The Burnt Car Loop 2

Yesterday, I poached a ride with Keith. I told my wife I was going to the shop to get some work done. I promised to come home and perform domestic chores. I did go to the shop. I did attempt to tidy up some loose ends. And then Keith called. I had forgotten about our tentative plan to ride. In an instant I conveniently forgot my committment to my darling signifgant other. She was there, I was here. My bike was here. The trails were here. And Keith would soon be here.

With a shrug of resignation to the predestined aspect of this day, I quickly changed, found a helmet and off we went. Our ride was a re-run of our night ride last Thursday, only we added in the Old Folks Home downhill. This ride I scooted along on legs twenty years younger. This ride, I was in a groove. Every technical section I nailed and when we hit a downstroke, I left Keith like he was standing still. Well, not really. But I was in front and that is not the way most of our rides pan out.

That brutal creek crossing on the Burnt Car Loop. No problem. Keith watched me make it, and then he did also. Neither one of us remembering the last time we cleaned that section completely. The Old Folks downhill is a trail that dumps into the parking lot of an assisted living complex. It is only challenging if it is hammered full bore. But get up to 20 miles an hour and pedal hard through the couple of rises and it will deliver plenty of pucker factor. This day, I stayed on Keith's wheel and wished he would get out of the way.

As we whooped it into the parking lot of the retirment home, we startled an old lady sitting in the sun sucking on a butt. Keith, the ever friendly guy, decides to engage in conversation. As the niceties were exchanged, I realized we were helping to make this lady's day. Something out of the ordinary for her to discuss with her buds. Two crazed looking guys on bicycles bunny hopping onto the parking lot. We left her smiling.

The negative result of playing hooky was a cold shoulder at home when all the chores I managed to do were the ones I dreamed about when I passed out on the couch. Ah domestic bliss.