I imagine I will be like the dog when she runs in her sleep but I will be pedaling madly to realize some dream that is disappearing over the horizon of another hill in my mind. Salsa, bivouac, panniers. I am going to wake up in the middle of the night with these words in my mouth and sweat on my brow. Mt. Baker beckons me every night and I still go home to my bed and bamboo sheets; sweaty, exhausted and immediately wanting more. It seems every direction is up hill and my body cries uncle on average at ten kilometers. I bike to the border; an imaginary line that taunts me. This summer heat is draining me and the bikeable hour of dwindling daylight before I need to turn ’round and head back to my house and responsibilities.
81.1 km to go and I don’t even know if there is a reason for the longing. Frankly I question my ability to do it but I seem to manage whatever twisted goals I set for myself. Like the time I did 40 km round trip to buy a coffee at The Coffee Girls down in Washington. I am looking at these people who are doing it.They simplified and are driving themselves and I want it. They are in control of themselves and at the mercy of the environment that they have constant contact with.
When I was a little girl I wanted to bike from the Lower Mainland up into the Okanagan to see my Grandma. That is 346 km one way. The day we tossed her ashes into the lake I met a man on my car ride home who was doing it. I gave him a bottle of water and took back the plastic container as he had no where to pack such things and all I remember was him saying that he did not expect that ascension to be so dramatic from the info he got at the last town and all I heard was my own heart pounding as I listened and yearned to do it myself.