Free Two Wheels on my Wagon by Paul Howard Page A

tell your dad that I didn’t make you do it.’
    We set off again and began climbing through the woods towards the Upper Flathead valley. The sun was starting to win its battle against the chill of the night. It promised to be a hot day.
    After cresting the pass a long, rough descent beckoned. Judging by the state of the creek at the side of the trail there had obviously been recent, heavy rain. In fact, on several occasions the stream became so frustrated by the confines of its natural course that it decided to annexe the rocky path too. At times, the water through which it was necessary to pass made riding impossible. Either it was too deep and fast-flowing, or it had shifted the shingle and created patches loose enough to snare passing bicycle wheels. Or both. The cold on feet and straining calf muscles was like a knife.
    Once in the bottom of the main valley, it was immediately clear why it was deemed such a special area. The rough track apart, there was no sign of human intervention. Instead, having succeeded in resisting the overwhelming tree cover of forests grown for timber, it retained a shifting mosaic of floodplains and scrub woodland, in which no doubt lurked all the area’s dangerous animals. Yet for all its isolation, the succession of open areas and the variety of shrub and tree species created a much more welcoming, less intimidating aspect than yesterday’s man-made austerity.
    Effort and aesthetics combined to create an equilibrium that on its own provided an explanation, if any were needed, for the motivations for such physical endeavour. I rode down the valley in a trance.
    The temperature continued to rise. After a couple of hours I stopped in some shade for an early lunch of Pepperoni, pitta bread and raisins. Rick rode past. Shortly after what passed for the main meal of the day I caught him again as we finally turned away from the Flathead and began the climb of Cabin Pass. Appropriately enough, we soon passed a log cabin. The door was ajar and, in spite of the heat of the day, smoke was emanating from the little chimney. Outside stood two backwoodsmen who looked for all the world as if they might have been living there since the days of Davy Crockett. Except for the large pick-up truck parked next to the cabin. We exchanged greetings and realised how comfortable a night spent there would have been.
    Sensing the effort that was to come, Rick decided to stop for a breather. Just as he did so, Cadet arrived, now reunited with his sunglasses. He had clearly been cycling well and was full of Texan good humour, providing a timely fillip in the midday sun. We had now descended to only a little over 4,000 feet, lower than the start in Banff, and the temperature reflected this.
    â€˜I just knew I had to git rid of some stuff, and since I did I been a-cruisin’,’ he enthused from under the brim of his sun hat, scarcely seeming to have broken sweat.
    I explained that weather like this in Yorkshire occurred only once every ten years at most.
    â€˜This ain’t hot,’ he smiled. ‘This is just a little appetiser for real desert heat.’
    His promise that I would enjoy New Mexico’s dry heat rang a little hollow.
    The road up Cabin Pass began under dense tree cover and in considerable humidity. Chewy sweets from my back pocket and sweat from my brow offered a reprisal of last night’s sweet’n’sour. Gradually, the tree cover reduced and the spectacular, snow-rimmed crest of Inverted Ridge mountain came into sight on the left. The purity of the air intensified the sun’s rays. Near the top I realised I could see a mirage – a cyclist riding and then walking ahead of me. In fact, it wasn’t a mirage, it was Deanna. She had clearly survived her night alone in the wild.
    As I panted my way up to her it became apparent that, while I had discarded all but the clothing strictly necessary to maintain my decency (even in the wilds one must have standards),