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.

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 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.

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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.