A few days ago we passed through the Berkshire Mountains on the west border of Massachusets. They offered long, twisting climbs followed by downward accellerations that quickly brought us to the bottom of another hill. Although we tried not to show it, for the sake of the other rider, I suspect our emotions have went the same way. Like a song stuck in the head, the word "San Francisco" stays with me the entirety of the day. Sometimes it's because we have to repeat it when people ask us our business, and sometimes I must use it myself as a justification for a series of hard peddling, as if the town itself was waiting on top of the hill. There are times when it is a heinous sounding place full of wretched, deformed people, and when a numbing fatigue settles in my legs or mind, I curse the city that tricked me into making it my destination.
Before The Berkshires we spent the day passing through rolling forrests and swamps of bright vegetation that stretched along valley floors and curved out of view. It was then easy to reconcile why we had chosen to spend the summer this way. Pictures should have been taken, but it was hard to choose one tree-lined gulley opening before us to the exclusion of others. They betrayed the anticipation of further pleasant moments to come and more inspiration from the landscape ahead. Suddenly, San Francisco was a term of victory.