It's eleven miles from Eastsound to Doe Bay. Eastsound is where Wildlife Cycles is; Doe Bay is where I live right now. Eleven miles. Eleven hilly, gravelly, humid miles.

What better solstice activity than to pick up your bicycle from the shop and ride it home? Whoooo! (The bike needed new shifters; and there were good ones there, cheap, yay.)

A few things that need to be understood:

- all the roads on the island are chip-seal, meaning tar/asphalt with a topping of gravel that is laid down and then ground in by the passing cars. There is plenty of excess gravel on the sides of the lanes.

- Saturday is a big traffic day from the ferry to the resorts in the outlying parts of the island, and particularly to Moran State Park, through which I must pass on my way home.

- There is no shoulder on the roads. Just bike turnouts, placed a convenient 500 feet past where your quads and knees are mostly likely to give out.

Okay, those notices aside, I had a fulfilling ride. It's been a few years since I rode eleven miles on extremely hilly terrain. After a short and easy pedal around Crescent Beach, I began the slog toward Flaugherties Hill. Wildlife Cycles describes it as "the biggest rise" on the Horseshoe Highway. (It's not the biggest on the island; that would be Mt. Constitution, and while you'll see me hiking it, you won't see me pedaling it. I can pretty much guarantee this. Five miles and 2000 feet of gain around hairpin turns? Better for the motorcycle.)

That hill is a mile long, at least. That doesn't count the approaches. But as I slogged, and slogged, and slogged some more, I reminded myself to look and listen. I smelled wild roses. I relaxed my shoulders. I took in the peek-a-boo views of the bay through the trees. And I made it to the top.

Once I was past that hill, which I had mythologized and pathologized and turned into something unnecessarily difficult in my mind, I was better off. There are more hills, but psychologically as well as physically I was over the hump.

The cruise downhill past Rosario Resort and into Moran was breathtaking. Nothing but the whir of the tires and the wind in my ears. Fresh air. Cooling air. Lungs full of life-giving air.

I made a conscious effort to breathe easily. I released the tension I was holding in my lips and face and shoulders. I made sure my effort was spent breathing in. Breathing out takes care of itself. On one corner above Cascade Lake, I found myself wishing I could dive from a hundred feet up and land, soft and warm, in the water of the lake. I knew the reality would be somewhat different, and kept riding. But I'm going to swim there at some point.

The road is considerably less busy once the park is crossed. (Nice passive voice, eh?). Whoosh, I sailed across the one-lane bridge. Whirrrrr, down the hill toward Olga and past Buck Bay. Then silence and calm air as the bike slowed to climb the first hill on Pt. Lawrence Road. Short and steep. Exhausting.

The rest of the way to Doe Bay, about 3 miles, is rolling, but manageable. I saw a doe eating in a field. I passed the Goldeneye Farm, with its large red apple sign with a Barrow's goldeneye superimposed on it. The roads have names like Roehl's Hill, Pioneer Hill, Pickett's Lane (with mailboxes on the highway with the name Pickett on them) and Homestead Road.

Then I saw it: The sign denoting a sharp left turn with a truck caution picture above it: the home stretch. One curve to the left, another to the right, and then left to my road, I let out a whoop, realizing my 11 miles were near their end.

I had scallops for dinner. Scallops with a savory asparagus flan and a butter sauce that left me delirious. And a panna cotta (not so much, but I was on an adventure). I had a good soak in the hot tub and finished the Lincoln Child book I was reading. I went to my room, took some ibuprofen, watched a few hours of CSI, and slept hard.

I'm still proud of my ride. Not in a boastful way, just amazed and proud of myself to have done it. Might even do it again. We'll see.