30: A bridge Too Far

No smiling faces at breakfast.

No rushing to get bags to the luggage truck.

No cue sheets. No SAG van. No mechanical support. No route rap. No Denny's or hotel breakfast - just half an hour in a McDonald’s with the map and phone, trying to find a bed for the night.

It’s now two weeks since finishing the Cross Country ride and I have either 1,800 or 2,300 miles to go, depending on whether I go to Key West or directly to Tampa. The hotel routine hasn't changed much but the days are emptier.

It’s easy to get blasé about the camaraderie when other people are around all the time, but their lack of presence is obvious. Where's the Dalton Gang? Where’s Jim, zooming ahead at the speed of sound? Where's Willie, glued110% of the time to his cellphone before finally looking up, with a dazed expression? The road seems longer these days.

I hoe to see another cyclist in trouble so I can stop to help. Not because I am such a kind and helpful fellow, but because I have accumulated so many unspoken words since the last conversation that I will burst if I don’t spew them out.

I keep hotel desk people far too long when I check in and I always check out in person, just to gt that human touch. The clerk's desire to put the phone down is almost tangible when I call ahead to make a reservation. I don't use the internet for it anymore - it's weird to talk to a computer screen and people start to slide away when I do.

If someone happens to talk to me in a restaurant or bar, they soon regret it. Their eyes glaze as I babble like a Red Bull addict in response to the smallest of acknowledgements. Eventually, I will be interrogating fast-food people about their menu items, their jobs, their day, where they spent their last vacation – anything at all, just to interact with another human.

The subject is irrelevant as long as I hear the sound of myself talking. I don’t care whether anyone listens or whether there is any ebb and flow to the words, I simply have to speak in the presence of another individual. It is verbal masturbation. My feminine side has surfaced.

My mind wanders often on the road, with mile after mile of nothing to do except look ahead and pedal. Another gas station, another turning another tree… Even flat tires are welcome as they give me something to do. Well, that would be the case if it weren't for these damned Bontragers, which seem impervious to punctures.

In the morning, I think about sex. I start combining the best parts of previous girlfriends into one supergirl - mentally, of course, I’m not Frankenstein. I make the best of the best, but then I start to worry. The universe being what it is, with cause and effect and balance etc., if there was one all perfect supergirl, wouldn’t there also have to be one total anti-supergirl. Like the devil’s spawn in a miniskirt? Come to think of it, I believe I dated her.

I stop on bridges; they're my new friends. Some are trestles, some are steel girder affairs that every truck makes rattle and some are simple concrete roadways, but each one deserves a little attention.

So far, I haven’t talked to one (not much, anyway) or flagged down a passing motorist to ask for a photo with my new friend, but it’s just a matter of time. Harrisburg has lots; some for cars, some for trains and some for walking. Maybe I’ll go there for a few days. New friends are always welcome.

Late afternoon, I find myself staring at the computer on the handlebars, watching the hundredths turn into tenths and willing those onward. When a new mile comes around, it’s time for celebration. It’s not the same as another bridge, of course, but what could be?

It’s a long way to Key West. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll make it all the way without going mad.

Maybe it’s too late.