And then it was here, and I was doing it, and I did it, and I'm back, and I find I have surprisingly little to say about it, and I'm never at a loss for words. Here's what happened: It was hot, it was hilly, and it was hard. I rode my bike for miles and miles and miles every day, and when I got to the campground, I set up my tent as fast as I could and then headed to the bathroom to get out of my bike shorts and wash them out so I could avoid getting some rash or infection in my sweaty vagina that would totally ruin the rest of the trip. I'd take a dip in whatever lake we were at and then shower before drinking one of the beers my tourmates had hauled up the mountain for us. And then we ate dinner at 6, every night some one-pot pasta or bean dish, met about the map for the next day at 7, shot the shit with virtual strangers around a campfire until bedtime at 9-9:30. We were up the next morning with the first light, making our PB&J sandwiches for lunch that afternoon, choking down bananas and oatmeal and waiting for the next round of coffee before packing it all up on our bikes for another day of the same. And amid it all, I had the full range of human emotions: joy, euphoria, fear, anxiety, intense homesickness, loneliness, despair, glee, wonder—all of it.