I know I’ve said this before and while I don’t want to sound like a broken record, there are a lot of guys up here in Westchester who show up for group rides who I simply don’t understand.
This morning, I drove down to SUNY Purchase for a 44-mile B ride. You know what a B ride means? It means an average speed between 14.0 and 15.5 MPH so when the ride starts and almost half of the guys begin gunning it less than ten minutes later (and I know they’re gunning it because (a) I’ve been on more B+ rides than B rides and (b) I know what a B pace is supposed to do to my heart rate), I have to ask myself, Do these guys know how to read?
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe the guys I began riding with a year ago had it all wrong when they slowed down to let the group re-group after short to medium bursts of speed. Maybe waiting for people when they suffer a mechanical is bad etiquette. And maybe waiting for a guy or girl when they’re suffering from leg cramps is what you’re not supposed to do when out for a group spin.
But I don’t think so. I think a group ride is supposed to be exactly that: a GROUP ride, meaning everyone shows up to ride as a group. Sure, you put a few seconds between some people and that’s fine, but a few minutes? Are you kidding? I’ve led two rides up here with the WCC and I can tell you that it is one thankless job and one that I really don’t look forward to doing again.
I really shouldn’t bitch, but it is my blog and I get to bitch as much as what I want. (If you want to bitch, you’re welcome to start your own blogger, which is rather simple, actually.) My point is, though, if you show up for a B ride and can ride a B+ or A- pace, why ride with the B group? Why not go out with a B+ or A- ride? And if there isn’t a B+ thing scheduled the day you want to go out and do a B+ ride, why not set up your own ride and lead a bit yourself to see what it’s like? Go out and see just how much fun it is when a dozen other riders are your responsibility.
So again, maybe it’s just me, but when I think about my riding, I’m always thinking about how I’m going to train harder and ride faster. I think about what I have to do so I can start hanging with the A riders and what I have to do to sit at the front of an A group and set the pace. (That day is probably a long way off, but let me at least have my thoughts.) What I don’t do is show up for C rides as a B+ rider so I can feel good about myself by kicking off the front of the group.
Like I said, though, that’s just me.
Saturday, August 25
Sunday, August 19
What's a Century?
Yesterday was Saturday and on Saturday I rode with the Staten Island group in New Jersey for just under 62 miles. (This particular ride is usually a hair over 63 miles, but without the initial detour to the rest rooms, the full ride came in at just under 62 miles.)
Today, I went out and did 105 miles up here in Westchester with one other member of the Westchester Cycling Club, all of which means I have to finish this update as quickly as humanly possible so I can spend the rest of the day relaxing in bed.
Oy. I spent so much time leaning on my hands today that as I type this, my left pinky finger is refusing to cooperate. And around 2:30, after a shower and a meal that could have fed at least two or three hundred Ethiopian children, I was laying in bed for a power nap when a charley horse sprang up along the inside of my thigh, causing me to scream like a bitch as I jumped out of bed and hobbled from one side of my room to the other. Then, after thirty seconds or so of excruciating pain (I would liken the experience to giving birth, but my frame of reference for such an analogy would cause me to lose all credibility), the cramp simply disappeared, yet it left a little leave-behind. Two hours later, I can still feel something along the inside of my thigh, like a charley horse calling card, constantly reminding me that if Mr. Charley Horse so pleases, he can easily cripple me with little to no warning.
Goddam that guy.
Anyway, the Cheesequake ride yesterday. Dr. Rob called the previous night with an invite. “Can’t do it, buddy,” I explained. “Already have riding plans for tomorrow,” but then, after pressing END on my phone, my pea-sized brain began to churn. You’re spending the night in the city, jackhole, so why not drive in with your bike and your gear and head down to Jersey the following morning?
Not a bad idea, said one of the other voices in my head. Not a bad idea at all, Mr. Donaldson.
At 7:45 Saturday morning, I rolled into the commuter lot and waited. It wasn’t until 7:52 that Anne D. pulled in. Thank god. I was thinking that maybe the guys cancelled the ride and never called me because I had said I wasn’t going to be there in the first place but when I spotted that red VW Beetle, all my fears were put to rest.
Ah.
Once Anne arrived, I started to gear up and strapped on my heart rate monitor, quickly checking my watch to see my heart taking it easy at roughly 70 beats per minute. A second later, Dr. Rob drove by followed by Lester, the crazy Pole. As soon I laid eyes on Lester, my heart rate immediately shot up to 110 or so. For whatever reason, I was sort of hoping for a ride not too nuts, but as soon as I spotted Lester’s face, all that hope vanished.
Damn.
Remarkably, though, the ride wasn’t all that nuts despite Lester’s presence. Don’t get me wrong--there are others in the group who can make my life and my heart rate miserable if they so choose, people such as Dr. Rob, Anne, Lester’s nutjob brother Robert, Mr. E. Dalton, and a host of others--but Lester tends to be the one to do . . . how should I say this?
Crazy shit. Does crazy shit work? I think it does, because that’s exactly what Lester does--crazy shit. Like sprinting down route 35 . . . in the right hand lane . . . in summer beach traffic.
Two other worthy mentions as per the attendees. Dr. Rob brought Canada Jeff. Apologies if that’s spelled G-e-o-f-f, but since I don’t know the correct spelling and considering my currently gimped-out pinky finger, let’s stick with J-e-f-f, okay? I call him Canada Jeff for the simple reason Canada Jeff hails from Canada. He’s Canadian, born and raised in Canada which, as we all know, is the correct country to blame whenever anything goes wrong here in the States, including regional blackouts and local riots in Harlem as well as Washington Heights. Other than his Canadian-ness, all I can say about Canada Jeff is that (a) he seemed like a nice guy, (b) had come to know Dr. Rob via former mountain biking excursions, and (c) he was wearing a Francaise des Jeux cycling team kit.
My apologies, Canada Jeff, but I really can’t let this slide. Myself, as an American, I severely doubt I’d be able to bring myself to wear a French team kit. Granted, at this point in my cycling career, I can’t bring myself to wear any professional team kit considering I’m about as fast as a three-legged sea turtle (and the fact that team kits tend to be a bit pricey also keeps me from investing in an actual kit, but if I did, it probably wouldn’t be a Francaise des Jeux outfit). While I do enjoy the clean simplicity of the predominantly white and blue Francaise des Jeux design, the bottom line is . . . it’s French. Most Americans, including New Yorkers, would just not go there.
Yet, Canada Jeff, you yourself explained that you live somewhere near Toronto. My understanding is that there’s a significant French population up there in the Yukon, I mean Canada. Perhaps you have French roots. Perhaps some of your immediate family if from France. If that’s the case, or if you found the kit at a disgusting, rock bottom price, then all is good. All was good to begin with, but I only raise the point as it’s not every day we see someone wearing a French racing team kit.
Okay, let’s move on.
Dr. Rob’s friend Greg was there too. I don’t know Greg’s last name but then again, I don’t know most of the guys and girls last names, so what does it matter? Greg, like Canada Jeff, is a nice guy, but he yells a lot. Myself, I’m not much of a yeller unless a car comes dangerously close (see previous post for my thoughts on that).
(Hold on a second. I’m gonna go munch on a few potato chips in the kitchen but I’ll be right back. If you want to take a break for a quick bite, I would suggest doing so now.)
All right, I’m back.
So that was the crew. With the exception of a ungodly wind blowing as we chugged our way through Sandy Hook, the ride went off, excuse the cliché, without a hitch.
And then I stopped by my parents’ place and rotated the tires on my truck. Sheer excitement.
As for today, I had the genius idea to try and ride my first century the day after the 62-mile Cheesequake ride. If you put a gun to my head and asked, “Why’d you do that?” I’d probably tell you to pull the trigger. Why’d I do it? Because sometimes smart people do dumb things. Actually, that wouldn’t apply to me, so mark it up to dumb people doing really dumb things.
Thinking it’d be more interesting to have some others along, I posted the ride last minute on the WCC site that turned out to be a great idea because a guy showed up. One guy. Just one.
No biggie. I wanted to do the ride and, at the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter if I did it alone or with others. Regardless, I did a 105 miles with Rupert, a man who has a heavy passion for both history and architecture. Until this morning, I never realized how many stone walls there are in Westchester. Once Rupert started pointing them out, well, he started pointing them out. I, my usual self, felt little need to comment. Instead, I tossed out plenty of “Oh yeahs?” and “Reallys?” as I learned that the British were never able to advance beyond Washington’s colonial forces near a certain point close to route 100.
(Despite my lack of conversation, my sarcastic, cynical nature--I know, hard to believe--was incredibly tempted to pull up next to Rupert between architectural point-outs and ask, “So. You get laid last night, buddy?”)
After two hours, we reached Pleasantville and the end of the first loop when I said, “We need to stop, Rupert, and we need to stop right now.” I was running on fumes (having forgotten to buy milk the night before so I only started out with half a bowl of Raisin Bran), so I helped myself to a bagel with butter and jelly and we hit the road again for lap number two out of three.
With 80 miles under our belts and another 35 to go, I asked Rupert, “What would you think about turning around once we reach route 22? That way we avoid all those frigging hills.”
Rupert was cool with that, but I know, I’m a loser for knocking the ride down from 115 to 100 miles, although I was beginning to reach a point where I’d glance down at my legs to see what was up, to see why they were acting the way they were, and my legs would simply frown up at me and tell me to get the damn ride over with. And when your legs reach that point, you really have to listen to what they say, otherwise they’re capable of shutting down the entire operation. If the legs go on strike, there isn’t much else you can do other than walk or call a taxi, so I slashed those last 15 miles from the ride in order to appease my sorry excuse for legs.
And it worked. I survived, albeit barely. By the time we reached the end, my legs didn’t seem much interesting in turning out a cadence much higher than 60, which is about 30-40 RPM lower than I normally pedal.
That was it. A hair over 105 miles in total. Nothing exciting happened with the exception of sighting a few deer, but that happens a lot up here. Rupert actually complained about the deer population and the deer ruining his garden until he finally installed a fence. Myself, I don’t have a garden, so the deer can munch as much corn and carrots as they please as far as I’m concerned.
As for these century rides, I don’t see myself doing a lot of these. Much too taxing. I’ll leave the long excursions to the psycho professional riders who seem to enjoy stage racing. Let them kill themselves.
[Author’s note: I know the length of this post got out of hand, as they normally do, but I can’t help myself. With that said, I would suggest printing the post and reading it on the printed page, which is infinitely easier than reading off the screen.]
Oh. Hey. If you want to watch something really, really funny, CLICK HERE.
Today, I went out and did 105 miles up here in Westchester with one other member of the Westchester Cycling Club, all of which means I have to finish this update as quickly as humanly possible so I can spend the rest of the day relaxing in bed.
Oy. I spent so much time leaning on my hands today that as I type this, my left pinky finger is refusing to cooperate. And around 2:30, after a shower and a meal that could have fed at least two or three hundred Ethiopian children, I was laying in bed for a power nap when a charley horse sprang up along the inside of my thigh, causing me to scream like a bitch as I jumped out of bed and hobbled from one side of my room to the other. Then, after thirty seconds or so of excruciating pain (I would liken the experience to giving birth, but my frame of reference for such an analogy would cause me to lose all credibility), the cramp simply disappeared, yet it left a little leave-behind. Two hours later, I can still feel something along the inside of my thigh, like a charley horse calling card, constantly reminding me that if Mr. Charley Horse so pleases, he can easily cripple me with little to no warning.
Goddam that guy.
Anyway, the Cheesequake ride yesterday. Dr. Rob called the previous night with an invite. “Can’t do it, buddy,” I explained. “Already have riding plans for tomorrow,” but then, after pressing END on my phone, my pea-sized brain began to churn. You’re spending the night in the city, jackhole, so why not drive in with your bike and your gear and head down to Jersey the following morning?
Not a bad idea, said one of the other voices in my head. Not a bad idea at all, Mr. Donaldson.
At 7:45 Saturday morning, I rolled into the commuter lot and waited. It wasn’t until 7:52 that Anne D. pulled in. Thank god. I was thinking that maybe the guys cancelled the ride and never called me because I had said I wasn’t going to be there in the first place but when I spotted that red VW Beetle, all my fears were put to rest.
Ah.
Once Anne arrived, I started to gear up and strapped on my heart rate monitor, quickly checking my watch to see my heart taking it easy at roughly 70 beats per minute. A second later, Dr. Rob drove by followed by Lester, the crazy Pole. As soon I laid eyes on Lester, my heart rate immediately shot up to 110 or so. For whatever reason, I was sort of hoping for a ride not too nuts, but as soon as I spotted Lester’s face, all that hope vanished.
Damn.
Remarkably, though, the ride wasn’t all that nuts despite Lester’s presence. Don’t get me wrong--there are others in the group who can make my life and my heart rate miserable if they so choose, people such as Dr. Rob, Anne, Lester’s nutjob brother Robert, Mr. E. Dalton, and a host of others--but Lester tends to be the one to do . . . how should I say this?
Crazy shit. Does crazy shit work? I think it does, because that’s exactly what Lester does--crazy shit. Like sprinting down route 35 . . . in the right hand lane . . . in summer beach traffic.
Two other worthy mentions as per the attendees. Dr. Rob brought Canada Jeff. Apologies if that’s spelled G-e-o-f-f, but since I don’t know the correct spelling and considering my currently gimped-out pinky finger, let’s stick with J-e-f-f, okay? I call him Canada Jeff for the simple reason Canada Jeff hails from Canada. He’s Canadian, born and raised in Canada which, as we all know, is the correct country to blame whenever anything goes wrong here in the States, including regional blackouts and local riots in Harlem as well as Washington Heights. Other than his Canadian-ness, all I can say about Canada Jeff is that (a) he seemed like a nice guy, (b) had come to know Dr. Rob via former mountain biking excursions, and (c) he was wearing a Francaise des Jeux cycling team kit.
My apologies, Canada Jeff, but I really can’t let this slide. Myself, as an American, I severely doubt I’d be able to bring myself to wear a French team kit. Granted, at this point in my cycling career, I can’t bring myself to wear any professional team kit considering I’m about as fast as a three-legged sea turtle (and the fact that team kits tend to be a bit pricey also keeps me from investing in an actual kit, but if I did, it probably wouldn’t be a Francaise des Jeux outfit). While I do enjoy the clean simplicity of the predominantly white and blue Francaise des Jeux design, the bottom line is . . . it’s French. Most Americans, including New Yorkers, would just not go there.
Yet, Canada Jeff, you yourself explained that you live somewhere near Toronto. My understanding is that there’s a significant French population up there in the Yukon, I mean Canada. Perhaps you have French roots. Perhaps some of your immediate family if from France. If that’s the case, or if you found the kit at a disgusting, rock bottom price, then all is good. All was good to begin with, but I only raise the point as it’s not every day we see someone wearing a French racing team kit.
Okay, let’s move on.
Dr. Rob’s friend Greg was there too. I don’t know Greg’s last name but then again, I don’t know most of the guys and girls last names, so what does it matter? Greg, like Canada Jeff, is a nice guy, but he yells a lot. Myself, I’m not much of a yeller unless a car comes dangerously close (see previous post for my thoughts on that).
(Hold on a second. I’m gonna go munch on a few potato chips in the kitchen but I’ll be right back. If you want to take a break for a quick bite, I would suggest doing so now.)
All right, I’m back.
So that was the crew. With the exception of a ungodly wind blowing as we chugged our way through Sandy Hook, the ride went off, excuse the cliché, without a hitch.
And then I stopped by my parents’ place and rotated the tires on my truck. Sheer excitement.
As for today, I had the genius idea to try and ride my first century the day after the 62-mile Cheesequake ride. If you put a gun to my head and asked, “Why’d you do that?” I’d probably tell you to pull the trigger. Why’d I do it? Because sometimes smart people do dumb things. Actually, that wouldn’t apply to me, so mark it up to dumb people doing really dumb things.
Thinking it’d be more interesting to have some others along, I posted the ride last minute on the WCC site that turned out to be a great idea because a guy showed up. One guy. Just one.
No biggie. I wanted to do the ride and, at the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter if I did it alone or with others. Regardless, I did a 105 miles with Rupert, a man who has a heavy passion for both history and architecture. Until this morning, I never realized how many stone walls there are in Westchester. Once Rupert started pointing them out, well, he started pointing them out. I, my usual self, felt little need to comment. Instead, I tossed out plenty of “Oh yeahs?” and “Reallys?” as I learned that the British were never able to advance beyond Washington’s colonial forces near a certain point close to route 100.
(Despite my lack of conversation, my sarcastic, cynical nature--I know, hard to believe--was incredibly tempted to pull up next to Rupert between architectural point-outs and ask, “So. You get laid last night, buddy?”)
After two hours, we reached Pleasantville and the end of the first loop when I said, “We need to stop, Rupert, and we need to stop right now.” I was running on fumes (having forgotten to buy milk the night before so I only started out with half a bowl of Raisin Bran), so I helped myself to a bagel with butter and jelly and we hit the road again for lap number two out of three.
With 80 miles under our belts and another 35 to go, I asked Rupert, “What would you think about turning around once we reach route 22? That way we avoid all those frigging hills.”
Rupert was cool with that, but I know, I’m a loser for knocking the ride down from 115 to 100 miles, although I was beginning to reach a point where I’d glance down at my legs to see what was up, to see why they were acting the way they were, and my legs would simply frown up at me and tell me to get the damn ride over with. And when your legs reach that point, you really have to listen to what they say, otherwise they’re capable of shutting down the entire operation. If the legs go on strike, there isn’t much else you can do other than walk or call a taxi, so I slashed those last 15 miles from the ride in order to appease my sorry excuse for legs.
And it worked. I survived, albeit barely. By the time we reached the end, my legs didn’t seem much interesting in turning out a cadence much higher than 60, which is about 30-40 RPM lower than I normally pedal.
That was it. A hair over 105 miles in total. Nothing exciting happened with the exception of sighting a few deer, but that happens a lot up here. Rupert actually complained about the deer population and the deer ruining his garden until he finally installed a fence. Myself, I don’t have a garden, so the deer can munch as much corn and carrots as they please as far as I’m concerned.
As for these century rides, I don’t see myself doing a lot of these. Much too taxing. I’ll leave the long excursions to the psycho professional riders who seem to enjoy stage racing. Let them kill themselves.
[Author’s note: I know the length of this post got out of hand, as they normally do, but I can’t help myself. With that said, I would suggest printing the post and reading it on the printed page, which is infinitely easier than reading off the screen.]
Oh. Hey. If you want to watch something really, really funny, CLICK HERE.
Friday, August 17
To All of THEM
I went for a ride last night and some punk yelled something at me from the backseat of a shitty car with tinted windows. The kid didn’t even have the cojones to open the window and show his face while he was yelling at me. I didn’t catch the first part of what he said, but I definitely caught the end which include the word assh*le.
At the time, it aggravated me to no end. I yelled back, of course, inviting this particular punk, as well as his three friends, to step out of the car and say it again, but you know how these things work. Everybody, and I mean everybody, is so tough when they’re sitting in a ton of metal yelling at someone twice their size on a bicycle. I’ve only been riding a little over a year, although I’m yet to find myself in a situation in which one of my invites to stop the car is actually heeded and the driver actually steps out. Says a lot, doesn’t it?
Regardless, I want to take a moment to address all the teenage jackasses who have cute things to say from behind tinted windows. I want to address all the middle-aged and elderly drivers out there (women, mostly, but who wants to be labeled sexist?) who don’t even realize they’ve just come about three inches from killing me as they whiz by at fifty miles-per-hour. (And it’s the fact that they don’t even realize what they’ve done that gets my goose.) I want to say something to all those people who race a few feet ahead of me so they don’t have to slow down as they make that right-hand turn without a blinker, cutting three feet in front of me. I also have a few words for those people who feel it’s necessary to honk when they’re behind me, as if leaning on the horn is going to scare me into the curb just so they can pass and get to the shopping mall nine seconds faster than they would if they had waited for me. What are these choice words I have for all these morons?
Fuck you! Fuck you very much!
At the time, it aggravated me to no end. I yelled back, of course, inviting this particular punk, as well as his three friends, to step out of the car and say it again, but you know how these things work. Everybody, and I mean everybody, is so tough when they’re sitting in a ton of metal yelling at someone twice their size on a bicycle. I’ve only been riding a little over a year, although I’m yet to find myself in a situation in which one of my invites to stop the car is actually heeded and the driver actually steps out. Says a lot, doesn’t it?
Regardless, I want to take a moment to address all the teenage jackasses who have cute things to say from behind tinted windows. I want to address all the middle-aged and elderly drivers out there (women, mostly, but who wants to be labeled sexist?) who don’t even realize they’ve just come about three inches from killing me as they whiz by at fifty miles-per-hour. (And it’s the fact that they don’t even realize what they’ve done that gets my goose.) I want to say something to all those people who race a few feet ahead of me so they don’t have to slow down as they make that right-hand turn without a blinker, cutting three feet in front of me. I also have a few words for those people who feel it’s necessary to honk when they’re behind me, as if leaning on the horn is going to scare me into the curb just so they can pass and get to the shopping mall nine seconds faster than they would if they had waited for me. What are these choice words I have for all these morons?
Fuck you! Fuck you very much!
Monday, August 6
Did You See That?
This past Saturday evening, I set my alarm for 6 AM. The original plan was to get out of bed early on Sunday, hit the road for a few hours, and then get back home before the day began in earnest. All that would have worked if, around eleven Saturday night, I hadn’t decided to turn off the alarm and sleep to my heart’s content.
So rather than take a group ride up here in the woods of Westchester, I loaded the bike into the truck and drove up to Bear Mountain for more climbing repeats as riding up and down a 4.5 mile hill never fails to serve as terrific entertainment. Am I right or am I right?
After spending thirty minutes climbing to the top, I took a few slugs from my water bottle, spent another ten minutes cruising to the bottom, and when I reached 9W, I turned around to begin the process all over again. Less than five minutes into the second ascent, I glanced up to see a shiny black bear on the side of the road staring straight at me.
Now hold on! First thing first. I’m proud to say I did not lose control of my bladder. This wasn’t a full-grown bear. The black bear that stood no more than twenty-five feet ahead of me looked more like a teenager and I say teenager as it was definitely not a cub and it was definitely not as big as I would imagine a full-grown bear to be. If I had to compare it to something, I’d say it was about the size of a big dog, like a big Labrador with meaty legs. Does that help paint a clear picture? I hope it does because that’s about as much effort as I’m putting into that description.
So there I am on my bike pedaling up Bear Mountain when a bear walks into the road. In hindsight, I probably should have glanced at my heart rate monitor to see how my cardiovascular system reacted to such a situation, although my brain placed a higher priority on avoiding a potential When Animals Attack situation, so rather than check and see how a bear sighting might have been messing with my heart rate, I stopped pedaling, hit the brakes, and was halfway through cutting a U-turn when the bear turned and ran back through the bushes.
And that was it. That’s all that happened. After waiting half a minute, I started back up the hill again. Just as I reached the spot where the bear had been standing, a car came around the bend heading in the opposite direction.
“Did you see that?” I asked the driver as we both slowed. I had to make sure it wasn’t my imagination because, you know, my imagination had a tendency to just flare up like that at times.
The rest of the ride, I’m happy to report, was uneventful, unless you want to include a lot of heavy breathing and sweating on my behalf as I labored my way to the top of the mountain again and again, yet the lesson to be learned from this experience is simple. Whenever you take a ride outside the suburbs into the mountains, bring plenty of water, food, and a gun.
So rather than take a group ride up here in the woods of Westchester, I loaded the bike into the truck and drove up to Bear Mountain for more climbing repeats as riding up and down a 4.5 mile hill never fails to serve as terrific entertainment. Am I right or am I right?
After spending thirty minutes climbing to the top, I took a few slugs from my water bottle, spent another ten minutes cruising to the bottom, and when I reached 9W, I turned around to begin the process all over again. Less than five minutes into the second ascent, I glanced up to see a shiny black bear on the side of the road staring straight at me.
Now hold on! First thing first. I’m proud to say I did not lose control of my bladder. This wasn’t a full-grown bear. The black bear that stood no more than twenty-five feet ahead of me looked more like a teenager and I say teenager as it was definitely not a cub and it was definitely not as big as I would imagine a full-grown bear to be. If I had to compare it to something, I’d say it was about the size of a big dog, like a big Labrador with meaty legs. Does that help paint a clear picture? I hope it does because that’s about as much effort as I’m putting into that description.
So there I am on my bike pedaling up Bear Mountain when a bear walks into the road. In hindsight, I probably should have glanced at my heart rate monitor to see how my cardiovascular system reacted to such a situation, although my brain placed a higher priority on avoiding a potential When Animals Attack situation, so rather than check and see how a bear sighting might have been messing with my heart rate, I stopped pedaling, hit the brakes, and was halfway through cutting a U-turn when the bear turned and ran back through the bushes.
And that was it. That’s all that happened. After waiting half a minute, I started back up the hill again. Just as I reached the spot where the bear had been standing, a car came around the bend heading in the opposite direction.
“Did you see that?” I asked the driver as we both slowed. I had to make sure it wasn’t my imagination because, you know, my imagination had a tendency to just flare up like that at times.
The rest of the ride, I’m happy to report, was uneventful, unless you want to include a lot of heavy breathing and sweating on my behalf as I labored my way to the top of the mountain again and again, yet the lesson to be learned from this experience is simple. Whenever you take a ride outside the suburbs into the mountains, bring plenty of water, food, and a gun.
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