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named Jeff. He had explained how to boot torn tires with dollar bills, had insisted on the importance of regularly oiling our chains and tightening every bolt on the bike. He had even mentioned a few things about replacing spokes. But I couldn’t recall him saying anything about removing a cassette.
    I squeezed my eyes shut and exhaled through my nose, the breath forceful enough to whip up dust from the earth between my knees. This was, in fact, happening. Thirty miles into our second day, I had already come across a problem I couldn’t fix.
    I spent a few minutes trying to use my pliers to loosen the nut holding the gear cluster on the axle, then tossed them in the dirt, feeling ridiculous. There was clearly a tool for this, and I didn’t have it.
    “Want one?” Rachel asked.
    I looked up and saw her holding a couple of sandwiches. I had been looking forward to these sandwiches all day, had envisioned us eating them beside a placid lake while whitetail deer tiptoed through the forest and a lone bald eagle soared overhead. It was going to be beautiful.
    “I guess so,” I said, not making eye contact. I grabbed one of the sandwiches with my greasy, incompetent hands and began pawing at the plastic. Then I caught myself. It wasn’t Rachel’s fault we were stuck here, eating in the dirt. She was just trying to help.
    “Thanks, Rach.” I forced a smile. “This might take a little while.”
    “I’m sure it will be fine,” she said. “Let me know if you need the phone or anything.”
    I joylessly inhaled the sandwich and considered my options. I knew there was a solution to this problem but also knew it was going to take a while and would probably entail hitching a ride. I didn’t want to hitch a ride. I wanted to figure this out on my own. I stuffed the sandwich bag into a pannier and dug around for my tools. The spoke wrench, I decided, would at least buy me time. Using said tool, which looked like a cross-section from a tiny light bulb, I could loosen and tighten spokes until the wheel was somewhat true. Dad had given me pointers on this, and I felt confident I’d understood them. I would just straighten the wheel out, and then I’d ride to the next town, where I’d find someone who could help me remove the cassette.
    As I worked, I stole glances at Rachel, who had propped herself against a stump and opened
Still Life With Woodpecker
. She looked content and had given no inclination that she was impatient. But I was. It was forty miles to the campsite we were shooting for, and now we were going to have to move fast, especially since we’d be stopping again in nearby Butternut to get everything really fixed. I worked anxiously, feverishly. Within ten minutes, I had the wheel back on the bike. I rode a couple of circles, twisting around and watching my wheel as I pedaled. It looked wobbly but good enough to get me to Butternut.
     • • • 
    T he construction only lasted a few miles, and the next stretch of road was beautiful. Here the pavement was perfectly flat, an arrow shot straight to the western horizon. The sun still shone above, its heat pulsing down and rebounding off the asphalt, but it was now joined by a light easterly. West-bearing winds, we’d heard, were a midwestern rarity. Something to be savored.
    I considered this as I walked.
    When Rachel and I had gotten back on the move, we’d almost immediately come upon a half-dozen guys working for the county. They told us the next two miles would be impassable on bikes, and one of them, seeing the defeated looks on our faces, offered to ferry us past the rough patch. In five minutes we were back on asphalt, on our way west. My bike felt weird, but I told myself it was in my head. I’d made a temporary fix, and soon we’d be in Butternut, and—
    Ping!
    The sound was muffled and benign, like an egg timer ringing under a throw pillow. I hadn’t heard anything like it when the first spoke blew, but I just knew. Head hung, I hit the brakes. I