Morning has come too many times this trip, unwelcome in its abrasive overzealousness. I wasn’t ready. Brenton assured me that we had any easy day, but as he later stated, “There are no easy days on bike tour, only hard and harder.” I hid and hung my head.
We ate a very bland breakfast at a café in town, and then rode off into the wind. Oh how the hills rolled. I lasted for about two unimpressive peaks before I sat down, cross-legged, on the side of the road and began, or rather, continued my crying from the night before.
Brenton’s patience had finally worn out. I babbled something about wanting to go home, and he nearly shouted, “Get on your bike, put on your big girl panties, put your head down, and pedal!” These may be the crossest words he has ever said to me, and though it was meant to be motivating, it infuriated my already epically frustrated temper beyond restraint. I picked up a rock and threw it in his general direction, like a pouty child, and sobbed.
I did, eventually, get back on my bike and pedal, not without a few apprehensive shudders and snivels. We did do a short day, and it wasn’t so bad. We got to camp earlier than we had gotten to our destination on any day of the trip so far, and camped right beside the water of a nice little lake where we watched geese turn their tail feathers to the heavens, in search of some muddy morsels, and I even saw an otter cutting stealthily through the water.
We had the first campfire of the trip with wood that we scrounged up around the lake, and cooked dinner. It was relaxing and relieving, and I dare say, enjoyable. My dread of the days to come subsided as I shivered with the brisk breeze next to a nice little blaze. I cuddled up to Brenton’s shoulder and breathed the fishy smell of the lake into my lungs and let it escape slowly, taking with it the terror of the day before. We were asleep before 9:00 that night, and slept gratefully hard.