In case you were wondering, the USA/Canadian border does not have a bike lane. We got in line with some other cars but were informed that it doesn't work that way. We had to go into the building so that our passage to America could be approved. The men helping us were named Stagle, Tatham, and Baron. I couldn't make up more awesome names than that, and I tried. After thoroughly questioning us as to whether we (specifically: Chris) had ever been convicted of a felony, they gave us our passports back. Amused at our circumstance of two girls and a guy riding from Canada to Mexico, Tatham said to Chris as we left, "We're all rootin' for ya, Mister Beeman."

After the border, the road to Washington was perilous yet unavoidable; a one-lane stetch where 18-wheelers were frequently entering and where road construction completely blocked any hint of shoulder. Jen rallied for us to commandeer the road, and the three of us put on reflective/safety gear and pedaled side-by-side until the narrow passageway became a reasonable lane.