Jon's words. I spend a good time filtering and re-filtering everything. Here we go.

Flesh

His tank top reveals his well-built stature -- and absurd tan lines.

"I got into an accident and ended up with someone else's arms," joking about the remarkable difference between the color of his forearm and his bicep. Josh brandishes his tan fingers, which all have a sharp transition pale knuckles and pale palms (otherwise known as the glove tan). I try to contain my laughter but the beer in my belly removes my hand from my mouth and throws my head back into an uproar of a laugh. He takes a moment to generously sip from his third beer, then oddly takes a spoonful of oatmeal for dessert.

Connor slyly makes a move to claim the bed between the three of us. 

"Oh, you would!" Josh teases.

"Go on then!" Connor retaliates in a heavy New Zealand accent.

"Do you two bike through the night often?" June asks them.

"Well, ah, we like to take our time in the mornings," Josh giggles.

"Well with your 110 mile ride to Eugene tomorrow, I'm sure you'd like to check out the Deschutes Brewery in the morning first? They open at 8." Neil's sarcasm first came to me as a surprise. Perhaps it was the soft features and warm voice that made me think he was incapable of teasing. He still manages to be playful and loving.

Michelle steps through the front door.

"Awwhh, you guys are having a little family dinner!" She takes a seat at the table.

She nods towards June and Neil. "Maybe ya'll should stop hosting bicycle tourists," she laughs. She shifts her focus to Connor, Josh, and I. "I always seem to be injured the day before one of you guys rolls through!" 

Michelle smirks as she tells us about the time she danced with a guy who was so uncoordinated that he elbowed her in the forehead and caused a good-sized welt.

"Buuuuut, he was kind of cute!" June admits.

Neil teases June throughout the night. I see his hand move to her thigh every now and then. Yawns are passed around the table and we all say goodnight to each other. I hear giggles from behind the bedroom door as my eyelids become heavy. 

Peanut Butta

I talk myself through how hysterically awful the road conditions are. "Yaaaaaay, bikes are so fun!.." The washouts and brake bumps pump my arms to the point of irritation as I sink into every crevice. I feel the weight of my bike shift and slow in the red and grey sand. 10 miles of descent is normally something a cyclist looks forward to, especially after a 2400 foot climb. I can't make up my mind whether or not I made the right decision to press on.

I spent a few hours at Newberry Crater gaping at the ancient obsidian, lanky pines, and fish leaping through the air above Paulina Lake. The mass of tourists and lack of available camping spots made it hard for me to breathe in my own space.

I spend the night in an abandoned US Forest Service station. I check all the corroded faucets and the knobs let out a dry and eerie squeak. When I wake, it is below 40 degrees. I had forgotten what it felt like to be cold. 

The next parts of the route are said to be the hardest. The Red Sauce Forest and the OC & E Trail have a fine mix of gravel, rocks, and deep sand, not travelled heavily enough by cars or bikes to make a firm packed line of travel. I glide over every stretch of Red Sauce, having earned some extra grit from the Paulina descent. But it is the heat of the day that breaks me on the OC&E. 96 degrees even seems to make the rocks melt.

"Like riding through peanut butta," I recall Jon saying. Yes. And how I wish I could just lie down and make peanut butter angels and eat peanut brittle and peanut butter ice cream.

Exodus

Snoqualmie Tunnel, John Wayne/Iron Horse Trail, WA

Another One

"DEEEE JAAAAAY KHALED!!" I exclaim as we meander through Lake Stevens, Washington. 

"WE THE BEST MUSIC!!"  

"Another one!"

The entire day was comprised of throwbacks and irreverent music blasting out of the small but powerful speaker housed in Jon's handlebar bag. I am surprised at how much more energy I am afforded through the music as opposed to when I belt out a Katy Perry tune when traveling alone.

"You like eggs, huh?" Jon smirked as he told me about his grandma's famous cooking. Later that evening, we rolled -- rather, grimaced (the hills are steep) -- up into Seattle. 

I was reminded of home and my identity as a first generation American as I sit back and watch the dynamic of the Lee family. Jon replies in English to his grandma, of which I was certain she was expressing her concern, but of course in Cantonese. 

We are seated at a circular dining table with a prepared feast in front of us. I serve myself a large helping of rice, cabbage, mushrooms, and a scramble. Jon's dad, Alan, artfully moves his chopsticks towards me, picking up and dropping more cabbage along the way in one swift motion. "Here, have some more."

"Oh, thank you," I smile politely, becoming aware of my belly's roundness. I'm too well fed, I think to myself.


Like Cake

"That was awesome!" Jon exclaims with the usual wide eyes. "It was so cool how everyone there was into bikes!" Elaine, our host in Yakima, took us to a gathering that evening. I still can't get over how good the food was. Grilled peppers, elaborate steak dishes, pasta salads, roasted potatoes, chocolate cake...

I wonder how long we can coast off of this meal for. Jon and I played around with the idea for a while, reminiscing about the meal that was probably twice as big as what we should have eaten. Everyone at the party cautioned us about the difficulty of the day ahead. Yakima to Biggs Junction -- 95 miles with a healthy mountain pass climb in between. 

Yakima River Canyon, WA

The last few days have been a period of adjustment for both of us. Between waking up, riding, eating, sleeping, and just living, Jon and I have had to meet somewhere in the middle. By the end of the week, we will have done 450 miles. It's hard to encapsulate exactly what that feels like in our bones, our joints, our muscles, our heads.

I grow increasingly worried about the challenges of the upcoming week. Jon and I are separating so that he can take care of some business back home and I can continue south. I'm going into some deep and isolated sections of Oregon, on dirt and away from civilization. Nothing to worry about if I can keep finding chocolate cake along the way. I settle into a plush bed and the Yakima crickets lull me to sleep.

Payday

"What's your favorite candy bar?" He asks out of the blue. We pass a lot of time just by talking about food. I had just chugged an Orange Crush soda and eaten half of his PopTart. I stare methodically beyond expansive dry fields of Goldendale, Washington. Mount Hood and Rainier tower at the opposite ends of my periphery. It's been a long day of riding a desolate Highway 97. All I want is more sugar. I proceed to explain my favorite candy and we discuss the nuances of chocolate, nuts, and sweeteners. Our conversation is cut short by an exhilarating descent into the Columbia River Basin.

He smirks as he pulls out two Pay Days, perfectly intact despite the heat of the day. I shake my head with guilty pleasure, knowing he carried those for 75 miles.

Between bites of peanutty goodness, we marvel at the explosion of twinkles and dust in the night sky. 

"Not too sweet for a candy bar... a very underrated thing." 

"Dude, yeah!" His eyes widen. Jon has a way of energizing the conversation with the intonation of his voice. "It's like the type of candy old people would like!"

Old people candy," I chuckle to myself, sharply exhaling through my nose.

Exodus

A mass of tourists crowds the neatly organized pillars of rock. I look below and Jon is rounding the final bend of the climb up to the Stonehenge memorial in Maryhill, Washington. Jon jokes that we've biked to Scotland.

"Dude, that was rough." I high five him.

"My knees are feelin' it." His head is hung and the way he pedals conveys his pain. I apologize.

We've been accustomed to being dirty, and our ashy dry skin shows it. We plop down on a dirt patch and take out a pair of paper glasses. "Time to press our sweaty faces together!" We previously agreed on splitting the glasses because everywhere else was out of stock or upselling them. The ambient light dims but the blue sky remains. Mount Hood becomes a mere silhouette. I peer through the paper glasses and see a dark shadow moving across the big hard sun. In mere moments it is finished. 


"Ready to get hit by a car?!" I joke. People flocking home in their RVs makes for bad cycling. His mouth hangs open and his nose wrinkles. It's a laugh that fuels more laughs. Within minutes, the crowd thins and the air is still. Like fish in a pond avoiding a sinking rock.

We mount our bikes and our tires churn and sink through the gravel parking lot.

"To Cinnabon?" 

"To Cinnabon."

I giggle to myself maniacally while crossing over into Oregon, knowing that I was more excited to cram sugar in my mouth than I was to witness the event of a lifetime.

When The Rain Comes, When The Smoke Clears

This idea was planted in my head when my friend Jon said he might get a new bike back in January. "Dude, let's go touring!" The next few weeks included discussions about where we would go, how long we'd be gone for, what we'd carry. In the following months, both of us sent periodic texts saying, "Yo, we still going?" A few days would pass and the reply would say something along the lines of, "I dunno dude, my boss isn't too keen on the idea of me being gone for 40 days..." Even tonight -- 36 hours before the trip -- it seems surreal, yet it is indeed happening. Bellingham to Los Angeles by bike.

~

 We are eagerly awaiting for the drive-thru line to scoot forward. It is 10:30 p.m., and to our delight, the Gig Harbor McDonalds is still serving ice cream unlike Burger King. I was frustrated at being turned down ice cream earlier that night, but Mikey, having restaurant experience, explained to me the process of cleaning out a soft serve machine (apparently it sucks). I hand Mikey his large strawberry shake, and I alternate between a bite of fresh strawberries and licking my ice cream cone. I'm an idiot, I think to myself. Long after close, I drove across town to pick up Mikey and have him unlock my workplace just to pick up my lights and stove that I had forgotten earlier in the day.

~

Given the spell of heat, dry days, and smoke from the northern wildfires, I welcomed the pattern of rain and mist splattered on the windshield. I'm nearly nodding off while driving because of how late I stayed up, packing and re-packing everything. Don't forget the TP. Don't forget the TP. Dad is explaining to me the long period of stress he's encountered with buying a house, dealing with drama and work, and his health. I feel sorry to leave him behind. I brush off a few strands of fur from my pant leg. I wish you could come too, Colby.

Disorder

1. Hurt
Drunken nights breed ugly thoughts

Despair stains sleeved skin
Nothing a little time won't kill
Small and benign wallflowers, yet impolite and crude

2. Help
You? There's no way...
I try to explain the eager urges. The enticing hunger.
The itch and festering, dark and unmanageable
trembling in my skull

3. Relapse
Clinging to feigned hope
I am healthy, I think. A call for celebration
I drink. And think...
Ugly thoughts

Musings & Announcements

You are the one with the sun and spray,

the pavement and painted lines. (Pugh, Molly)

From a very young age, my bike has always been my trusty companion. I rarely leave my house without it! One could say I have a very close relationship with it -- not as an object, but as a symbol. It was Childhood when the South Beach's salt rusted its body, carried candy from the Island Market, and clunked together with my tennis racket. It was Risk and Freedom when I rode home from my girlfriend's house in valley fog and darkness. It was Identity Formation when it supported me on a pilgrimage of minimalism and samaritanism. It was Escape when it stole me away from the hot-headed arguments with my parents. It brought Purpose when it pulled me away from suicide and depression.

have you not felt

what it is like to escape

or has nothing ever caused you

to run away

I cannot imagine my life without it, but sometimes I take it for granted. Last summer, I led adaptive cycling rides for people of all abilities. One participant who came along was visually impaired, and brought new insight into what it means to appreciate the sport that I cherish so dearly. I came to process my surroundings in a more meaningful and immersive way. I remember that we were once riding in the Cascade Foothills on a day with brilliant sunshine and clarity. 

What do you see? She asks.

Rhubarb. Lots of it... And?

And mountains, and heat waves, 

and kids jumping on trampolines, and--

She smiles. I love rhubarb.

Yesterday, I dreaded the thought of pedaling indoors for as little as a half hour. I am in the fifth week of training for my competitive season. This is an average of 15-18 hours a week on top of school, work friends, and my pooch. After my chore list is done and the sun has set, it's on to the stationary bike in my garage. I usually focus on my visible breath and drown out the fatigue with Netflix. Last week, I watched Lilo & Stitch (2002), The Way (2010), Food Inc. (2008), and a whole lot of Master of None. I complain about it a lot, but it is by choice. I am training to compete at three events that will make me eligible for nationals. When my muscles seize and the sweat stings my eyes, I am staring at a sticker on my handlebars. It reads "RF 471," in honor of a member of my racing community that passed away in an accident. This event helped me reevaluate my motivations and goals. No matter how hard I work or do not work, I have to be thankful for this privilege because racing is ultimately just for fun. Bike riding has led me to several supportive communities at Old Town Bicycle, Metro Parks Tacoma, the Northwest Collegiate Cycling Conference, and the WWU Outdoor Center.

I wept for his death

but also because he lost the very thing

I could not stand to lose

And now, in a way, my bike has led me to my field of study. Recreation and leisure services is centered around providing and/or facilitating recreation to others. My cohort contains some of the brightest and most passionate leaders I have ever encountered. There are NOLS alumni, veterans, cancer survivors, mountaineers, and mothers. I think I had briefly lost myself in admiring these folks that I had forgotten to live my own life. Truthfully, I was aspiring to be more like my peers without being true to myself. I became captivated with the idea of being a backpacking or whitewater rafting guide, while the most sacred and authentic answer was right in front of me all along. I know that maybe one day I'll find myself on the Wonderland Trail or Yakima River leading a group of people. But for now, I think I belong on a bike, pedaling around -- maybe helping others pedal around along the way.

To these ideals, 

which were instilled in me when I was a youth, 

I attribute in a large degree the success that was mine 

on the bicycle tracks of the world. (Taylor, Marshall "Major")

And with that, I'm proud to announce that I'll be a youth mentor and ride leader with the Major Taylor Project for the next six months. This program strives to empower young people by teaching them about cycling, healthy living, and community/social ties. As part of the Major Taylor family, I hope to help teenagers realize that they have the tools to help bring them happiness, freedom, and success, just as I do. 

Souvenir

The hallways of my house echo a lonely tune. My gaze skips across a sea of streetlamp beams. Framed by an inviting window, a homey shadow goes about its business. My mind wanders past what I can see: bags stuffed with clothes, scribbled goodbye letters, pieces of the life she is leaving behind. As the glowing window beckons to me, I know that mine is closing.

My thoughts peer into her entryway. In an instant, my feet register the cold reality of nighttime concrete. My knock asks for entry, and the door swings open. She sings a welcoming hello. Our embrace is close and warm.

We almost slip into a prescribed distance, but she catches me off guard. “Can you come sit over here?” she confidently laughs. My inquisitive look poses a question. Eyes gleaming, she only smiles in approval.

We are speaking words, but the conversation is taking place elsewhere. A sweeping gesture brings my hand just an approving nod away from her cheek. Her legs are tangled in mine. A curious finger brushes my side. I trace the arc of her loose bangs, trickling down around her cheek, her dimples… Her lips.

Leaning in, I lend a short peck, then a slightly longer one. Her eyes spell a yearning proposition, and I nod. She pulls me in with a sharp breath, and takes my mouth as a souvenir. Swirling, melting, and tingling. A passing, rolling wave in the belly of an ocean. And though it is not a kiss of promise, it is all I want to know.