As I drink coffee and review my maps for the day ahead, I am aware of the stares. The three grizzled locals in the booth at the end of the room are watching me with a mixture of suspicion and amusement.
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The type of bicycling with which I am most familiar is what we cyclists call “touring.” That’s a euphemism for “riding as slow as you want, then acting as though you are more aesthetically aware than those who choose to ride fast.”
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My plan for the day’s route said “at the junction with Strawberry Mountain Trail, turn left and continue ascending.” It didn’t mention what to do if you couldn’t even SEE the trail under the icy, hard-packed, dirty snow.
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For me, fishing is largely about complaining. The complaints are largely about my crappy gear. (No, I did not say “crappie gear.” The crappy gear is used primarily in pursuit of trout. But while we’re on the subject, who the hell thought “crappie” was an acceptable name for a fish? Are these the same guys that named a computer company “Wang”?)
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I jolted painfully to consciousness the next morning, ruefully remembering the brochure’s promises. “Awaken refreshed — to gentle semi-tropical breezes?” (in this case, gale-force winds carrying grit and spatters of rain).
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Steering my recently-purchased touring hybrid over viscous, terra-cotta colored mud, around potholes the size of armadillos in Baja, California; I yearned for the comforts of home.
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You probably have a beater bike somewhere in the bowels of your garage, if pride or spring-cleaning hasn’t forced its sale. Before you throw it out, consider the benefits of keeping a couple of these old war horses around.
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I thought riding a tandem bike with my husband was a way to share the joys of the open road, if not side-by-side, at least together, at the same pace. Doesn’t that sound romantic? The reality was quite different.