Bringing a knife to a Gunfight.

"Ain't it just like a *** (person of Italian American extraction) to bring a knife to a gunfight?"

---Sean Connery, "The Untouchables"

Last Sunday I went for a ride in Michigan. The ride was the annual Apple Cider Century. I was supposed to do the 100 miles, but then my sidekick dropped out and the thought of 100 miles on my own and only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to look forward to somewhat tempered my enthusiasm. And I forgot to bring the right bike. Instead of a road bike to eat up the miles at speed, I had my Tricross, which has many virtues, but speed isn?t one of them. And I am not the fastest rider myself. So the brilliant fall day became a succession of "Left", "Left!" and more "Left"s, with the occasional "On your left" thrown in for spice. I was passed by all the expected young hard bodies who had trained all year, heads low and bums high on the hills, new gear (not just the bikes) and, of course, not breaking a sweat. Then I was passed by larger bodies, more than zaftig let us say, more than large-boned even: very well padded, but pumping powerfully away from me. Even a young kid on a BMX went zooming ahead. I must have a different engine, I thought. Let's see, there is fast twitch and slow twitch. Maybe I am no twitch? What was I on my last birthday? Ah...
Turning south someone shouted "Who opened the window?" as the wind became full frontal. "Concentrate on enjoying this," I told myself. "What did you say?" myself answered, "I was busy trying to regain circulation in my right hand." As the roads diverged towards 100 and 75, I chose 62. At the end, we were stopped across the road from the finish, Route 12, where cops were directing traffic. When they gave us the signal to cross, I rose majestically on the Tricross, flexing muscles and looking strong, but inside with the relief of a horse eyeing the stable. Suddenly I found my right shoe caught in the pedal clips. Down I went, slowly, inevitably, ludicrously, ingloriously, slow-motionly, publicly. Crashing at the last 5 yards. I picked up myself and what was left of my dignity ("Are you all right, sir?" asked the underage policeman far too loudly), and went home for a bottle of wine.

At least I know how to finish a ride.