Read Online Going Somewhere: A Bicycle Journey Across America by Brian Benson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brian Benson
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Lump. It was throbbing, up to something.
• • •
D onn and Ann were the sort of well-muscled, ruddy-cheeked fiftysomethings who appeared casually, almost accidentally fit, and as I sat with them at a tastefully ginghamed picnic table, inhaling garden-fresh salad and homemade marinara with the desperate velocity of a six-year-old from a ten-child family, I learned—thanks to Rachel, who had the composure to speak, and breathe, between bites—that they both skied all winter, biked all summer, and had taken many tours of their own, including a four-thousand-mile journey that put ours to shame. They were bike-trip sages, and total sweethearts. By sunset, when Rachel and I retreated to the tent, I was full and content and barely thinking about the Lump.
The next morning, I woke feeling like I had swallowed sandpaper. Shit.
Rachel and I wandered into the house to find Donn, a doctor, getting ready to head to work. I raised my hand to my neck, where the Lump was doing its thing, being red and gross and painful. The night before, I had been relieved that he hadn’t mentioned it, but now I asked if he might check it out.
Donn took the Lump between his fingers, pressed it like a button. “Looks like it’s just a swollen lymph node,” he said. “But, actually . . . Have you had mono?”
“Um, no,” I said. Mono hadn’t been on my radar since high school, when kids brought it up as an excuse to talk about kissing and, by extension, sex. “Do you think I have mono?”
“I really couldn’t say. But swollen lymph nodes are a symptom.” He must have noticed the color draining from my face, because he added, “Don’t worry about it. If you’re still feeling sick in a few days, you can always stop at a clinic.”
Rachel and I decided to lay over in Washburn for the day, partly because of my maybe-mono and partly because, oddly enough, we already had errands to run. While we ran them, I pretty much without interruption thought about mono. I thought about it while riding to Ashland; while buying a nifty, portable cassette-removal tool for future spoke explosions; while helping Rachel pick a proper inflatable pad to replace her piece-of-shit, sleep-depriving foam mat; while getting groceries for the thank-you-for-hosting-us chili we were planning to whip up; while drinking coffee in a park and sitting on the Superior shore and riding back to Washburn.
We returned to the house by midafternoon, and I told Rachel I was going to take a nap, by which I meant I was going to lie in the tent and have a mild anxiety attack. I stretched out on my bag, felt my heart slamming against my sternum. If I had mono, I told myself, we’d have to head back to Conover for at least a couple of weeks, and by the time I was back on my feet it would be too late to ride all the way to the West Coast, and—
I cut myself off there. It was probably nothing more than a nasty head cold.
I ate a handful of ibuprofen and headed inside. Rachel was tucked up in a chair, paging through a
National Geographic
. We got started on the chili, combining our groceries with canned tomatoes from the pantry and fresh greens from the garden, and finished just before Donn and Ann got home. The chili was tasty, and it felt good to offer something to our hosts, even if it was simple, and even if we had created it mainly from things that already belonged to them. That night we had more great conversation, and Donn and Ann offered more advice about where to ride and who to stay with, but soon the drugs wore off and I got all hazy and shivery. I dried some dishes, then headed to the tent to be alone with the Lump and my thoughts.
• • •
R achel grabbed a handful of blueberries from the bag in my lap and began popping them into her mouth, one by one, taunting a scraggly seagull that had camped out in front of us.
“These aren’t for you, pal,” she said.
The bird took a step toward the bench we were sitting on, his head bobbing
• • •
D onn and Ann were the sort of well-muscled, ruddy-cheeked fiftysomethings who appeared casually, almost accidentally fit, and as I sat with them at a tastefully ginghamed picnic table, inhaling garden-fresh salad and homemade marinara with the desperate velocity of a six-year-old from a ten-child family, I learned—thanks to Rachel, who had the composure to speak, and breathe, between bites—that they both skied all winter, biked all summer, and had taken many tours of their own, including a four-thousand-mile journey that put ours to shame. They were bike-trip sages, and total sweethearts. By sunset, when Rachel and I retreated to the tent, I was full and content and barely thinking about the Lump.
The next morning, I woke feeling like I had swallowed sandpaper. Shit.
Rachel and I wandered into the house to find Donn, a doctor, getting ready to head to work. I raised my hand to my neck, where the Lump was doing its thing, being red and gross and painful. The night before, I had been relieved that he hadn’t mentioned it, but now I asked if he might check it out.
Donn took the Lump between his fingers, pressed it like a button. “Looks like it’s just a swollen lymph node,” he said. “But, actually . . . Have you had mono?”
“Um, no,” I said. Mono hadn’t been on my radar since high school, when kids brought it up as an excuse to talk about kissing and, by extension, sex. “Do you think I have mono?”
“I really couldn’t say. But swollen lymph nodes are a symptom.” He must have noticed the color draining from my face, because he added, “Don’t worry about it. If you’re still feeling sick in a few days, you can always stop at a clinic.”
Rachel and I decided to lay over in Washburn for the day, partly because of my maybe-mono and partly because, oddly enough, we already had errands to run. While we ran them, I pretty much without interruption thought about mono. I thought about it while riding to Ashland; while buying a nifty, portable cassette-removal tool for future spoke explosions; while helping Rachel pick a proper inflatable pad to replace her piece-of-shit, sleep-depriving foam mat; while getting groceries for the thank-you-for-hosting-us chili we were planning to whip up; while drinking coffee in a park and sitting on the Superior shore and riding back to Washburn.
We returned to the house by midafternoon, and I told Rachel I was going to take a nap, by which I meant I was going to lie in the tent and have a mild anxiety attack. I stretched out on my bag, felt my heart slamming against my sternum. If I had mono, I told myself, we’d have to head back to Conover for at least a couple of weeks, and by the time I was back on my feet it would be too late to ride all the way to the West Coast, and—
I cut myself off there. It was probably nothing more than a nasty head cold.
I ate a handful of ibuprofen and headed inside. Rachel was tucked up in a chair, paging through a
National Geographic
. We got started on the chili, combining our groceries with canned tomatoes from the pantry and fresh greens from the garden, and finished just before Donn and Ann got home. The chili was tasty, and it felt good to offer something to our hosts, even if it was simple, and even if we had created it mainly from things that already belonged to them. That night we had more great conversation, and Donn and Ann offered more advice about where to ride and who to stay with, but soon the drugs wore off and I got all hazy and shivery. I dried some dishes, then headed to the tent to be alone with the Lump and my thoughts.
• • •
R achel grabbed a handful of blueberries from the bag in my lap and began popping them into her mouth, one by one, taunting a scraggly seagull that had camped out in front of us.
“These aren’t for you, pal,” she said.
The bird took a step toward the bench we were sitting on, his head bobbing
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