Biking to Baja

Today is the fiftieth day since I set out on the bike from my house in Lake Tahoe. I feel the hot desert sun on every inch of my body, and I suddenly realize how thirsty I am. Take me home, I whimper to the Travel Gods. But where is that? I’m still not sure.

What I do know is that I am hours away from any help. I am running low on water, and my 100-pound body is an easy snack for a predator, though there’s no longer much meat on it.

“You need to keep going,” says a voice out of nowhere. I tell the voice, “Go to hell!”

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Sheltering in Place on Rhodes

Slowly, the story our lives emerged. We’d each left home at a young age to escape a convention—she left a village in Sweden for a Greek adventure, and I left a small southern town to pursue my writing in New York. She was raised with two brothers and I have three siblings that I speak with almost daily. We were close to our grown children, but neither of us had a man in our lives. Two years ago, she’d lost her husband, Vangelis, and I was long divorced. Here we were two independent women in their 70s, wondering about our final acts.

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