Normal

You CAN just get on your bike and ride from Seattle to Vancouver.

It takes about two days, but all you have to do is keep pedaling, and then eventually, there you are.

This morning, I woke up in Bellingham and it seemed like there was an uphill, but then, there we were, on a farmland plateau, complete with tailwinds all the way to the funny little simulacrum of a Dutch town, complete with a windmill on every other corner.

Then, after breakfast, I seem to recall a series of rollers through farmland right out of central casting until we got to the orchard where I had envisioned we’d be met by a farmer’s wife, in a gingham apron emerging from her clapboard home carrying a still steaming pie, but which turned out, instead, to be a major corporate enterprise, but even so, the pie—in my case, a fresh blueberry shortcake—was absolutely transcendent. I kept meaning to offer some to somebody, but every bite made that less and less likely, until it all was gone.

When I shared some of my own shortbread afterwards, Matt said that the timing was just right, and at first, it seemed like that meant an hour later when we were passing through the little town of Fort Langley, whose charm was such that the whole place seemed like scale models in an HO train set, but, as it turned out, the really peak moment was crossing a suspension bridge about 45 minutes later, when we pedaled into the sky and the animated shadows flickered like hummingbirds along the railings.

None of the 150 or so miles actually sucked; even the worst part, riding along a suburban hell highway with no shoulder wasn’t so bad, and was mercifully short.

And then, tonight, in the city, we got the world-class fireworks display; I was mesmerized, sure, but even the grand finale wasn’t as beautiful as that fast downhill coming into town.