“Jack, wake up! Jack!”

“Mmmf…what happened?”

“You were on the road for two days. On the second day, you were in the wind and rain for ten hours. You got three flat tires. By the time you made it into Oakville, it was dark and not safe to be on the road any longer. You were complaining that your right knee hurt that same leg was going numb. You said that your hands were getting to the point of hurting every time you rode on the hoods. You were nowhere near where you wanted to be and where you wanted to be at the end of your second day is, research has told us, populated by methheads.”

“Yeah, I remember all of that. The random dogs that would give chase, the twelve inches of pavement you have to ride on where all of the road debris collects, the thirty-minute tire changes, the “waterproof” clothing that proved to be less than advertised, missing turning points on your route, the stupid hard climbs that were met with even more ascents. I remember all of that and the reasons why I had to go all Roberto Duran on this trip. No mas! No mas, is what I said. But I want to know what happened after that. Where am I?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this without you getting upset.”

“Tell me!”

“Jack, you’re back on the Island.”

“Seattle?”

“Yes…”