Happy Thursday, y’all! Jeff and I are still “Riding Our Bikes Across the Country,” though at this point, my legs are starting to suspect I’ve joined a cult. It’s Day 33 of 45, and today we tackled 89 miles from St. Francisville to Franklinton, LA.

The weather was gorgeous, and the country roads featured “rolling hills.” I use that term loosely because, in theory, momentum is supposed to carry you up a roller. These hills, however, were momentum-vacuums. They didn’t “roll” so much as they sat there and demanded 3,350 feet of elevation gain like a toll collector who only accepts payment in quadriceps cramps.

The scenery was a southern fever dream: fields of red and yellow wildflowers, live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and various livestock watching us pass with an expression that said, “I’m a cow and even I know this is too much cardio.”
Of course, it wouldn’t be the Deep South without the local welcoming committee: ill-behaved dogs. One particular “beast” came charging through the brush with the stealth of a ninja and the speed of a heat-seeking missile. There was no bark—just the terrifying rustle of leaves and a blur of black fur and gnashing white teeth. My life flashed before my eyes. I saw my childhood; I saw my unfinished taxes; I saw the light. Then I looked closer.
It was a Pomeranian-mix.
I realized the “vicious predator” trying to end my journey was roughly the size of a sourdough loaf. Even if his name was Killer, the worst he could’ve done was aggressively gum the cleat of my shoe or perhaps die of exhaustion trying to keep up. My heart rate hit 180 bpm, so I suppose I can skip my cardio tomorrow.

Speaking of apex predators, I was reminded of a bit of wisdom from my friend Dr. Vince back on the AIDS rides. I used to get neurotic about the “Caboose” (the sweep vehicle) hovering behind me like the Grim Reaper in a minivan. Vince just giggled and said, “In a bear attack, you don’t have to be faster than the bear—you just have to be faster than the guy next to you.”
Ever since, Jeff and I have lived by the “Bear Attack” protocol. Whenever we felt the pressure of the sweep rider, we’d hammer the pedals just long enough to pass some poor, unsuspecting soul, effectively making them the bear’s lunch. It’s cold-blooded, it’s petty, and it works.
However, the universe has a sick sense of humor. At our final water stop, our sweeps, Dennis and Darryl, had to head off for errands. They looked at Jeff and asked him to take over the sweep duties.
As we pedaled away, the irony hit Jeff like a brick. He realized there was no one left to pass. He couldn’t outrun the bear. He was the bear. He had become the very monster we spent 33 days trying to outmaneuver. I’ve never seen a man look so betrayed by his own promotion.

It’s the simple truths that keep us going: the joy of the scenery, the relief that a “wolf” is just a tiny dog with an ego, and the realization that if you run long enough, you eventually become the thing you’re running from.

The adventure continues tomorrow as we cross into our 6th state. Can’t wait to see what Mississippi has in store—hopefully, fewer sourdough-sized predators and more hills that actually roll.