Riding my bike up Page Mill Road yesterday, I was reconsidering some recent decisions I’d made: breakfast, my morning ab workout, and yesterday’s absinthe on the flight out here.
As I was riding, I was reminded of a difference between VA and my native CA: bike riders here say hello. They even say good morning on occasion. The first time someone did it, I almost fell over. That could have been because I was traveling about .5 mph up a 10% grade with my heart hammering like a hyperventilating hummingbird’s, but I really think it was the shock of having my presence acknowledged, then being spoken to. What the–?
Then there was the guy who ate his energy goo, then dropped the wrapper on the road. He bent down and dropped it by his shoe, just like pro racers do in the peloton. But, you know what, pal? People come along after the peloton passes and sweep all that crap up. Not so much behind you. If you were a that good, you would have been in Italy yesterday, riding to Bologna. To keep my sense of self-identity, I’m assuming he’s an invasive species, not a native Californian.
Here’s where I’m going this morning to find more friendly riders–hopefully non-litterbugs–and recover