The group was giddy and jovial. We went left. We went right. We crossed over the bridge. Everyone else went left. We went straight… to breakfast. Regardless of our late start, Cheeka, John, and I fully intended to keep our own schedule. We parked our bikes in front of a cafe and ordered waffles. Thirty minutes later, doped-up on espresso and maple syrup, we officially began. Again.

As expected, the course was empty. With John tucked into our draft, Cheeka and I applied power to our pedals and began to catch the weak and under-prepared. Instead of shouting, “On your left” we shouted, “Don’t worry, we’ll send an ambulance.”

The only hint of the ten thousand riders before us were the many discarded water bottles and energy gel packets that littered the road. Every organized food stop we’d break for was in the midst of packing up. We didn’t mind -we’d lie on the grass and eat energy bars, basking in the sun.

It wasn’t that we were slow. It wasn’t that we were lazy. It was that we were determined to enjoy every passing mile between Seattle and Portland. To accomplish this, we adopted certain techniques, such as ‘Sexy Time.’ After five minutes of steady pedaling, Cheeka would suggest from the back of the tandem, “Sexy Time?” Prompting John to reply from our draft, “Yes… Sexy Time.” Cheeka would proceed with, “Three…two…one… Sexy Time!” And the three of us would stand in unison, the blood once again returning between our legs.

The hours stretched out. As we neared Portland, our regular rotation of riders began to thin. People with whom we’d shared countless words of encouragement vanished, only to be spotted scooting past in a support vehicle, their bike strapped to the roof, and their forefinger most likely adjusting the heat on their leather car seat.

Soon, it was brought to our attention that we were three of the last riders on the course. Support vehicles would roll up next to us, bribing us with tales of beer gardens and free pizzas in Portland. Only after we’d repeatedly turned down their rides would they roll up their windows and squawk into their radios, “Yes, we’re driving next to them now. Yes, they look fine. No, they won’t take a ride.”

The miles ticked down, and Portland’s skyline finally appeared on the horizon. On cue, the first heavy droplets of rain splashed against the dirty asphalt.  Within seconds, we were drenched. The support vehicles, long ago having given up on driving us to the finish, began to take a different tack. They gathered around us as we rode wetly onward, our own presidential escort. Every hill we crested, pedal we turned, and porta-potty we passed was met with enthusiastic honks and cheers.

Two hundred and seven miles after we began, we made our final turn; a colorful banner of slowly deflating balloons marked the finish line just blocks ahead. With pumping legs and a racing heart, I started to sprint towards the line. Suddenly, Cheeka yelled at me to turn back. My muscles ached with surprise. Inexplicably, John had stopped. As Cheeka yelled and my body ached, I had one of those military moments. Do I leave a man behind and race towards freedom, or do I do the honorable thing and return to my fallen soldier? For my friendship with John’s sake, it’s a good thing I was on a tandem.

I shuffled back to Cheeka as she wearily steadied the bike, her eyes still huge with fear, “What was it? What’s going on?” I heaved my leg over the saddle, mumbling in her direction, “A contact. He lost a contact.”

Moments later, to the thunderous cheers of our support car armada, we scooted under the drooping balloons and over the finish line.

That night, over arguably the most delicious pizza and beer I’ve ever tasted, I raised my glass. “Cheeka, John… Thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to propose a toast.” For the first time in roughly thirty minutes, they both stopped chewing. “Here’s to the three of us. We finally reached the top of Beetle Bug Hill.”