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.