Bicycle wound through city streets and biked over the Fourteenth Street Bridge. She felt a little thrill after crossing the Potomac River and realizing she’d left D.C. behind and entered Virginia, her first state. California, here I come, Bicycle thought, squeezing Clunk’s handlebars.

She joined a paved bike path with a few other cyclists. According to her map, this path would last for about twenty miles, which would be the longest she’d ever ridden in her life. After that, she planned to pedal thirty more miles to make her goal for the day.

Pacing herself, she stopped after an hour at a water fountain and took a drink. As she started refilling her water bottle from the fountain, she heard the unmistakable whirring-whizzing noise of bicycle spokes behind her. She turned to watch three cyclists come racing up dressed in matching red jerseys with the word SPIM’S in white across the front. They gave her serious nods and one-finger waves and were gone down the path in a moment. Another, much flabbier cyclist dressed in the same uniform came wheezing up more slowly. He was pedaling a very expensive skinny racing bike that creaked and groaned under his bulk. A leather briefcase sat in a basket attached to the handlebars.

“Good morning,” he panted, nodding at Bicycle and stopping his bike. “Did some other riders come by here?” Beads of sweat dripped off his nose and chin. He pulled a small dark-blue sponge from his jersey’s back pocket and dabbed at his face.

Bicycle said, “Yes, sir, they just came by. You can probably catch them if you hurry.”

“I certainly can,” he agreed. But instead of following the other riders, he rested his haunches back on his bike seat. He lifted a water bottle from his basket and drank its last dregs.

Bicycle took the bottle from him and started refilling it from the water fountain.

“How kind,” the man said. “My company, Spim’s Splendid Sponges, started a program this month encouraging employees to bike to work instead of driving. As I am Mr. Spim, company president, I felt I needed to set a good example for my workers, and so forth.”

Bicycle handed him back the bottle.

After a long drink, he asked, “Are you on your way to soccer practice or some such thing?”

“No, sir,” said Bicycle. She thought his sponge company must be a pretty great place if they wanted employees to ride bikes to work. “I’m on my way to San Francisco to attend the Blessing of the Bicycles, and I’d better keep moving. I’ve got more than forty miles to go today if I’m going to stick to my schedule.”

Mr. Spim let out a long whistle. “The Golden State of California? Excellent! Do you know, when I was younger, I rode my bicycle from Great Britain to Africa and back again? I pedaled in circles around the decks of the ferries, so crossing the English Channel and the Strait of Gibraltar still counted as cycling miles, you see. Those were the days!” He slapped his side, and his considerable tummy jiggled and wiggled. He looked down at it with some disbelief, as if he’d been ambushed by this unfamiliar flabby body somewhere between Africa and here. “Ahem. Well. Tell me about your journey. Do you have maps? Places to stay along the way?”

“I do have maps, and I’m going to camp out with my bicycle,” Bicycle answered. “I planned it all last week.”

Mr. Spim gave her a pleased look. “A single week of planning, eh? Well, what more do you need when adventure awaits? I once led an expedition to the South Pole with one night of planning. What fun!” He smiled, remembering. Then his smile faded. “But those sorts of things are best done when a person is young and has inherited lots of money. It’s amazing how quickly funds run out when adventuring. At some point, a man must accept that he must work for a living. And seek excitement and challenge wherever possible, like on the bike path to one’s sponge factory, for example.” Another rider wearing the same red-and-white jersey came buzzing by them. “Oh, rot! I must continue slogging onward. Can’t let those employees of mine get too far ahead. I also don’t want to delay you,” he said. “I am not one to stand in the way of a journey. But before I go, I’m willing to share some of my traveling advice with you. I’ve sailed some seas and trekked some trails, let me tell you! So, if you’re willing to listen…” He paused hopefully.

Bicycle put an expression of polite listening on her face.

Mr. Spim harrumphed and puffed out his chest. He held up one finger. “First, don’t be afraid to eat strange-looking things. Strange-looking to the eye is often heaven to the tongue! Second”—he held up a second finger—“always have a sponge or two close at hand. Many’s the time a sponge has saved my bacon.” He clicked open his briefcase and handed her a small pack of assorted sponges. “Third”—he raised one more finger and waggled all three of them at Bicycle—“never, and I mean never, turn your back on a zebra. Those things may look like pretty striped horses, but they can be really ferocious when they want to be! Take it from an intrepid old traveler!”

Bicycle couldn’t think of a response to this, so she relied on her training from Intermediate Listening. “Yes,” she said gravely, trying to nod like an intrepid young traveler.

Mr. Spim put his foot on a pedal. “I believe wonderful things are in store for you. Best of luck, young adventurer!” With a glow of resolve in his eyes, he rode off.

Bicycle watched him go and said to Clunk, “See? Our first day and I already know to be careful around zebras. This is going to be much better than that horrible Friendship Factory ever could have been.” She shoved the sponges into the top of her backpack and followed after Mr. Spim. Although she expected to catch up to him wheezing alongside the path, she didn’t see him again. Maybe offering advice had given him a second wind.

When the bike path ended, she ate some dried fruit and crackers to celebrate. “This is it, partner, we’ve officially gone farther than we ever have before,” she said to Clunk. “This isn’t that hard at all. We’ll be in California in no time!”