Going Somewhere: A Bicycle Journey Across America Read Online Free Page A

moisture-wicking socks, I told myself that Rachel was right, that these purchases were not exorbitant but practical, that Galen would end up regretting his thrift, that—
    “Hey.” Rachel was waving a hand in front of my face.
    I blinked and turned toward her.
    “Something interesting down there?” She smiled and set her panniers on the pile.
    “No,” I said. “I was just zoning out.”
    “You sound like your dad.”
    “You sound like my mom.”
    “Your mom sounds like your mom.”
    I nodded, vanquished, and followed Rachel from the garage into the kitchen, where we found my mom sounding very much like my mom, singing “Nappy Pooby Time” (a Barb Benson original) to our astronomically dumb golden retriever, who, gauging by the glassy eyes and open mouth and statuesque stillness, seemed convinced that “Nappy Pooby Time” was edible.
    Now Mom turned to ask us how the ride went, and if the bags were too heavy, and if we’d maybe decided we were just going to stay in Wisconsin forever. Rachel told her we’d decided exactly that. Then she headed upstairs, to change into a bathing suit, and I moved to follow her. But Mom stopped me, her hand on my shoulder, her eyes on the Lump.
    A couple of weeks earlier, a Ping-Pong-ball-size growth had appeared on the right side of my neck. It looked like an overly pronounced Adam’s apple running away from home. Rock-hard and hot to the touch, the Lump had pulled my skin taut, reddening the flesh so my neck appeared to be permanently blushing. And throbbing. It hurt whenever I moved my head, which is to say, whenever I was awake and often when I was asleep. I had no idea why the Lump had appeared. Luckily, my crack team of nonexperts was more than happy to offer opinions. Everyone and their mother—mine especially—was convinced it was a harbinger of something terrible. Pneumonia. Cancer. An embryo sac full of flesh-eating aliens. At first I’d figured it was just a lymph node—I’d once had an equally gross inflammation in my armpit—but I eventually got paranoid enough to see a doctor. He’d looked it over for a minute, sat back on his stool, and told me that, yes, it’s an inflamed lymph node and likely nothing to worry about, though it could be something worse, and that’ll be two hundred dollars. I left with a new flavor of paranoia and a deepened hatred for our health care system.
    Now Mom was touching the Lump. I recoiled, less in pain than embarrassment.
    “Mom, I’m fine.”
    “Does it still hurt?” she asked.
    “Mom, I’m
fine
.”
    “Do you want some ibuprofen?” My mom believed everything—headaches, fevers, racism—could be cured with ibuprofen.
    “I’ll be okay,” I said. “It actually feels like it’s a bit less swollen today.”
    This was a lie, but Mom seemed to buy it. She looked off at the steps leading to my room, then back at me. “I know this is going to be a great trip for you two,” she said. “But I’m only half-kidding about wanting you to stay. We’ll miss having Rachel here. And you too, I guess.”
    My folks hadn’t met Rachel until I’d brought her to their doorstep, some three weeks before, but already they loved her and were stunned—as was I—by her utter comfort in Conover, this tiny Northwoods town where she knew no one and spent all her time with the family. I mean, I’d expected her to enjoy the Friday fish fries and Fourth of July fireworks, the afternoon swims and walks in the woods, whitetail deer and pileated woodpeckers, and she certainly had, but what she seemed to like most of all was just being at the house, reading books, hanging out on the dock with my family, and, of course, indulging in her immutable morning routine. Every day around eight, she’d pull on a hoodie and head downstairs, yawning and stretching and moaning “Coffee”—and looking, as Mom described it, like a baby bird waiting to be fed. Even if no one else was up, she’d eat and read and opine, just as she had in Portland.
    For