Technically, it’s still spring, but this month we celebrate summer with an extract from Meaghan Marie Hackinen’s Shifting Gears: Coast to Coast on the Trans Am Bike Race (NeWest, 2023), an account of the Trans Am Bike Race. This gruelling self-supported race from Oregon to Virginia demands ingenuity and determination, and Hackinen’s fast-paced narrative allows us to experience the thrill of ultra-distance cycling with her.

—♦—

I reunited with Eric at a Mexican restaurant in Sisters, the first town after the pass. Alongside several other famished racers, we tore into burritos, rice, and beans, amassing origami mountains of soiled napkins during the friendly bonhomie. The two of us swapped stories as we tipped back glasses of ice water: after a brief respite of high mountain air, temperatures had crept even higher on the descent into Central Oregon.

“Where are you heading tonight?” asked Eric. “Know about the hostel in Mitchell?”

I’d planned on wilderness camping: bivying down and rising early, same as the night before.

“Are you really prepared for that?” asked a young American rider as he pushed an empty plate away. “It’ll be a hell of a lot colder at elevation.”

The others nodded in agreement.

Admittedly, I’d given little thought to the effects of mountain ranges on temperature. Accounting for massive gains in elevation was simply not something I’d had to consider while living on the Prairies, but as I reflected on the piles of snow flanking the road only an hour ago, it suddenly seemed like the consequences of elevation would be unwise to ignore. In the Mexican restaurant, I googled the distance from Sisters to Mitchell: ninety miles. It was past two o’clock, and McKenzie Pass had already taken a toll on my legs—was it possible to reach the hostel tonight? Maybe. Suddenly, our bill couldn’t come soon enough.

We set out together, a loosely-tethered pack of five. The others fell away as the wind picked up, and soon, it was just Eric and me, pedalling hard toward Prineville. The hot, dry air clobbered my lungs; giant pinecones scattered the road’s edge. Then the trees gave way, and the landscape opened up like the glossy pages of a coffee-table book: high country. This was the wild west, and we were cowboys on metal horses—blasting off in search of untold adventure.

I was determined to make it to Mitchell now, and my speedometer ticked higher as a tailwind took hold. I tucked low and kicked into the pedals. Eric leapfrogged ahead as we reached a hillcrest, unleashing a spirited shriek into surrounding red rock. “Yorktown, we’re coming for you!”

Eric pumped a fist in the air, breathing hard. Grin wider than his face. Riding purely for the thrill, immune to every obstacle in his path. I fed off his kineticism, ignoring the stifling heat and sweat marinating my sports bra. On seeing Eric’s undisguised glee, I couldn’t help but feel the tug of the road on my own heart—carpe diem. Instead of taking a breather, I gripped the bars and prepared for a fast descent.

I chased Eric down, then back up again. Hill after soaring hill. My legs grew heavy—hammering might not have been the best strategy, I’d later admit—but I was too full of adrenalin to ease off.

In that moment, there were no fences.

. . .

Darkness blanketed the highway. As Eric and I disappeared into the Ochoco Wilderness, our tones became hushed, conspiratorial. The steady ascent meant our pedalling grew torpid, inhalations laboured. During steeper sections, I barely mustered the energy to keep moving. Nighttime temperatures steadily fell. We layered up to ward off the increasing cold as we gained elevation, alternately clenching our hands into fists to drive blood back into fingertips. We never mentioned that stopping no longer remained an option: we needed to make it to the hostel in Mitchell now. As we pressed on, Eric and I exchanged stories about tenacious headwinds and torrential deluges, double centuries and 400-kilometre brevets. The inference was that this—assailed by cold and fatigue, unmoored in the darkness—was nothing we couldn’t handle.

“I’ve never understood night riding,” pondered Eric. “You can’t see anything.”

Indeed, that evening, we witnessed nothing. What I do recall was Eric’s company, the quiet back and forth between us. So mundane, I nearly forgot we were racing. Therein lies the beauty of riding at night, I realized. A shift of focus from sights distant to close at hand.

. . .

We crashed into Mitchell at half-past midnight. Extremities numb from the razor wind, a final ripping downhill into the insatiable maw of the night. Spoke’n Hostel shone like a lighthouse in the distance. Yet to ensure we didn’t pass our only service opportunity for fifty miles in either direction, a troop of volunteers waited on the road to flag us down. Eric and I stumbled into a rec room warm with body heat. A spread of pasta and bread, fruit and chocolate bars, juice and coffee laid magnificently before us. I pinched full-fingered gloves off with my teeth, stuffing bills into a donation jar before serving myself a mountain of pasta topped with garlicky tomato sauce that smouldered toward the plate’s edges like steaming hot lava.

Despite the cozy surroundings, I shivered violently. Cold emanated from my diaphragm in tight, sickening bursts. A volunteer fetched a quilt to wrap me up in, then pressed hot cocoa into my hands. I shut my eyes for a moment, savouring a sensation best described as blessed.

“Thank you,” I whispered, willing the shaking to subside.

After a few minutes it did, but not without causing me to wonder what might have happened had I tried to bivy in the mountains. Places like Spoke’n Hostel were few and far between along the TransAmerica Trail. For myself and others passing through—both racers and touring cyclists alike—the hostel provided a much-needed respite, the volunteers engaged in a well-oiled machine of hospitality. Spoke’n Hostel existed as a welcome outpost on the fringes, their dedication to the wayward traveller surpassing every possible expectation.

A volunteer led me to the dormitory after eating. Still caped in a quilt, I was silently ushered to a bottom bunk, the volunteer’s quick flash of a headlamp locating a USB outlet. I flopped onto the bunk and plugged in my electronics. Across the aisle, a sleepy head poked from the covers—Rolf. He grinned.

“Didn’t think you’d arrive tonight,” he whispered. His practical, shaved head matched his clean-shaven face.

“Wasn’t sure I’d make it either. See you at breakfast.”

Finally, I had caught up with Mr. Moser. I set my alarm for 4:00 a.m., and prepared to join the ranks of shattered, snoring cyclists.

—♦—