This never happens.
My daughter was out of town from Sunday until Thursday. It didn’t snow. Not a flake, That means I could ride my bike to work every day this week. In mid-February. And damned if I didn’t pull it off.
It looked a little doubtful on Monday morning. I had spent most of the weekend feeling lousy. And it was 19 degrees out when I stepped out the door. Ugh. Once I got rolling I felt fine. The temperature rose to 30 degrees by the time I arrived at work. Success.
By Tuesday I was fully recovered from what ailed me. So riding was a breeze, Ditto Wednesday.
On Thursday all was going fine on the way to work until I encountered a barrier across the Mount Vernon Trail. A maintenance person was standing at a second barrier about 200 feet away. There was no activity. No equipment. No reason for the barrier. If I obeyed the barrier I would have to back track about a half a mile. Screw the barrier. I rode around it. A man on a mission.
Thursday evening the barrier was gone. A fog was building. My headlight created a glow. The last few miles in the dark were spooky.
Friday morning arrived in a fog both literally and figuratively. I was groggy because we didn’t get home from the airport until around 11. My daughter arrived on time but her baggage took about an hour to get from the plane to the terminal. On a little over 4 hours of sleep, I headed out on my bike into a dense fog. Four miles into the ride I spotted my first robin of 2012. He or she looked a little scruffy. Welcome back.
Then I came upon the barrier and the maintenance guy. This time he set up his barrier 1/2 mile to the south of its previous location. I asked him what it was for and he said, “Maintenance.” Loquacious. Dude, move to New Hampsha. You’ll fit right in.
I took his picture and followed the detour. Somebody at the National Park Service must have told the maintenance crew to move their barrier to a more appropriate spot. Cheers.
|Loquacious Larry and His Barrier|
The rest of the ride was uneventful.
On the way home as I hit a swampy area just north of Old Town. I spotted a downy egret in the reedy shallows along the trail. He was fishing up a storm. The ground was very mucky. It should have smelled awful. Instead, I was overcome with the smell of steak. Somebody was cooking out. There were no homes within a quarter mile of my location. Strange. It smelled wonderful. I was closing in on 140 miles since Monday and I was HUNGRY. Where’s that steak?
I considered hunting down the steak and killing the cook. I could make a quick get away. It would be the perfect crime. Except for the fact that a bicyclist with a steak hanging from his mouth is a tad unusual.
Cop: Is that a steak in your mouth, sir?
Me: [Muffled sound of words unable to bypass massive cut of sirloin]
Cop: Book ‘im, Danno.
No worries. I got off. Justifiable homicide.
I arrived home with 147 miles on my odometer. 5 days. 5 commutes. In February. So fine.