I doubt that the pilgrims to Canterbury rode bicycles in a headwind. I don't know if their faith would have survived the experience.
Or maybe it would have. Maybe my problem is the absence of a hooly blissful martyr for to seke as the purpose of riding my bike. Riding is excellent for its own sake, though, and for testing ones fortitude, prowesse and hardynesse. And if the wind doesn't start blowing against you until you're 20 - 30 miles into a 40 - 50 mile ride, then there's nothing for it but to keep riding that day, and think better of doing so the following day, as I did when we were at the coast a week and a half ago (so long, already?)
I looked at the calendar last Friday and realized that my Tour of the Unknown Coast ride was five weeks away. As Chaucer would say (if he were trying to watch his language), Hooly Cowe.
2 comments:
A bykere ther was and she a comely maid,
who from the gette-go did attack the grade;
Al othere folke did pump and wheeze behynde
And hir litle dogge did chaunt in the wynde.
Bryght was hir helmet ond smoothe hir bryght face,
Ever she rode bifor, in premier place.
And French she spak ful faire and with a sighe,
After the scole of Brigham atte Wye.
Swetely soonge she ancienne balladrye,
And she was cleped by all Dame Emilye.
If only I'd paid more attention in school I could craft a witty response befitting the charming wit of the original post and its response. All I am left with is, "Go, Sister!!"
Post a Comment