We've been hiking, bike overhead, for nearly two hours, and we can no longer hear the cowbells echoing from the valley below. The pressure is building from balancing my bike in the same spot on my shoulder.
"Which way?" asks Kenny, as we reach a split in the trail. "Oh man, cows seem like the laziest animals, so we should follow their hoof prints." I don't even know if this is a logical decision, but Kenny bites—hook, line, and sinker. We could wait for the guide, but we're far ahead of him and I'm covered in sweat—not a dry thread on me. Kenny looks like a wet dish rag—one that was just used to clean up a spilled bottle of wine.
The cow-trail decision has put us on the steepest path, but we're finally getting closer to the top. It's at the point that Kenny starts to yell something about how "We're really doin' it! We're really doin' it!" He's being ridiculous and I'm finding it funny for no reason. With my bike balanced on my back, I'm having to do some anti-gravity laugh-crouching as I try not to fall backward off the face of earth. Kenny is going on about "REALLY DOING IT" and I can't control my laughter any longer.
I finally collect myself and finish the last few switchbacks. When I catch up to Kenny, he's perched himself at the perfect vista — a sound choice considering he was being so ridiculous just moments earlier. I pull on a windbreaker, whip out a baguette with cheese and we play wow, look at that cool shit—an adult's version of I Spy.