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— not seriously thinking about it, at least not yet. She was kind enough to remind me that Jordan was acting normally for eight years of age. I think her exact words were, “Well, if you can’t remember what you were like when you were eight years old, then let me do it for you!” Above all else, she convinced me that Jordan was fine, and that I should forget about pampering him, let alone bringing him back home. For once it was good to be told that his behavior was hardwired in his DNA .
    September is much better at personal relationships than I am, so I turned to her for advice. “I need help getting Jordan to provide some power for going uphill,” I said.
    â€œDon’t ask Jordan,” September said. “Spider-Man is the person you need to talk to.”
    Jordan was first introduced to his alter ego when he was four. We were on everybody’s mailing list; buy a couple of things mail order, a few more online, and suddenly you’re getting five pounds of mail every day. Jordan would watch for the postman every afternoon, and then run to the mailbox looking for toy catalogs. He would then study them as a starving person would a menu. When he found the sleek Spider-Man costume, he found his soul mate.
    At the tender age of four Jordan had never seen Spider-Man before—not the movie, the comic book, nothing. But as soon as he saw the advertisement for a Halloween costume, he knew! He knew Spider-Man was bad to the bone. When Jordan finally got a Spider-Man costume of his very own, he wouldn’t take it off and would do all sorts of things he knew were taboo.
    September would say, “Jordan! You know better than that!”
    â€œI’m not Jordan anymore! I’m Spider-Man!”
    â€œWell, Spider-Man would never pinch his sister. Spider-Man is good!”
    â€œNO! Spider-Man is baaaaaad!”
    During the intervening four years Spider-Man had been Jordan’s alter ego. A year or so earlier I saw Jordan “shooting a web” at the ball during a basketball game in an effort to steal it. So, I wisely followed September’s advice to have Jordan get in touch with his inner Spider-Man. Not insignificantly, we also started to lighten the load by abandoning anything from that extra pair of sneakers to hand towels. You could map our progress by the stuff we left behind at various campsites. Katrina and Jordan caught on quickly and lobbied to abandon their math workbooks.
    Cycling from Salisbury to Fordingbridge via a route that goes through the New Forest and Godshill was the best cycling we did in England. The scenery was green, the traffic was light, the sun was shining, and for a stretch the road was even flat.
    Jordan and I pulled off to the shoulder for a moment. We were on a long straight road and the trees formed a perfect canopy overhead; September and Katrina were little more than a dot in the distance. As they approached us, I made small talk with Jordan about our next move. “I think those Spider-Man turbo boosts up the hills are really helping. If I didn’t know any better I’d think Spidey was shooting a web and just pulling us up those hills today.”
    Jordan gave a noncommittal grunt.
    â€œDo you think you have a couple of more miles in those legs? Our map shows that there’s a campground around here, but if we could get farther down the road, it will just make the ride that much shorter tomorrow.”
    I could see the wheels turning in that little head. “Why?” Jordan asked. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
    â€œWe’re trying to reach a place called Poole, where we can catch a ferry to France. France is where they make French bread.” I had to make the goal of getting to France personal for Jordan. Along with Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, French bread slathered in Nutella was one of his half dozen or so dietary staples.
    Jordan and I commiserated for a moment while we waited for September and Katrina. I