Through experience I knew what was coming. Though just the day before I'd been perfectly able to carry on a conversation, today, as I had consciously predicted, I found that I had nothing to say. Tim attempted a conversation, but I was unable to muster anything in response.
I've discovered over time that my personality works in stages: after being introduced to a person I am most often able to carry on a conversation quite easily and this lasts for about 24 hours and is followed by a period where my head is vacant of thoughts during conversation for some reason that I still do not understand. I listen, but I'm unable to contribute. This lasts for a few days or maybe a week and then some mysterious and nameless thing takes hold (perhaps its familiarity?) and I am personable again, able to talk and think freely. Why this happens, I do not know, but at the beginning of this day I found myself stepping into quietude.
Side note: Through writing this I've realized that I do a lot of self-analysis. I read a quote the other day from Aaron Turner. He said,
“The symbolism that comes up...are things that have been recurrent throughout history in tons of different people from all walks of life and from all corners of the globe. So in that way, it's not only an exploration of self, but an exploration of humanity.”
Now in the context he said it, he was referring to self-dream analysis (he's a pretty out-there guy), but I think in a way it applies and can be stretched to cover all forms of self-analysis.
:End side note
It's frustrating, having nothing to say.
But anyway, I had mentioned the night before to Tim that, being among company, I hadn't been taking nearly as many pictures and he responded by telling me I should just go ahead and take them and not worry about keeping up. And so as we were passing by a formation of rocks in the ocean just off the road, I told him that I was going to begin taking pictures and that he should go ahead. He passed out of sight around a corner of trees and that was the last time I saw him.
In the next town I saw the Canadian kids in front of a grocery store and spoke with them briefly. They were stopped for a lunch break and were about to go on ahead again. That was the last time I saw them. Traveling along the coast is strange because, though you may be less than a mile from the people in front and behind you, you seldom see another cyclist going in the same direction as you are. There's a long line of people riding up and down the coast, but when you pass someone you usually do not realize it because they've stopped off at a store or pulled off of the road somewhere. It's remarkably rare to pass or be passed while you're actually riding. So our little team was now dispersed and I was once again a solo act. I didn't mind it so much though and I suspected at the time that I would run into one or more of them again at some point. Relationships among travelers are fragile as they involve many unknown elements and circumstances change easily and frequently.
I pulled behind the grocery store and decided to try once more to fix my gears. I'd hoped that even if I couldn't completely fix it I could at least improve it a little, but my small hope quickly turned to regret as I saw my situation rapidly decline and my hope shrink and then shatter. The more I tried to fix the problem the worse it became and in the end I nearly became more frustrated than I could handle. Shameful images of taking the bus home penetrated my thoughts and, sitting in deep distress beside my mortally wounded steed, my perception of the remaining distance swelled, almost overwhelming my wavering determination. At the moment my bike was in no way ridable and the nearest bike shop was in the next town to the south, still a number of miles away. I remained stiffly indignant, but the long list of problems my bicycle was having and had had in the past was becoming daunting and formidable in comparison to my dedication, and sitting on the side of the road holding out my thumb, trying my hardest to look as pitiful as possible in hopes of a ride had lost its appeal long ago.
Driven nearly to my breaking point I surrendered, praying to God that He would provide me whatever help I needed, whether it led me to the continuation of my journey or to the end of it.
I decided to go into the grocery store, not really knowing what else to do, and as I walked in I saw behind me two men (twin brothers I think) who had just tied up their tandem bicycle and were walking into the grocery store behind me. I asked them both if either of them knew anything about fixing bicycles, and evidently God had heard my sad request. Relief was provided. One of the brothers, whose name was John, told me that he would be happy to lend a hand.
Having worked in a bicycle repair shop in the seventies, he diagnosed the problem with casual expertise and began the work. With a few turns of a few screws he had returned my bike beyond working condition. He told me that it would be a good idea to stop at the next bike shop and have them take a look, suggesting they could do a better job than him and also advised me to buy a new derailleur. So once again, as I've said so many times before (and be sure not for the last time), a little gift of grace was given to me and I received it with grateful, welcoming hands. I gave John some of my thanks, gave God the rest, and then with refresh confidence and a (once again) renewed spirit I continued South.
Alright. So now that I'm to a point where I'm riding alone (for the moment) I'll be able to write with more speed. Somehow having other people around vastly increases content. If you've stuck through the story to this point, I congratulate you! I really appreciate it, and I apologize if you've become bored. Also I kind of want to finish this up soon, so I'll try to skim over the parts where I did nothing more than pass from place to place.
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