Finished sixth at the Giro del Capo, fourth at the Stazio Criterium, and, with Armstrong’s retirement, was expected to soon move to the head of the United States bicycling class. Bowie suspected that if the sponsors had decided on a mountain bike expedition instead of a white-water trip, McKay would be point and Bowie would be watching the sun and moon track the big sky above his cabin near the Missouri Breaks in Montana. Bowie almost wished he were in that remote and personal world, lost in thought, except he knew thoughts would lead to that dark hole, a place his mind sought as persistently as a tongue probed a lost tooth.

Biker boy.

C.A. “Okay” McKay.

The type of catchy name you need.

Nabbed the latest cover of Cycling News, gets laid more than George Clooney, but on this trip, he’s middle of the pack. I’m first.

“A mile and a half,” Bowie said. The distance to the Unegama headwaters where they would make camp was more like a mile and two thousand feet, but he wasn’t sure his fellow travelers would appreciate the distinction. And he didn’t want to waste breath explaining. Truth be told (not that he’d ever admit the truth-no use changing old habits now), his lungs were working a bit harder than expected.

“Mile and half,” McKay passed along, so much louder than necessary in the hush of the forest that Bowie suspected he, too, was sucking for oxygen. “With wheels, I could do that in ten minutes.”

“Well, next time get your bike company to put up the money, and we’ll do it the easy way,” Bowie said. “This time we’re doing it the ProVentures way.”

“The best way,” said the man behind Bowie and in front of McKay. Bowie had forgotten the man’s name. All Bowie knew was his checks were signed by the outdoor adventure company, which had been started by two stoners with a love for the great outdoors, but now mostly employed computer geeks and business majors.