The campsite, a part of Neys Provincial Park, lies at the foot of the hill.

There are no attendants or rangers in the park, only a note on the office door that reads 

SERVICED LOTS $20

UNSERVICED $12

LEAVE IN THE BOX

I ruffle through my pannier pockets for loose change, and drop two handfuls of coins in the wooden deposit box by the door. 

“Looks like no fire for us tonight,” says Ben. 

“Why's that?"

Ben leads me behind the office to the firewood chest. There's a padlock on the lid.

"Let me see."

I raise the hood and find a small wedge of clearance. A crevice just wide enough to fit my arm; I shove it in and feel around the bottom for a log. I try to clutch it in my fingers but it's too chunky to wield one-handedly and slips through.

“It's useless,” Ben says. “Just forget about it.”

I stick my other arm into the chest, but now I can't reach the bottom. I yank up on the lid, break open another couple inches of clearance, and think about diving in.

“Liam, forget it.”

“Liam, stop.”

“Liam, don't—Liam, come on, get out of there.”

My feet dangle out of the top of the locker. I rummage for pieces of kindling and chuck them onto the grass outside. My shoulder and face smoosh against the woodpile to stabilize my dangling body. I grab whatever fits in my hands and shove them out of the locker, one after the next. I cough and taste woodchips.

“You crazy bastard.”

“Pull me out.”

“What?"

“I can't get out.”

“You're on your own, bud,” Ben laughs. 

“Ben!”

He sighs, grabs my legs, starts pulling. I hear a car roll by slowly outside. 

“Is everything alright, fellas?”

“Yeah,” Ben says, struggling for breath. 

He pulls back one more time, really leans into it. I slide out the top of the chest, then Ben falls to the ground and takes me with him.

“You sure about that?” says the driver. I look over, seeing stars. It’s a big bearded guy in a blue minivan. 

Thumbs up.

“Sure,” the driver snickers, fully convinced, then rolls ahead. 

I get up and brush the sawdust from my bib, spit on my jersey and try to rub out the grass stains. Ben collects the kindling in his arms and speedwalks to the nearest vacant lot, dropping tinder behind him.

Later, we roast cans of off-brand chili over the fire.

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense to keep going,” I  say. “If I'm being brutally honest.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't want to quit,” I spit back. “Fuck that. But let's face it, what money have we raised since we left? All our fundraising took place in the last six months back home. Since we left, nothing. Once you're actually on the bikes, no one cares. We might as well be commuting to work with the rest of them.” I nod to the traffic visible, in flashes, through the trees. 

“That's what makes it pure,” Ben says. “We're not out here for glory.”

“Guess not.”

Ben, being Ben, chugs the last of his tallboy, dangles a cigarette from his mouth, takes the speaker from his bag and blasts it. A little rock and roll to get me going. 

“Should we get more wood from the bush?”

“Go ahead,” he says. 

I come back fulfilled:  knicks on my shins, burrs on my shoes, and an armful of twigs. 

“It's the small joys, eh.”

“Gathering firewood feels like a side quest.”

“Well said,” Ben laughs.

When the last of the sticks burn through and the fire dies we walk to the beach. We stand in the darkness, our toes sunken in the cold sand. The distant headlights of a speedboat rise and fall in concert with the undulations of the wake. In its on-again, off-again glow I feel less together, more unseen; more as one, less witnessed. 

We call it a night. 

“We ride at dawn,” Ben shouts through his tent wall.

“Again?”

“Again.”

“But, like, not actually at dawn?”

“Nah, I just wanted to say it again.”

“We ride at dawn.”

“We ride at dawn.”

“At dawn, we ride.”

What a shame we’re awake for so little of the night and so much of the day.

JUNE 6 - ROSSPORT - 90 KM