From 4-4:30 I re-laced some shoes I adopted from a friend. Hardly any wear and just my size. They were the same color as the sky. It threatened rain, but with about the same authority of scoldings given by a substitute teacher fifteen minutes prior to the final bell. “Meh,” I shrugged bringing my bike down from its hook and slinging my pack over my shoulder. Steamboat Island was not far, but there was a lack of signs along the road. I came to a blue sign with white letters “STEERE” by some mailboxes and pulled over for a drink. My legs were shaking, I continued. The zenith of a bluff filled with pines and hemlocks. Gated communities and mansions. A dip that peeled back my lips and eyelids, then the road became a causeway over a marsh of reeds. Alders still bare but for yellow-green buds and last year’s cones. Up and down, gust of wind, lurch of force. Beat-up mobile homes and broken chairs slumped under moss. Gilded lampposts and wrought iron. Still no signal on my phone for a map. Then there was that same sign again. There was the same man, still weed-whacking his yard. My water was much lower this time, and I was wearing one less layer. I checked the time, and it had been 45 minutes, give or take a few. I laughed the slightly off-kilter “Huuhuhuhuuuh” that one does when they become tired and stupid. I twisted my handlebars 180 degrees, creaking along at a snail’s pace to a path lined with daffodils, finally finding the grocery store lot with my out-of-shape muscles visibly vibrating. I bought Oreos, Double Stuffed of course, (and also dinner). At home I collapsed on the bed, shriveled by the effort of what turned out to be 25 miles, asleep by 9:45.