Free Biking Across America by Paul Stutzman

turned down any price. It was a matter of supply and demand here, just as it had been in Forks, Washington.
    I followed him to the bait and tackle shop, where he took my money and handed me my room key. Posted on the wall were the room rates for his humble establishment: seventy dollars. Apparently there was a thirty-five-dollar up-charge for disturbing him after hours.
    I struggled to maneuver my bike down a hallway littered with skis and dozens of boxes of solar panels. Then I lugged the bike up a dozen steps to my room on the second floor. The room was very small and did not have a bathroom. For that amenity, I would need to cross the hallway.
    One detail about the room caused me some concern. Clothing that obviously belonged to a woman hung in one corner. The pillow on the bed seemed out of place too; it was covered with designs of clouds. I surmised that perhaps a family member used this room occasionally and kept personal belongings here.
    It had been the most brutal biking day of my trip. In fifteen hours, I had logged only sixty-six miles, sixty of which had been uphill. I was too exhausted to take a shower or a soak. I just needed to get some rest. At ten o’clock, I snapped off the light and slipped under the covers, laying my head to rest on a pillow of clouds.
    I heard a rustling in the hallway. The approaching sound stopped at my doorway. A key was inserted into the lock. Someone was obviously confused and had the wrong room, I thought. But the key unlocked my door, and I could see a woman standing in the doorway.
    â€œWhat are you doing in my bed?” the shocked woman asked.
    â€œWhat are you doing in my room?” the equally shocked bike rider replied.
    â€œThis is my room,” she said. “I paid for two nights. Didn’t you see my clothes hanging there? And that’s my cloud pillow your head is on.” Admittedly, my head was in the clouds.
    The woman insisted I find the owner and straighten out our predicament.
    â€œNo offense, but since I’m in bed and you’re fully clothed, why don’t you go see the owner and work it out?”
    â€œNo, you get out and fix this,” she insisted. I had worked with enough women over the years to know when a battle is futile. Thisbattle was lost the minute her key turned in the lock. I agreed to do the dirty work if she would kindly step out of the room and close the door so I could get into my clothes.
    Back out into the darkness I went. I rapped on the cabin window and rousted the poor owner. He was amazed at my story of a woman sneaking into my room; then he slyly asked if the woman was attractive.
    â€œI don’t care if she’s a Hollywood movie star. I just want to get some rest.”
    We stopped by the tackle store one more time to retrieve another key for the person evicted from the room. The owner apologized profusely to the lady for his error. Our conversation in the hallway drew two ladies from an adjoining room. They had heard the commotion and emerged to watch our little circus.
    The situation was further defused by my silliness. “I should have yelled ‘Merry Christmas!’ when you opened the door,” I joked. After more formal introductions were made, the intruder and I discovered we were both Christians. Fortunately, we were both Christians with a sense of humor.
    I moved my belongings down the hallway to another small room, one without ladies’ garments and cloud pillows. Outside, the moon shone over Caples Lake and the waves lapped at the shore under my window, lulling me to sleep.
    Just another day on the road across America.

7 Middlegate Station

    A s I pushed my bicycle past Room 1 the next morning, I had an impulsive desire to jiggle my key in the lock. Let my new friend Danielle also experience the excitement of someone breaking into her room. But I restrained my ornery side and carried my ride down the flight of steps.
    I breathed in the cool morning air and delighted in the scene