It was hot and arid along the Columbia River today, and because of the scarcity of lodgings, we needed to cover some 85+ miles to get to Umatilla back on the Oregon side.

This prospect was so daunting that we got up and were out on the road before 7 am.

But that’s not what I want to write about now. I’ll post sometime later on some of the day’s other adventures – such as the Alber family of mom and dad and two kids all on tandems who we raced and chased along route 14 out of Roosevelt or the family of five who were biking across the country to New Hampshire.

But now I’d rather say something about biking that may appeal only to bikers. I know I’m not the only one who gets carried away by this particular enthusiasm, but others may not describe it quite like this.

So it’s been a long, hard and hot day which we basically spent barreling away trying to get to the two places that have food and water over the 80-odd mile stretch we’re trying to cover. We’ve just replenished ourselves for the last time before we reach the end, and we’re quiet and weary.

The road curves downhill and starts to pick up a good descent; in the distance, there’s a long climb that starts mild but finishes hard. As I pick up speed coasting downhill, it begins.

While shifting to the big chainring in front, I crouch low and pedal at a steadily increasing rate; not as fast as I can but in a smooth controlled acceleration in tune with shifting to a smaller chainring in back.

And now all tiredness is gone, I am flying downhill still not going as fast as I can. I’m waiting, waiting for the moment, all of my day is compressed into what is coming next, this is what this ride has been about and it is going to be perfect.

I scan ahead…calm…seeing the perfect time…and then, just when gravity engages on the upstroke of the ascent, I let the chain slip, with a flick of my finger, down off the largest ring in front and exult forward triumphant and quite mad pedaling with all the adrenaline-driven joy and strength I command.

Onward and upward, I ring the changes on the gears delaying gravity’s hold, besting this hill’s steepening pitch in total sync with its parabolic challenge until I feel transformed as if unto a god.

But it’s a funny sort of lesser, distinctly minor god who has no feast days and to whom apparently no one pays any attention at all. In fact, it’s a sad sort of wee god who tires frighteningly quickly and is in sudden need of a large gulp of water.

So no god at all then; just the road-weary hallucinogenic imaginings of an exhausted man still thousands of miles and many weeks away from the woman he dearly loves.

But…

that moment still endures.

How was your day?