Going Somewhere: A Bicycle Journey Across America by Brian Benson Read Free Book Online

started to say something to Rachel, but she must have heard it too and was already slowing to a stop. I didn’t even need to get off the bike to see that a second spoke had snapped.
    So now we were walking, straining to balance our bikes as we lugged them along. Walking a bike had always felt easy enough, like pulling a wheeled suitcase, but with loaded panniers, the experience was more akin to taking a rowdy Saint Bernard for a leashed walk. I had to use both hands to keep my bike from veering toward the ditch or the center stripe. My feet pointed due west but my upper body contorted in more of a northwesterly direction.
    This was no way to cross the country.
    “Not a bad place for it to happen,” Rachel said. She was being a real champ. I forced a smile, and she pulled her hand from the stem and reached up to squeeze my arm. Her bike made a break for the ditch, and she caught it just as the front tire hit the shoulder. She walked in silence for a few moments, then said, “This isn’t a huge deal, Brian. We’ll figure it out.”
    I nodded, unconvinced. It
was
a huge deal. I had two blown spokes that I couldn’t fix, we weren’t eating our sandwiches by a lake, and on the second day of our trip we were going to have to get a ride. In a car.
    We soon came upon a group of men framing up a shed just off the road. Their pickups were lined up on the shoulder, and the one nearest the site had its passenger door open, its radio blaring Heart’s “Barracuda.” I had worked on dozens of similar sites over the years, and the scene felt familiar. Too familiar. I found myself avoiding eye contact, staring at the stud walls as if inspecting them for shoddy craftsmanship. I was suddenly very aware of my bright blue, moisture-wicking shirt. My brand-new bike and brand-new gear. And my inability to operate my fancy equipment. In my teenage years, I’d sat on many a tailgate, sipping soda and wiping crumbs on Carhartts while watching a tourist ineptly try to back his brand-new boat, on its brand-new trailer, down a driveway. Now I was that tourist.
    So it was Rachel who rolled her bike up to the music-playing truck, where one of the men was digging around in the passenger seat. He looked to be well into his sixties, tall but sagging, as were his pants, which were held up with suspenders. Rachel introduced herself and asked how far it was to Butternut. She was fearless, shameless, about asking strangers for help, asking for what she needed. It was one of the first things I’d noticed about her in Xela, one of the first things I’d fallen in love with. But now she was asking for what
I
needed.
    “Butternut?” he asked. “What are you looking for in Butternut?”
    “I blew a spoke,” I cut in, grasping at a shred of dignity. “And I don’t have the tool I need. Hoping I can find one there.”
    “In Butternut? Doubt it. Closest bike shop is up in Ashland.” He cocked his head and looked up the road. “You know, I’m headed to Butternut in a couple of minutes. I’d be happy to take you to Park Falls. Just a bit further, and if you’re lucky you might find someone there. Either way, there’s a nice park you can camp in.”
    We thanked him, climbed into the bed of the pickup, and discussed our options. It was already midafternoon, and even if we were able to fix the wheel in Park Falls, it would probably take all day. This “nice park” sounded like a solid fallback. If we couldn’t find help, Rachel could hang out there the next day while I hitched to Ashland, sixty miles north. I’d visit the bike shop, get the wheel sorted out, and hitch back. This plan made me want to puke. But it was a plan.
    A few minutes later, we were again moving westward. Moving
fast
. I peered into the cab, convinced we were about to break the sound barrier, but the speedometer read fifty-two. Fifty-two miles an hour. Under the legal limit, but at this rate he’d still cover more ground in a couple of hours than we could in a full day on