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.