As we ride now through coastal manzanita and waxen- leafed shrubs, Chris's expression comes to mind. "I knew it," he said.

The cycle swings into each curve effortlessly, banking so that our weight is always down through the machine no matter what its angle is with the ground. The way is full of flowers and surprise views, tight turns one after another so that the whole world rolls and pirouettes and rises and falls away.

"I knew it," he said. It comes back now as one of those little facts tugging at the end of a line, saying it's not as small as I think it is. It's been in his mind for a long time. Years. All the problems he's given become more understandable. "I knew it," he said.

He must have heard something long ago, and in his childish misunderstanding gotten it all mixed up. That's what Phædrus always said...I always said...years ago, and Chris must have believed it, and kept it hidden inside ever since.

We're related to each other in ways we never fully understand, maybe hardly understand at all. He was always the real reason for coming out of the hospital. To have let him grow up alone would have been really wrong. In the dream too he was the one who was always trying to open the door.

I haven't been carrying him at all. He's been carrying me!

"I knew it," he said. It keeps tugging on the line, saying my big problem may not be as big as I think it is, because the answer is right in front of me. For God's sake relieve him of his burden! Be one person again!

Rich air and strange perfumes from the flowers of the trees and shrubs enshroud us. Inland now the chill is gone and the heat is upon us again. It soaks through my jacket and clothes and dries out the dampness inside. The gloves which have been dark-wet have started to turn light again. It seems like I've been bone-chilled by that ocean damp for so long I've forgotten what heat is like. I begin to feel drowsy and in a small ravine ahead I see a turnoff and a picnic table. When we get to it I cut the engine and stop.

"I'm sleepy," I tell Chris. "I'm going to take a nap."

"Me too," he says.

We sleep and when we wake up I feel very rested, more rested than for a long time. I take Chris's jacket and mine and tuck them under the elastic cables holding down the pack on the cycle.

It's so hot I feel like leaving this helmet off. I remember that in this state they're not required. I fasten it around one of the cables.

"Put mine there too," Chris says.

"You need it for safety."

"You're not wearing yours."

"All right," I agree, and stow his too.

The road continues to twist and wind through the trees. It upswings around hairpins and glides into new scenes one after another around and through brush and then out into open spaces where we can see canyons stretch away below.

"Beautiful!" I holler to Chris.

"You don't need to shout," he says.

"Oh," I say, and laugh. When the helmets are off you can talk in a conversational voice. After all these days!

"Well, it's beautiful, anyway," I say.

More trees and shrubs and groves. It's getting warmer. Chris hangs onto my shoulders now and I turn a little and see that he stands up on the foot pegs.

"That's a little dangerous," I say.

"No, it isn't. I can tell."

He probably can. "Be careful anyway," I say.

After a while when we cut sharp into a hairpin under some overhanging trees he says, "Oh," and then later on, "Ah," and then, "Wow." Some of these branches over the road are hanging so low they're going to conk him on the head if he isn't careful

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"It's so different."

"What?"

"Everything. I never could see over your shoulders before."

The sunlight makes strange and beautiful designs through the tree branches on the road. It flits light and dark into my eyes. We swing into a curve and then up into the open sunlight.

That's true. I never realized it. All this time he's been staring into my back. "What do you see?" I ask.

"It's all different."

We head into a grove again, and he says, "Don't you get scared?"

"No, you get used to it."

After a while he says, "Can I have a motorcycle when I get old enough?"

"If you take care of it."

"What do you have to do?"

"Lot's of things. You've been watching me."

"Will you show me all of them?"

"Sure."

"It is hard?"

"Not if you have the right attitudes. It's having the right attitudes that's hard."

"Oh."

After a while I see he is sitting down again. Then he says, "Dad?"

"What?"

"Will I have the right attitudes?"

"I think so," I say. "I don't think that will be any problem at all."

And so we ride on and on, down through Ukiah, and Hopland, and Cloverdale, down into the wine country. The freeway miles seem so easy now. The engine which has carried us halfway across a continent drones on and on in its continuing oblivion to everything but its own internal forces. We pass through Asti and Santa Rosa, and Petaluma and Novato, on the freeway that grows wider and fuller now, swelling with cars and trucks and busses full of people, and soon by the road are houses and boats and the water of the Bay.