I pulled the bike up to the porch, just ahead of the impending downpour. I was out of breath, muscles trembling from the all-out effort of the last five miles. I executed a near flawless flying dismount, shouldered the bike, and vaulted up the steps, just seconds ahead of the deluge.
Harry was standing there, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “How was it?” He asked.
How was it? I’ll tell you how it was!
I’d started riding fairly late in the day. It was hot, and I was sweat blinded as I stopped at the very first traffic light. The bike wasn’t shifting right. It kept jumping right past second gear. I’d try to shift back down to it, and it would skip down to first. When I tried for second again, it would skip up to fourth. Grr.
About four miles outside of town, I flatted. On the rear. I was running sew-ups then. Big fun. And, of course, there was no shade readily available. But I was determined to get this ride in.
I found the offending bit of glass, marked the spot, and went to work repairing the thing. In those days I carried a patch kit, extra rim glue in a tube, a small sewing kit. After what seemed like two or three eternities, I had the thing back together, pumped up, and seemed to be holding.
One benefit from the flat stop. The bike seemed to be shifting better after the rear wheel was installed.
The long climb up Smith’s Hill had me really cooked. It was hot! Sweat pouring into my eyes. I was afraid to roll over the top. I couldn’t see. I knew the descent would cool me down, but I’d crash first. So I pulled to the side, put a foot down, dowsed my face with water and scrubbed at my eyes with my bandana. The descent was marvelous.
About 25 miles into the ride, I ran out of water. I was in the middle of nowhere in particular. Five miles later, parched and gasping, I filled bottles at a spigot in a churchyard.
By then the clouds I been noticing seemed to start coalescing. Thunder was rumbling. We were gonna get some “widely scattered” alright.
I was working my way through a tight, narrow valley, with the sky turning ominous, when the front flatted. Nothing for it, but to go to work. Deliberate haste. Smooth and slow is fast. I was just packing the last of the tire repair gear when the bottom dropped out. Soaked to the bone and chilled to the core in an instant, I was.
The climb up out of the valley was brutal, rain hitting hard enough to hurt, visibility almost impossible. The descent down the other side was an exercise in flirtation with hypothermia.
As often happens in the mountains in August, the rain went away, just as I got to the bottom of the grade. The sun came out, and it was instantly a Turkish bath on the road. It was hot, incredibly humid, water and muck being thrown by passing cars and trucks. But, after an hour of this, I was dry (sort of) and not the least chilled. Time to turn for home.
Another long grinder of a climb, with the seat accumulating, lungs seared, legs growing trembly, that electric tingle in the arms, vision tunneling. A nice, but too short descent followed.
That descent almost got me. A tourist pulling a big Airstream trailer (a rig far too big for the Buick towing it) just about swatted me into the ditch.
Finally! Nothing but a five mile series of rollers to run, and I’d be home. Of course, the storm clouds were gathering again. After a mile the lightning was cracking and getting closer. Easy to tell this. See the flash and start counting seconds. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand… Six seconds to the mile. Not much worry until the strikes are within three miles. That seemed to happen pretty quick. Still four miles to go, and the sky was black, and the lightning was hitting within a mile. Time to give it all I had…
“How was it?” Harry asked.
I paused and thought about it, then I replied, “It was great!”
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