Thanks for the Love, Boston

 Without love, where would you be now?

The Doobie Brothers may not have been asking runners specifically when they pose that question in “Long Train Runnin’” but I had an answer anyway:

Probably running a lot slower and not having nearly as much fun.

I was pounding my way through the streets of Newton, en route to Heartbreak Hill in my second Boston Marathon.

The screams of the spectators rang in my ears. Miles of outstretched hands reached across the metal barricades for high-fives. Often, I’d hear someone yell my number.

“Yeah 683! Let’s go 683!”

Every time I heard that, a goofy grin would crack across my face. Sometimes I’d throw up a fist pump, a salute or just my pinky and index finger raised for heavy metal rockitude. Whenever I slapped a high five, it felt like a power-up.

Carbs and oxygen might have kept my body going; the love from the crowd sustained my spirit.

You’re going to need it, boy — if you’re going to stay alive over Heartbreak.

Take the Wellesley Scream Tunnel just before the half-marathon mark. Students at this woman’s college maintain a venerable tradition of lining up to kiss passing runners. Forgetting the obvious incentive that I’m a single man, with no guarantees about the next time I’ll get a chance to kiss a woman outside a 26.2-mile race, I went in for a set of lips knowing it would it would help me run the next couple minutes without thinking about the burning on the soles of my feet, or the fatigue leaking drip, drip, drip into my system with every mile. I’ll take a little love over pain any day.

Love and pain, as anyone who studies this will tell you, go together as often as the rose goes with thorns.

The pain of last year’s bombings at the finish line was never far from our minds, yet the memory of those killed and injured had brought the crowds and the runners back in droves: 36,000 registered entrants this year, a million spectators lining the course according to reports. The racecourse parted a sea of humanity that thundered with whoops, applause and noisemakers. Spectators waved “Boston Strong” signs. The slogan appeared on banners and T-shirts in Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham — all the way to Copley.

Tighter security hadn’t checked the crowds’ enthusiasm, not for the kids giving high-fives, not the musicians along the course. As I walked down the street to the Hopkinton start, I noticed a couple of entrepreneurs offering samples to passing racers.

“Free beer!” they shouted! “Free donuts!” “Free cigarettes!” I didn’t see anyone go for the cigs, but some stole sips of beer.

The enthusiasm of spectators met with determination from runners.

I know some of the bombing survivors had returned this year to run or wheel the course. I saw several runners hammering out the miles in prosthetic blades, though I wasn’t sure which, if any of them, had been in the blasts.

Plenty of runners in my start corral already wore Boston Athletic Association tattoos. As the elite runners went by our corral to take their positions up front, we swarmed up against the barrier to give them high-fives. Then we got back in place waiting for the gun. We were back and we were here to kick some ass.

For my dad, the return to Boston meant the chance to cross the line after getting within a mile of the finish in 2013 before the explosions forced the remaining runners off the course. Last year was the 10^th time that he’d run this race, and he planned for it to be his last. The explosions on Boylston Street changed that view. He wasn’t about to end his Boston career without an official finish; and he wasn’t going to end it on a day darkened by mindless acts of violence.

Though Dad was further back on the route, I thought about him when burning pain cropped up on the bottom of my feet.

Think that’s bad eh? I thought. Count your blessings that you’re not running this race with a kidney stone.

Leave it to the old man to get a stone in his kidney and then decide he’s going to run a marathon anyway. When he’d announced his troubles the morning we left for Boston, I figured that he would stay home.

“Well, it’s going to take a while to get help for you if something goes wrong,” I told him, “Even if you’re just watching the race.”

Our neighbor, Bob, a retired doctor had another opinion: if he could handle it, he could go for it. A kidney stone might hurt like hell, but it wasn’t an immediate threat.

“I would have recommended against going to anyone not as stoic as your father,” Bob told me later.

Stoic. I was trying to be stoic, to keep everything in balance as I flew over the first ten miles in 59:30 — faster than I’d run a 10-mile race in Albuquerque a month ago. Only 16 miles left to go champ.

I couldn’t decide whether I was shooting myself in the foot by going out too fast (as many runners do in a race that starts on a downhill) or taking a worthwhile gamble that would give me a finish time worthy of my months of training. Though it felt like I was going a bit faster than I should, it is also true that not every day is the Boston Marathon, and that makes a difference. I decided not to decide on my pace, and just hold onto a comfortable cruising speed.

Comfortable cruising speed didn’t feel quite as comfortable at the 20-mile mark when I started up Heartbreak Hill. A sharp cramp pushed into my right side while my feet burned and chafed. I cursed myself for wearing cotton socks in old running flats. My breaths came in fast and shallow. I wondered if I was going to puke, if everything was going to fall apart right then.

My hand gravitated to the pain in my side and my steps started to slow.

The hand and the twisted expression must have told the crowd all it needed to know. A bunch of other spectators called out my number.

“You’re almost there man!” I heard.

Eventually, the nausea and my breathing stabilized. I picked up the pace another notch. It was no heroic effort. If I hadn’t worried about falling apart, I might have tried going a bit harder. All I wanted now was to maintain.

At the final turn onto Boylston Street I looked down a corridor of screaming fans to the finish line where those all-important numerals ticked down across an LCD screen. I felt my feet go over the timing mats and threw up my hands.

The wave I’d been riding since the start line crashed there with its all its tension and anticipation.

I hugged another runner right there and grabbed a bunch of hands. We were giddy, drunk really. I was happy for all of them and them for me. We were bonded because we’d broken ourselves and wound up here. We’d thrown huge chunks of our lives into training, and finished with times that we wanted, at least the time that I wanted: 2:38:19 chip time from start to finish and 269^th place.

We reeled down the street as volunteers handed out water and put medals over our heads. Someone pointed up at a white message board. Holy crap! Meb Keflezighi won? The guy’s almost 40! And an American to boot! It was first time an American   had won the race in 31 years. With a time of 2:08, the guy from San Diego had scored a blow for Boston. 

Later, I heard how he had written the names of the victims who died in the bombings and subsequent shootout on the four corners of his race bib. Even as I staggered around the finish area, I felt damn proud and happy as hell.

This was healing. It was breaking ourselves down, mind and spirit so we could grow back stronger.

The family meeting area was several city blocks away from the finish. We had barricades on either side with instructions to keep moving. Lightheaded and exhausted as I was, I didn’t feel like moving anywhere. I resisted the temptation to just crash into a wheelchair. Finally, I made it to where I needed to be and eased myself to the curb.

I spent 15 minutes doing nothing until my friends came in. Once again, I was feeling the love. I was stoked to see the guys who I’d busted my guts with running cross-country and track in college — not to mention our victorious racing days as the North American Distance Squad.

“Dude, are you still wearing those racing flats from the NADS?”

“He’s Tom. And he would be wearing mismatched socks on race day.”

I got a hand up off the curb, and would have fallen right back down on the sidewalk if another buddy hadn’t caught me.

Another NADS runner was crossing the finish line, so we met him up at the Boston Commons. It had been more than a year since I’d seen most of the guys; for some it had been even longer.

Before and after the race, I ran into several people I’d known from Connecticut, Wyoming and New Mexico. Sometimes, I felt less like I was at a competition, than at a big reunion.

The one guy I hadn’t seen since this morning was my dad.

I worked my way back to the meeting area to see him coming in. I saw our friend Phil, who we had driven up with the day before. My dad was a bit further back, but eventually I got him on the phone.

He’d gone the distance and was waiting for us back at the Commons.

The two of us at the finish with the medals around our necks made a nice addition to the years and miles that we’d run together. It’s basically his fault that I’ve been a runner most of my life and that I’ve been to Boston. Now that I’ve done the marathon twice it is no mystery to me why this race has had a hold on him.

My Dad, Phil and I went back to the car soon after we regrouped. As we left town, we basked in the stories of how smoothly the marathon had gone, how it had brought catharsis to the town after last year’s pain. I felt privileged that my footsteps had joined so many others on the run for Boylston Street.

As our aching bodies recuperate from the hard miles, we will carry the excitement from this day with us and the love from Boston. The feeling of a million voices ringing in our ears while our hearts thudded wild in our chests reminds us that our nature demands this competition from us, that even as we compete, we still run together on one course, as one pack, it reminds us that we run together through our hardships until we reach the line at last. 

Good Will To Travelers

The Skykomish River ran high and wild with cold rain.

Shivery as I was in the early morning, it was a pleasure to behold the thundering rapids and the foam leaping up from boulders.

I shook my fist at the raging waters as I looked down on them from a bridge.

“I loveya, you crazy river!” I shouted.

So did locals apparently. Many of them had plastered bumper stickers on the back of their rides, speaking out against a dam proposal.

I had a good feeling about being on the west side of the Cascades.

In the past couple of days I had biked through Coulee City, Washington, crossed the rolling Columbia River, stayed with my buddy in Wenatchee, then climbed from 780 feet to the top of 4,060-foot Stevens Pass where my bike tires touched snow for the first time on the trip. I made great time bombing down the other side, though I was thoroughly chilled by the time the road leveled. I spent a night with my tent pitched beneath some enormous trees along the highway. There were some perfectly good Forest Service campgrounds nearby, but all of them were closed due to the federal government shutdown. Washington State was many miles from Washington D.C., but not far enough to escape the stupidity of its leaders.

The gates were drawn over the entrance to the campgrounds. Later, I’d read that the Sheriff’s department had gone into the campsites and removed the campers who’d stayed in place in defiance of the rules (I’d come close to camping there myself.) I thought it was funny that the Sheriff’s department had done the removals instead of the Forest Service, but then again those employees weren’t drawing a paycheck now. The Forest Service office I passed nearby was closed up with a sad message taped to the door explaining that they couldn’t help anyone as long as their funding was dried up. I can’t fault the rangers for not volunteering to throw out campers on their own time.

There was a small café down the road done up like a Bavarian cottage. “PCT Hikers Welcome,” a sign announced.

The café was only a dozen or so miles from where the Pacific Crest Trail goes over Stevens Pass. The pass was just over 100 miles from the Canadian border — the end of the line for the hikers who had spent about half a year hiking up from Mexico through California, Oregon and Washington. I wondered if any of them were around.

Sure enough, when I walked through the door, I saw several bearded faces and well-worn outdoor apparel on the guys and girls alike. All of them looked fitter than the average folk that you see on the street. They looked like people who had been walking.

They had been walking — all the way from Mexico — but not so much over the last couple of days with all of the snow moving in over the Cascades. This I learned after introducing myself to several of the thru-hikers and warming myself over a big mug of coffee. I’d been on the road for a couple of weeks at this point; they’d been on the trail since the spring (it was the first week of October now.) My adventure was small fry compared to taking on the PCT.

Still, the group seemed happy for the company. They wolfed down enormous plates of pancakes and home fries. No wonder the café welcomed thru-hikers. They were good business.

It turned out that one of the guys was going to work at Gray Nob hut on New Hampshire’s Mt. Adams — one of my favorite mountains back east.

 Despite the laid-back atmosphere, the weather in the mountains was never far from anyone’s mind. The seasons were turning against the hikers. The snow in the passes would get deeper, the wind more treacherous, the cold more brutal. The trail to the north of Stevens Pass would probably be harder than anything they’d faced yet.

I’d already got a taste of the Cascades’ cold and wind at 4,000 feet on Stevens Pass. The trail would climb to 8,000 feet before it reached Canada.

I stepped out on the café porch to look at the cold drizzle coming through the pines. The Cascades rose straight up like knives, thrusting themselves into the low-lying clouds. It was sure to be blowing snow up there.

A large bearded guy had also stepped out on the porch, his face grim as he watched the spectacle unfolding thousands of feet above us. It was going to be a helluva hike to get to Canada I told him.

He agreed, though he wasn’t hiking the trail. In fact, he had devoted the last months to following the PCT hikers up from California. He met them at the trailheads in his truck, brought them food, helped some of them find work after they got off the trail and cheered them up when they were in the pits.

It felt like a calling to him, he said, in the same way that some people felt like they had a call to hike the trail. I nodded. Both the Pacific Crest Trail in the west and Appalachian Trail back east are known for their “trail angels,” people who go out of their way to help hikers. I’ve enjoyed a cold can of soda out of a crate that an angel left in mountain stream for passerby to enjoy; sometimes they give rides or let dirty hikers crash at their place for no charge. In this case, being a trail angel had become a way of life.

Now he was worried. Most of the hikers didn’t have the gear to take on the blizzard-type conditions or the deep snow that lay ahead. He had already heard horror stories of people not being able to make it through the drifts or flirting with hypothermia in the high passes.

They were so close, he said. I thought he might choke up. The café below Stevens Pass was probably the end of the trail for them, even after they’d managed to make it this far all the way up from Mexico. He had already scored some donated winter gear for the group, but it wasn’t likely that he would be able to scare up the thousands of dollars of clothing and equipment necessary to outfit everyone — especially not snowshoes, which can cost a couple hundred bucks a pop.

So that chapter in their lives would be over soon. It’d be over for him too. As much as he hated to see the hikers abandon their journey when they were so close to Canada, he was even more afraid that some of the hikers would try to take on the last miles without the right gear, risking injury or death.

I felt humbled by how much he cared about his charges, who were right behind us in the café, wolfing down pancakes and making plans.

As it happened, the trail angel helped me as well. I didn’t have any work lined up for after the trip, but found a farm gig through a website he recommended.

I enjoyed hanging around the PCT guys, but alas, my journey was not at an end having about 60 more miles to go until I reached my friend’s apartment in Seattle.

It is important to note that PCT hikers are not the only ones who benefit from acts of charity.

My free motel room in Davenport jumps to mind.

Later the next day, I was biking on a windy stretch of road east of Coulee City when a truck in the other lane did a U-turn and the driver pulled off the road. A guy in a U.S. Marines uniform with a blonde ponytail jumped out, holding something in a paper bag.

“Hey man! Where are you biking to?”

“Seattle from Utah,” I said.

“That is so cool! Hey do you want some cookies? My grandma made them for my birthday.”

I wanted the cookies. Technically, I had just become a vegan and they most likely had eggs and milk in them. Somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to turn down this earnest young marine who u-turned in the middle of a busy highway to give his grandmother’s homemade cooking to a stranger.

“Thanks man!” I said.

 It crossed my mind that baked goods made in a state, which had recently legalized pot might contain other ingredients beside chocolate chips and peanut butter. It had been a long trip so far and I decided that anything offered with good intentions was fine by me.

“These look like great. What a great coincidence that he had vegan cookies right next to him while I was biking down the highway,” I lied to myself in a fit of shameless moral relativism.

The next day was another trial and saw me climbing two tall passes up from my campsite west of Coulee City.

I spent a couple of hours pedaling through whirling fog, feeling disoriented, discouraged and cold. Occasionally the sky would clear and I’d get a glance at a barren scrub landscape with red rock cliffs that reminded me of Utah.

The highlight of the ride was bombing down from a 2,000-foot pass down to the Columbia River at 700 feet. I would have hit the turns harder if it weren’t for the water on the road.

I followed the wide river waters the rest of the way to Wenatchee with the landscape dominated by apples and pears.

There was a park near the outskirts of town where I took my cell phone out of my pack and called my friend Jon. He knew I was coming to visit, but didn’t realize that I was biking.

“I was wondering why it took you so long to get here from Montana,” he said later.

Lucky me, I got a place to crash in his apartment and went for a night on the town in Wenatchee. 

For the first day on the trip, I didn’t pedal a lick.

I took most of the rest day off, heading out mid-afternoon to begin the climb up Stevens Pass. My initial plan to camp in the national forest that night sank when night fell and I was still on the highway. I turned into a KOA Kampground instead, where I paid the $27 fee like the sucker that I was.

At first, I didn’t think Stevens Pass would be such a big deal. It was only 4,000 feet, half as high as the 8,000-footer I’d tackled on the second day of the trip. No prob. A glance up at the imposing white wall of cliffs rising up to the west of me made me reconsider this position.

If a storm swooped in while I was still in the mountains, I’d be in for a rough time of things.

The climb was gradual but long. I got world class views of the Wenatchee River, with its crashing, reckless waters that mirrored the Skykomish on the west side of the pass. It was entertaining trying to figure out what line I would take if I was trying to navigate a kayak or a raft through the chaos.

I stopped at a rest area at around 2,000 feet to refill my water bottles. A big truck pulled in as I walked over to my bike, brimming with fresh-picked apples.

“Hey, help yourself if you want anything,” the driver told me.

I was more than happy to oblige, snatching a tasty golden delicious that was crisp and full of juice.

A few people asked me about where I was going with all the gear. When I explained the trip, most of them thought it sounded like a cool thing to do. In fact, it seemed like the further west I got, the more people seemed to think I was doing something worthwhile as opposed to deranged a la the “are you ill in the head?” woman that I met in Manila, Utah.

There were more thumbs ups on the road, and more acts of charity to keep me going, even as I felt like I was running out of steam.

Thankfully, the threat of storm never materialized and I made it over the pass just fine.

20 hours after I wiped the apple juice out of my beard, I was leaving the café and headed for Seattle.

The Dark Road, The Cop and The Free Room

      The sun was going down and I didn’t feel lucky.

About an hour ago, I’d taken a “shortcut” biking west out of Spokane, Washington and now I was mired on a hilly back road between endless grain fields, beginning to suspect that I was nowhere near where I wanted to be and not getting any nearer.

No, the road that I figured would take me south along a diagonal had turned in the opposite direction. I faced the unappetizing choice of continuing along a road that was going nowhere, or admitting that I’d screwed up and pedaling miles back the way I’d come. Also, where the hell was I going to camp?

As I pondered these possibilities, I heard an engine coming up from behind. A guy in a beater sedan wanted to know if I could point him to the Route 2. I laughed. You can’t make this stuff up.

The guy in the sedan decided to turn around. I decided he had the right idea.

I retraced two miles with the sun at my back, then turned onto a road headed due south. I didn’t know for sure if it was going where it needed to, but didn’t have the stomach to go all the way back to Spokane.

Where to camp? Where to camp? The next town probably didn’t have a camp area. So I’d camp in the woods then. Only there were no woods.

If not for distant mountains, the landscape could have been mistaken for Iowa. Everything was someone’s farm — tilled soil where a marauding ninja camper would be in plain sight (or the gun sites) of an irate farmer.

I ate the rest of my snack food in a gulp of sesame seeds. Still hungry. Still exhausted. Still nowhere near where I needed to be.

The cars had their headlights on when I finally got back on Route 2. I had several miles before I got to the probably camp-less town of Reardon.

No, make that the definitely camp-less town of Reardon. I sagged into a booth in the fast-food joint. The teen behind the counter there didn’t know about any camps in Reardon, but thought there might be some in Davenport, a mere 10 weary miles through the darkness ahead. At least there was a decent-sized margin on Route 2, but I was still less-than thrilled about having 65 mph traffic flying by me in the dark

I ate French-fries joylessly and sucked down cola.

      After I’d finished and paid, I stepped outside to embrace the suckitude of my situation. There was a reflective vest in my dry bag and I strapped it to the back so I would be more visible to oncoming headlights. I’d have felt far safer if I had invested in a blinking taillight, but like so many things on this trip, I’d voted for thrift above comfort, sometimes safety.

Fortunately, the traffic was sparse along the highway. Every time a car went by, my shadow started out long and straight in front of me, then rapidly shrank and whirled to the side as the headlights drew closer. Sometimes it would feel like I was moving backwards. Fortunately, the wind from earlier had dropped and it hadn’t gotten bitter cold yet. I pedaled furiously from one mile mark to the next, until I finally reached the edge of Davenport.

The town was dark and empty. I took a quick swing down Main Street where there were no signs for state parks or public camping. I decided to see about the motel/ RV park near the edge of town.

As luck would have it, the motel manager was walking up to his door when I pulled my bike up. Could I set up tent in an RV site?

He thought about it.

He normally didn’t let people tent camp because he had no bathrooms outside. RVers could do their business and flush their wastewater directly into the septic systems.

Well, I probably wouldn’t have to take a dump that evening, if that was what he was worrying about. I’d make sure to urinate in the empty lot across the street so that it wouldn’t be his problem.

I could tell the guy wanted to get to bed and wasn’t interested in staying up talking for much longer.

Finally, he acquiesced and said I could put a tent up near the side of the motel.

I dropped my bike near an antique wagon outside and crossed the street to take a leak. It was a relief to have a place to stay — and a relief to relieve myself for that matter. Midway through the stream, I became aware of a light shining in my face. That light was coming from a cop car.

I quickly hid the offending object and shot the officer a cheerful wave. I began to walk away quickly but casually. Hopefully, I’d lose track of him between the RV’s. I rounded the corner of the motel to find myself face to face with the motel manager.

“Was that the cops?” he asked.

 I told him it was.

“Here” he said, and produced a key from his pocket.

I’d be welcome to crash in an extra room, he said.

It was music to my ears.

We went back together and got the bike (I made sure to give the cop another polite wave) and I wheeled it into the room. There would be no charge, the manager said. Then he left and I shut the door.

Standing in the immaculate room with its plush bed and quaint railroad paintings, I felt a bit like Dave Bowman in “2001 a Space Odyssey,” who emerges into a similarly incongruous room inside an alien sun after he emerges from an extra-dimensional voyage through a monolith.

In lieu of Bowman’s orange spacesuit, I had my black rain jacket, oversize dry bag and bristling wild man beard, which were slightly less out of place.

I shed my layers and went for the shower — the first in almost 300 miles.

Wet roads and wind

The brightest orange

Is the highway median

Laid out on wet pavement

Beneath autumn leaves.

          ------------

Clouds of gray drift in

Above still-green birches

Of the bitterroots

To wash away the summer.

                ------------

“REG. 3.07”

The sign flashes red and green

Outside Ron’s Gas and Go

As the trucks push on

To Kootenai National Forest

In clouds of dirty mist.

The hours of wet, cold and monotony are fine times for philosophizing and poetic musings. I’m in a better mood when the sun is out and the road is easy, but I can only go so far exulting over beautiful sunrises and pristine landscapes before the writing gets damn boring.

So now that I’m sitting comfortable in a warm, dry place, I’ll go ahead and thank Mother Nature for being such a burr in my ass in the days that I pedaled out of Northwest Montana, across the Idaho panhandle into eastern Washington.

I got to enjoy about 12 miles of steady biking after I left my campsite north of Missoula before the brutal wind set in. It was like someone had put superglue on my tires. I could crank for all I was worth and go maybe a mile an hour faster.

Highway 200 follows the wide and blue waters of the Clark Fork through pastureland and stands of conifers. The wind kicked up whitecaps on the river, meeting the rain-swollen flow head-on. Unfortunately, the thousands of cubic feet of flowing water were much better equipped to resist the blustery air than I was.

I hadn’t packed enough water. The Clark Fork was a tempting refill option, but I was reluctant given the number of farms in the area. Eventually, I pulled up at a farm stand that was closing down for the season.

I asked a guy loading stuff into his pickup if he had a hose out back.

“There’s a spring down the road,” he told me. “It’s the best water in the world.”

The water ran out from a faucet in a rock wall beside the tracks.

A BNSF train thundered by as I filled my bottles. I took a drink. Indeed, the water was pure, almost sweet.

A truck pulled up with a bunch of empty jugs. I got moving again.

The wind let up a bit by the afternoon, allowing me to finish the day with about 75 miles of progress. I did an additional four miles of pedaling to get to my campsite, located along a tributary. A sign said that there was potential chemical contamination in the water, so I skipped the boiled pasta dinner I’d planned for myself.

I was the only person in camp excepting for an RV parked at the other end.

That changed around 8 p.m. at night when an SUV pulled up about 100 feet from my tent.

I peered out and saw the guy in the cab. A light was on, like he was reading something. I was a little annoyed, but figured he’d drive off soon enough. I made note of my bear spray nearby. If he was thinking about doing a little axe murdering he’d get a face-full of capsaicin. 

I felt a certain reluctance to go to sleep with the truck out there and its little light. Finally, I decided I had to see what was up. I walked over and waved through the window. The guy waved back.

I introduced myself and asked how he was doing.

He was out of the house because he’d been in an argument with his girlfriend and didn’t feel like staying at her place. The argument had been going for a couple days, he said, and he’d been parking in the same spot where my I’d set up the tent.

We talked for a while about different parts of the west where we had traveled. It turned out that he had rafted the same section of the Green River that I had guided that summer.

I was reasonably convinced that he was not the axe murdering type and went back to the tent.

There was a cold drizzle the next morning. On the way back from the campground’s outhouse, I saw the guy walking outside with a handgun holstered at his belt (for the bears, he said.)

I started down the road again with numb fingers. Double dump trucks and logging rigs flew by, kicking trails of spray up off the pavement. The Clark Fork was a dead fish gray under the rain-swollen sky.

I crossed into Idaho for the third time on the trip and kept going to the massive Lake Pend Oreille, whose shoreline I’d be following for almost a day.

The map showed me a campground that was about a mile and a half out on a peninsula. When I got there, I found that it had just closed for the summer. I ended up camping on some public land on a wooded hill across the street.

I went into Sandpoint the next day, a city that my Rand McNally atlas identified as the most beautiful small town in the U.S. Much of the scenery, such as views across the lake, was shrouded in the fog. Traffic was busy along the narrow road and made for a harrowing pedaling until I got to the bike paths.

I splurged on some hash browns and hot coffee in town then peddled across the lake on a two-mile long highway bridge. When I got to the other side, I realized I’d been going the wrong way. Rather than face a stiff headwind, I decided to go on the south side of the lake and rejoin my course near the Washington border.

One disadvantage of this plan was that the south side of the lake turned out to be relentlessly hilly. I was exhausted by the time that I got back on course.

Finally, I got back on the main road and crossed the border to Washington. The area was wooded and it was easy to find a tent stop. It would only be a couple days until I got to visit friends in Wenatchee and Seattle. Now that I was out of the mountain states, I figured there would be easier going and looked forward to some more leisurely days ahead. I soon found out that Washington would have plenty of challenges of its own to throw at me.