One day, I made it to the neighboring town. Oh, the pride I felt! Although it happened by accident. I had long wanted to explore a street crossing Main Street and see where it led. Our town is small, and almost every street eventually leads out of it.

I set off on one of those evenings after work when there is absolutely nothing to do at home. So, I rode for a long time and wasn't in a hurry to turn: the road had to lead somewhere, and I was eager to find out where. There was no one to ask. America is a car-centric country where meeting a pedestrian, even within a small town, is a rarity. Plus, there was fog, sometimes leaving nothing in sight but the yellow lane markings. There was silence and a feeling of complete isolation, like in space, or in the middle of nowhere.

And suddenly, I saw a church!! On a side note, a Catholic church on a foggy day is quite a sight, reminiscent of the Middle Ages, Europe, and adventure books. Clip-clop-clip-clop—the hooves of a musketeer's horse should have echoed on the paved square near the church; but it was the wheels of my bicycle that rolled by, circled the sign with the name, and returned to the road. I had no idea where I was. Neither the sign by the church nor any other marker indicated the name of the settlement. It was only obvious that it was small, because residential houses stretched all around, and there were no institutions or shops to be seen. Not even a McDonald's.

I only encountered an interior design salon and a couple of cafes, one of which smelled, damn it, of frying potatoes. And at that moment, I realized I was starting to get tired. I had a ride home ahead of me, more than an hour through the fog and now darkness as well. I turned back. Already on the way out, I met a sign and stopped. The town turned out to be Falmouth, a small coastal cove on the way to Portland. Later, I visited here again and found the main street, a McDonald's, and much more.

But from that moment on, I finally recognized my bicycle as a serious mode of transport. After all, how pleasant it was to say: I rode to another city all by myself (!). As a sign of respect, I would stop it at traffic lights, right along with real cars (and spend a few minutes contemplating an empty intersection). In a sense—primarily ecological—it is even better than a car.

At the beginning of autumn, it took me to the ocean for the last time, although it was already ailing by then—apparently, the chain had weakened. And I am terribly grateful to it for that and for everything in general, because from two wheels, a completely different America opens up.