A common refrain among cycle tourists is that travel by
bicycle affords an opportunity to grasp the true distances between places. When
the only way to move is by turning the pedals, it is impossible to get anywhere
sitting limp in a seat. You feel the energy it takes to get over every single
hill, the sustained exertion you need to crest a major climb. At the same time,
you don’t worry about speed limits; doing 70 in a 55 zone isn’t an option. You
are the engine, and the odometer counts the miles on your legs.
But
when I arrived in Vancouver, I didn’t feel any of that. I looked down at my
Cateye, and I saw the display reading out 1454.2. I knew that it had been 37
days since I pedaled out of a driveway in Los Gatos, California. I could run
through the names of the places where I had slept each of those nights if I
wished. What was impossible was to paint a coherent picture of the distance in
my head, to zoom out and process the journey as a continuous whole.
