Wispy clouds feathered the blue sky, and I inhaled the fresh air. Like yesterday, the road ran due west with no towns, but today the grassy fields and lonely barns looked prettier. Yesterday, we’d biked thirty-five miles of long, straight nothingness as the temperature climbed to ninety. I’d been lucky to have leftovers for lunch, because we hadn’t passed a gas station, much less a restaurant. But we’d found a park in the town of Lyle, where I’d washed up and enjoyed the shade while the locals played ball nearby.

Probably the scenery was the same, but today I was able to appreciate it because it was morning and I had clean hair. I’d washed my hair that morning under the pump in Lyle’s park, scrubbing and rinsing until it squeaked.

Coiling my hair under my rinsed-clean bandana, stiff with the imprint of the picnic table where it had hung to dry, had given me a feeling that my hair would stay clean forever. This made me think of the hills we’d climbed in Pennsylvania—how I hadn’t accepted climbing hills as a regular part of life, but had wanted each hill to be the last, with reaching the top my final reward. Or how, after we dried out our gear in the sun, I resented the next rain shower for wetting it again. Now I wanted my hair to stay clean indefinitely.

But it was easy to move on from the top of a hill, or to keep biking when it rained, or to continue living after washing my hair. It was harder when I “got stuck” in life. Like when I had a group of friends that worked well together, and I kept trying to make plans with only them even as they made new friends. Or when I’d hang on to an exciting crush on one guy, keeping my buoyant feelings secret so I’d never have a definite response from him. When life felt particularly happy, I wanted to freeze it, and I didn’t recognize when it was time to move on. Then, when I finally let go of how things had been, I had to make an unsettling transition to the new present, only to become stuck again. So, life advanced in unpleasant leaps forward instead of one smooth progression.

Did I miss things in the present while I clung to the past?

Fifteen miles passed uneventfully, with Mary pulling ahead and out of sight. I came to the larger (but still deserted) Route 65, which ran northwest for eleven miles to Albert Lea. Sure that Albert Lea would have a restaurant, I kept going even when a gnawing began in my stomach. But as I grew hungrier, I grew sad, and familiar thoughts moved in. Why am I not having fun? I was away from work and the crushes that made me feel sad at home; why was I still sad?

I tried to work out what thoughts had led to feeling sad, but nothing clicked. The sun felt hot, and I was hungry . . . why did I have to feel so bad? And how much farther is Albert Lea?

A large tree approached, over a bridge. Shade covered the wide cement walls, at a perfect height for sitting. I could easily lean my bike on the wall, well off the road. I braked without thinking.

Overhead, leaves swirled in the hot breeze. A silent stream flowed under the bridge. I got out peanut butter and a spoon and sat on the wall, scooching my butt backward until my legs dangled and rested.

In the shade, breezes cooled me as the sun’s heat radiated off. I sucked on a spoonful of peanut butter and watched the road. Does the peanut allergy ever develop midlife? What if I suddenly can’t breathe? Would a car come along in time?

“I’m not allergic to peanuts,” I told myself.

I looked left down the long stretch of deserted road. I studied the wood posts supporting the metal guardrail, the backs of the road signs. As the minutes ticked past, my skin cooled. The peanut butter placated my hunger. I again looked down the road. “The view backward down the road,” popped into my head, and the air grew clearer. Unexpectedly, I felt aware of myself sitting on the bridge, as if I were thinking, “I’m on the bridge, I’m in the shade,” only I was not thinking at all. Stray thoughts and feelings spiraled together into an exact moment. It was like the feeling I’d had in the movie theater in Madison.

This time it unnerved me, but I still wanted it to last. But I couldn’t resist: gently, as if the moment could be scared off like a deer, I reached into my bag for my camera and snapped a picture looking backward down the road.

I felt better, but I made myself keep sitting. I wanted to be sure. There was no need to rush to Albert Lea.

“I shouldn’t be so hard on myself,” I thought, “upset at myself for feeling upset. And the tension that keeps popping up between Mary and me . . . it’s not my fault or Mary’s fault. It’s just the way it is.”

And then suddenly my stress had gone. The world had calmed, quieted. I looked at the road. I was awake and ready to go.

*

Mary and I split up for lunch in Albert Lea, so afterward, I left town alone. Mary was surely ahead; disappointed with lunch, I’d gone to Dairy Queen.

The sunlight beat down. The roadside offered no shade; any trees were behind a fence. Route 46 paralleled Interstate 90, but I couldn’t see or hear the interstate.

Ten miles slowly passed. I bought juice at a gas station, the only building I’d seen. Route 46 joined Route 22. There was nothing to mark the intersection but grass and the fence. I turned.

And then I saw a tree: a gigantic tree, sprawled over a driveway. The fence broke for the driveway: I could reach the shade! With a burst of pedaling, I rolled onto the gravel. The shade enveloped me. I lay my bike down and collapsed next to it, panting as heat wafted off. While I rested, I scratched a heart into the dust caked on my sweaty legs.

The final spot on the day’s itinerary was Brushy Creek. I found nothing but a crossroads with two houses: one standing and another, catty-corner, falling down. As usual, the trees were behind fencing, the shade a foot away. I sat as close as I could, as if being near the shade would somehow help. My knees and thighs gave their familiar twangy ache as I lowered myself to the ground, where I leaned against the fence and closed my eyes. Damp grass stuck to the bottoms of my legs. Ants crawled on the dirt.

When I dragged myself up for the last ten miles of the day, my exhaustion magnified the ache of my sore knees and the stiffness of my shoulders. The energy in my legs waned as soon as I started pedaling. I watched for the two crossroads I had to pass as the miles crawled by. Finally, after a total of sixty-two miles, I arrived in Blue Earth, Minnesota.

Blue Earth radiated quietness, with more cars parked than driving. I pulled over at a visitor center. My stiff body unfolded off my bike, which I leaned on the wall before plodding toward the door. Cool air hit me as I entered, and a woman looked up from her desk and smiled.

“Hi.” I hesitated. “Has my friend been here?” She didn’t reply. “Another woman on a bike?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t seen her.”

“Oh, okay, she’s probably at the library. Is there a library?”

She gave me directions while my brain slowly began functioning in the cool air. “Are there any parks in town?” I asked next. “Like somewhere we could camp?”

“There’s Putnam Park, but a lot of people camp at the fairgrounds.”

“How do I get to the fairgrounds?”

“They’re on the far side of town, just go up the main street and it’ll be on the right.”

I found Mary at the library, and we rode to the fairgrounds. The driveway rolled in past deserted buildings. We crested a hill and the grounds spread before us: green hills, sheds, tall light poles, a horse barn, and far across it all, something that looked like a life-size replica of the Jolly Green Giant.

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