• My bike-I try to keep as a reflection of how I wish to live my life-to be simple, unencumbered, ZEN.
• Each day a ride-no more than a day at a time.
• My Goal: have no preference, be open to All Things, and listen to God in the wind for directions.

I grab a seat and stare, past the skyscrapers, past Alcatraz, the red steel dragon Golden Gate, sail boats, fishing boats, dinghies; wind turbines pricking brown Treasure Island like tooth picks in a cantaloupe. The island is spotted with green moles, and Monte Casino houses squat, on the lookout. I hope the clear blue sky today might reflect my inner disposition for the trip, but that is optimistic. Clouds will surely roll in some days and make their space in my mind…after all, we are riding "the roller coaster" cross country. I am not worried about the ride itself, I am not worried about much of anything. It is a nice new feeling…maybe this is what growing is? One symptom of inner peace-the desire to let things happen rather than make them happen. Things will go as they go, the ferry will float as it floats, God will be as He is. This is the start.

I get a good vibe from the group…different personalities and wide age range (19-70-ish) is awesome but may pose more of a challenge than the mountains in Colorado. The group is big enough that I can lose myself, slink back into the shadows to recharge so as to reengage later-it's the introvert way. Hope to stay up on the writing, and daily prayer. Also to try not to censure, to tell things as I see them. I carry a blue Lego with my name on it, my little plastic burden brick.

The bicycle really can change the world, I believe that-the simplest, best invention of all time.

We meet up with the riders from the Diocese of San Jose and head off down Tennessee Street, past sunny, multi-colored houses. Down Lake Herman Road, through the city of Benicia. I am starting to feel the heat off the asphalt; the brown hills and grazing cattle has the feel of the desert. In the distance we see battleships floating on a shimmering sea, a strange oasis. Soon we are riding alongside swampy bogs, and route 80. Ron eats his first peanut butter and jelly sandwich in 68 years outside the Tower Mart near Fairfield.

20 miles or so and we are in wine country. The smell of fresh earth, dark humus, and sea salt breeze-the Grapes of Wrath. Palm trees stand like giant legs in front of red-roofed mansion-houses, bark like slinking pantyhose, exposing knobby knees. We carouse through orchard country, past armies of fruit trees standing poised, bracing for the upcoming season. Wooden fruit crates lie in the field, stacked like fortress walls. A golden hill transposed from a Greek fairytale-I imagine a Cyclops on top…or maybe it is hallucination? It is 97 degrees now so it's not outside the realm of things.

Motorcycles snarl past us on Pleasant Valley Road almost sending one of our riders into a ditch…Hell's Angels maybe? I think we are much more intimidating, though (spandex). We are old-school pilgrims, sojourning, relying on the hospitality of our brothers and sisters in the Church. Like old monks in the desert, traveling from monastery to monastery, consumed by God…and concerned with water. It is so hot out here, the air is blowing like a furnace-"we're not in San Fran anymore, Toto!" My head is pounding from the heat. 102 degrees in the sun. It shimmers, dancing like a devil in the distance.

46 miles. We take shade under a eucalyptus tree but it's not enough. Riding along a creek, Ryan (my new buddy, or long-lost brother-Catholic Worker, 24, two younger brothers, too many uncanny things in common to name) and I don't think twice about jumping in like men possessed, as if John the Baptist himself were calling us to repentance in the Jordan. Out of the water for ten minutes and we're bone dry and stinking hot again.

Through the town of Winters, and the roads open up straight and flat, southwest style. Power lines and beat up blazing old rusted red California pickup trucks sighing tired under the blazing ball. Another flattened snake in the road, the fifth one today (I've been counting). The smell of sprinklers, and summer (Ryan agrees with me, that sprinklers do have a smell). 10 miles to go. I feel like a flattened snake myself.

St. James parish in Davis, CA is our family for the day. "Home is the place where they have to let you in." Thanks be to God. Our hosts have been like family, very welcoming and supportive to total strangers. It is the gospel in full effect, the Christian way (big props for the chocolate covered strawberries, too). It is a great feeling to be welcomed. God, help us to remember to welcome those forgotten, stepped on, left to the coldness of the streets. Help us to slow down our busy lives so we can make room for those "nothing" moments you love to meet us in. Most of all, help us to see our own inner poverty daily so we don't go deluding ourselves into thinking we're doing any of this under our own power. Amen.

--Rob Marco
Philadelphia, PA