It's been two months since our Final Hurrah finally ended. Of course, it hadn't quite, and not nearly so abruptly. And the moment it really did end, the real world, which we had ignored for sixty-seven days, would be denied no longer: lots of catchup needed doing. Never mind mulling how to best put a tidy bow on the whole thing, then place it on the shelf of particularly vivid memories. I left off with us having reached land's end. I had found a not too distant Super-8 motel where we could stay before setting out for home the next morning. Susan thought different. Our trusty steeds cluttering their otherwise tres fancy lobby Whereupon we spent the rest of the day on five-star lunch, dinner, and bar in between. Many, many reminiscings. The next morning we reentered reality. Three and a half miles to the nearest U-Haul, and just as we had started in Boise, hurling our stuff in the back of the thing and trudging down the road, this time towards home. This part...
Fifteen mph wind dead on the nose and rain didn't sound like something up with which we wanted to put, so we paid cash money to skip the first half of 71 miles. I suggested paying twice as much to go the whole distance, but Susan insisted we show at least some commitment to our craft. Seventy-one more give-us-a-break miles, 37 under our own power . 1,683 will-the-tires-make-it? left. As it happened, where we finally demonstrated some pride was also the tipping point on this trip: miles remaining equal what we have done. Either way, 1,737 slo-mo miles Three days ago was the ETP (Equal Time Point — sudden flashback to my transoceanic days).
Today's task was two-fold: the obvious one being to propel ourselves closer to the Atlantic; secondarily, although with the benefit of hindsight, probably primarily, was getting to a bike shop. The latter has been true for quite some time. Since time unknown — time has a different meaning on a trek like this — Susan's rear wheel has had a wobble that at some speeds resonates with the rear rack and panniers. I figured the problem was that of adjusting spoke tension at the wobble, pulling it back into line. The multi-tool in our kit has spoke wrenches. Two of them. Not three. It needs three. So I had to watch her bike doing the watusi and she had to put up with it, until we got to a bike shop. Of which there have been precisely none that were a) open, and b) not wildly out of the way. The first candidate was in Sarnia. Open, practically next door to the hotel. Did I remember to mention yesterday was Canada Day: The fireworks were...
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