Craig Braig had long since retired. And his wife had just died. Sweet memories ached in him nonstop.

Now was the best time to do what he’d always wanted to do. Now was the best time to ride a bicycle across America.

Why not?

He’d sleep in motels, eat in restaurants, and camp when he had to. He’d risk cars, weather, and breakdowns. That was part of the adventure.

Ten miles into his trip, it downpoured.

The rear of his long recumbent — the part that held most of his weight — kept getting flats. Each time, he had to wrestle with his aching body to remove the trailer, replace the tube, remount the wheel, and pump it up.

Finally, the rain stopped. By dusk he still hadn’t found a motel, so when he saw a trailer park, he wearily pedaled in.

A pickup stopped beside him.

A man leaned out and stroked his gray beard as he admired Craig’s bike. “Easy Racers Ti Rush. Don’t see those often. How far you going?”

Craig struggled to speak. “Cross‑country credit‑card tour. Except there’s no motels around here to use a credit card.”

The man blinked. “You’re not young, are you?”

“Eighty‑three.”

“And you’re doing it alone? You’re amazing.”

Craig felt every ache. “I don’t feel amazing.”

“This trailer park won’t let you camp. Tell you what — I’ll take you to a state park not far from here.”

They loaded the bike and drove off.

“I’m not so young myself,” the man said. “Used to be fast, though. Won an Olympic time trial once. I could ride four hours at thirty miles an hour. Still do centuries, but nothing like what you’re doing. What inspired you?”

Craig sank into the old seat cushions. “I was a science writer and editor for fifty years for the National Institutes of Health. Retired a while back. Last week my wife died of Alzheimer’s. I’d never been on a big adventure. I thought, now’s the time. While I’m still young enough.”

The man chuckled. “Did you train much?”

“Forty miles a day. Sometimes with electronic assistance, but I took that off for this trip. Manual effort may be slow, but it’s reliable.”

They reached the park. Against Craig’s protests, the man paid for his campsite. “Least I can do. Good luck, young man.”

Craig set up camp on the wet ground.

Mosquitoes stung him despite repellent. He crawled into his tent, lay on his self‑inflating mattress, and listened to frogs and crickets. His heart pounded after fifty‑one miles of a three‑thousand‑mile trip. Impossible, but he remembered Yoda’s words from watching Star Wars with his great‑grandson:

“Do or do not. There is no try.”

Do or do not, he thought, as he fell into the soundest sleep he’d had in years.

He woke unbelievably sore. He lay still as the morning sun warmed his tent. Squirrels bleated and scampered in the trees. When he finally stirred, he moved slowly, ate an apple, packed his bags, and pedaled forward in the sunshine. People waved, took pictures, and truckers stopped to give him water.

His second day was an easy sixty miles on smooth roads with no flats. At dusk he reached a little restaurant beside some log‑cabin motels called Good Eatin and Sleepin. He walked in and sat at a booth beside the window where he left his bike.

A waitress approached, glancing at his bike. “Wow. What a bike. Traveling alone?”

Craig leaned back, too tired to raise his eyes. “Yes. Cross‑country.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighty‑three. You?”

“I’ve got a seven‑year‑old daughter.”

Craig looked up and was surprised to see a bright‑eyed woman with refined features and long red hair.

“Her name’s Ann. She has a stuttering problem, but you’d like her.”

Craig groaned. He didn’t feel like talking. “Yeah, well, nobody’s perfect.”

“How far have you come?”

“A hundred and eleven miles in two days.”

“That’s remarkable. What’ll you have?”

“A steak, medium rare, French fries, green beans, and apple pie.”

She returned with the food. “Enjoy.” She stayed while he tasted it. “You married?”

He looked up. “Why? You interested?”

She laughed. “Just wondering.”

“Not anymore. My wife died of Alzheimer’s last week.”

Her eyes softened. “Alzheimer’s is vicious.”

“Yes. This steak is delicious.”

“Burt’s the best cook in the county. He’s from an African tribe. His specialty is an herbal drink called Zenzooma. Best thing for fatigue. Want to try it?”

Craig nodded.

She brought a frosty mug of blue liquid. “Be warned. This drink will help you see your life in vivid color.”

Craig laughed. “I’ll take my chances.”

A surge rocketed from his tongue throughout his body. His exhaustion vanished.

“This is incredible.”

“I know. It fixes what ails you.”

Craig laughed. “Everything tastes better now.”

“Zenzooma makes everything better,” she said.

She lingered, so he asked, “What are the rooms like?”

“They’re okay,” she said. “But they’re full of people here to see the rodeo tomorrow.”

“Great. Looks like I’ve got more pedaling ahead.”

“I’ve got an extra room at my place.”

He choked on his steak.

She smiled. “Careful. I live behind the restaurant.”

His mind slipped into the outer regions of human experience. “Uh…”

“I have a whirlpool,” she said. “My name is Dorothy.”

After eating, Craig brought his bike and gear into Dorothy’s living room. Her daughter Ann greeted him with a smile.

Ann rubbed his bike seat. “I‑I love your bike.”

“Sit on it,” he said.

Ann sat on it and smiled, lost in her own world. Dorothy and Craig sat on the sofa with mugs of Zenzooma.

“A couple of mean girls tease Ann because of her stuttering,” Dorothy said.

“People enjoy hating people who are different,” Craig said.

Dorothy nodded. “Made slavery popular.”

“I’ve always wondered what drove slavery — bad upbringing or unevolved DNA.”

“We can fix it both ways nowadays.”

They sat closer and closer as they discussed history, science, childhood memories, and failed relationships. She told him about the man who broke into her home and how she’d defended herself and Ann with a shotgun.

Craig was old and she was young. He’d wrestled with words all his life. She’d wrestled with people. They were different, but they bonded.

They talked about the ocean’s predator‑prey arms race.

“You can’t hide in the ocean,” Craig said. “No walls, no trees. Just open water. Predators and prey think in three dimensions. Every move multiplies.”

Dorothy laughed. “Drama under the sea.”

“Yeah. My bike trip has been a drama. It’s helped me complete my life of thought. Two days on a bike has expanded my sense of time. People have given me food, water, money.”

Later she asked, “Want to see my hot‑tub invention?”

They got into a hot tub with underwater drones massaging them with steaming spring water. Heaven after two days of hard cycling. The Zenzooma touched his nerve endings. Dorothy’s warmth healed him and opened him to a different world.

He left with Dorothy’s number, written with the message, “To be continued.”

Her essence lingered as Craig continued his journey.