"You're full of it," I returned and stepped outside. Here the light
was soft and grey. A morning dove cooed. The bicycle was there for me.
It was 1985, and I was twenty-five.
In the months that followed, I occasionally bicycled to Walden Pond,
where I read about Thoreau's experiment with self-reliance. Distracted
by haunting memories, I gazed at the water in search of calm,
but the wind spawned new waves and the surface swelled with complexity.
"There's plenty of time to sort it out," I reassured myself.
"Maybe I'll take myself for a ride across America and do
some thinking."
21. Bicycle Ride--The Continental Divide
Three months into the cross-country bicycle trek, I pulled off the road
west of Walden, Colorado. I was stuck. The problem was not so much
the physical journey. True, I was towing additional weight because
towns were farther apart and because Nunatak was no longer a pup.
But my leg muscles were rock solid from the miles in Massachusetts,
New York, the southern tip of Canada, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota,
South Dakota, Wyoming, and Colorado, and I felt confident I could
ride to the coast.
The problem was more the inner journey. The more I thought
about Rama, the more I understood.
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