This yarn is nearly unfurled, like flags on the Fourth, or rolltop panniers. From each day we have pulled out something new. Connections, dreams, determination. Or something new again. The joy of motion. The rhythm of afternoon ice cream. What it’s like to be a bundle of pure experience with no screen between.
Same mileage today, double elevation. No problem. This would have been far more daunting last week. I guess we have learned and grown. We ride far more efficiently, and patiently. A hair more tortoise brings us closer to hare’s pace.
The days are blurred like spinning spokes. Cycling together. We ate at a gourmet gas station. What the English might call a Garage Majal. An eclectic mix of Kiss and Teddy Pendergrass imprinted atomically into the cream cheese. Two different flavors of love.
We reentered and watched Wimbledon while the half dozen deli hands took thirteen panini orders. We pressed them further with bungees and rode off to a picnic lunch overlooking a marshy bay.
Across the bay, we found Fat Smitty’s bar and burger emporium, whose politics were made known in the window. They welcomed us and filled twenty water bottles, no questions asked. We asked questions. How long have you been open? 42 years. Why is every inch of the walls and ceiling covered in dollar bills? Every five years they take them down and donate to local charities. $60,000 since they began. The mulleted Don Henley looking fellow said we’re living the dream. Don’t stop.
Fort Worden is beautiful, windy, and the ground is prickly. That’s okay. There are WW2 fortifications all around. The campfire ban made boiling 17 potatoes impossible. Brett saved us singlehandedly.
The end is beginning. Sentimentality is creeping in. The bubble of timeless freedom we have floated in is glinting in the sunset, soon to pop. Nothing to do but put the Wayfarers on, live it up and take it easy. The dream rolls on.