Free Going Somewhere: A Bicycle Journey Across America by Brian Benson

sporadically, as if to some polyrhythmic beat only he could hear.
    “Didn’t we just talk about this?” Rachel frowned. “I feel like you’re not listening to me.”
    I smiled and slid my hand onto her knee. Just after dawn, I had woken feeling even worse, so I’d swallowed more pills and done my best to ignore what my body was telling me. Sniffles or no sniffles, we’d needed to get moving. And now, sitting in the sun, awash in endorphins and caffeine, I was feeling good about being back on the road, and especially, here in Bayfield, the (wait for it) berry capital of Wisconsin. Rachel and I had made the obligatory stop at a u-pick patch, and we’d brought our spoils down to a bench in a little park overlooking the harbor.
    “I’m pretty sure this is where we docked.”
    “Yeah?” Rachel asked, still staring down the seagull. “Whose boat was it?”
    “Hmm. Honestly, I have no idea.”
    When I was a little kid, my family had taken a few sailing trips to the nearby Apostle Islands. I had only the vaguest memories of those trips: Dad calling me first mate as I weakly tugged on a line that may or may not have been attached to a sail; my sister, Leah, and I scrunching up in the triangular bed at the aft of the cabin; Leah barfing on Mom. I hadn’t ever considered who the boat belonged to. It hadn’t mattered to me then and, I decided, it still didn’t.
    “I can see why you talk about this lake so often,” Rachel said, looking out at the water. “It does kind of feel like the ocean.” She’d offered these words on a few occasions, and every time I took them as a personal compliment.
    “Yeah,” I replied. “And we get to follow the shore for another hundred miles.”
    We were headed for the town of Cornucopia, better known as Corny. Turned out Donn and Ann knew a young couple who lived up there, and that morning Donn had called to see if they’d put us up for a night. At first I had wanted to decline his offer. It was time, I thought, for Rachel and me to step out on our own. Then I reminded myself that I felt not like a conquering hero but like shit. I decided I could suffer a bit more generosity from perfect strangers.
    West of Bayfield, the forest gave way to farmland, vast expanses speckled with solitary trees and five-foot rolls of hay. We stopped at a particularly picturesque spot and walked into the field and both emptied our bladders on hay bales. It occurred to me that this scene, minus the peeing, would be stunning in autumn, by far my favorite Northwoods season. The grass underfoot would be shorn to stubble; the trees a blur of crimson, orange, and yellow; the air crisp but for a hint of smoke from a nearby burn pile. Regret shot through me. All year I looked forward to autumn in Wisconsin, and even amid my recent travels, I’d managed to get back home and catch the colors. Now, for the first time, I’d miss them.
    I turned to take in more scenery, and my gaze fell upon Rachel, who was on her way toward me, moving in a way I could only describe as frolicking. She was bounding through the field, weaving around hay bales, giggling wildly. In a few seconds, I was laughing with her. If there was any reason to leave the Wisconsin autumn behind, this was it.
    We continued on, riding side by side, the road now nearly empty of cars. The pavement began rolling with the surrounding farmland, and I tucked into a tear-jerking descent, fought up a leg-stabbing climb, then did it all over again as the highway wavered up and down and up, finally plunging back to lake level. At the base of the final hill, I saw a sign pointing to Meyers Beach. Blew right by it. But the words tore through my head, setting off sirens.
    I squeezed the brakes, spun around, told Rachel I wanted to check out the beach. I didn’t say why, and she didn’t ask. She just rode beside me as I followed the impeccably smooth pavement into the lakeside parking lot. By the time I waddled up to the sign near the beach, I knew where I was. I