“First things first. Your business is life, not death. Follow me. Pursue life.”
Matthew 8:22 (context)
I was going to write a blog about how awful my week has been this week to explain why I haven’t updated for a while now, but then I realized nobody would want to read that. We all have bad weeks. I also rode 72 miles today to Nashua, NH, but I very much doubt anybody wants to read about that, either. So that’s that.
When I was in high school, Mom wanted to listen to NPR in the morning on the way to school. Colleen and I complained and howled about how boring it was. In fact, in some of the few moments of solidarity we experienced for many tumultuous years, we preferred to set aside our individual musical preferences and ride in silence for 30 minutes rather than listen to NPR. Even so, Mom prevailed occasionally, and after I left home I never thought I’d want to listen to NPR again.
Oddly, though, in the last few weeks, Ian and I started listening to and enjoying to our local NPR station. I like the diverse topics covered—everything from a program on bells (I was disappointed that we arrived at our destination before we could hear the promised bells underwater) to a discussion of cheerleaders at cricket matches to political assessments—and hearing local, national, and international news. I find something compelling about the smooth flow of words coming from the speakers. We listen to Prairie Home Companion on Saturday evenings (when we remember), and All Things Considered or whatever’s on when we drive around. Then sometimes we discuss what we’ve heard, and have whole conversations with NPR topics as jumping-off points.
Does that make us middle-aged yuppies?
I saw a plywood cut-out of a Scottie dog squatting over with a little poop coming out of it. Across the dog’s body was written the word NO in huge red letters.
Riding on a crappy road—one of those remarkably horrible roads that seems to be all patches on top of patches, with lots of deep cracks among them—that set my teeth a-chattering from the vibration, I came upon a house that had set up a big sign in their front yard: “REPAVE GOLDSMITH STREET. IT’S AN EMBARRASSMENT TO OUR TOWN.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Eight miles later, the road I was supposed to take ended, just next to a huge transfer station. A rusty gate hung across a dirt and gravel path that looked beautifully suited to mountain biking. That necessitated a hasty consultation with Ian, who gave me instructions that I boiled down to this, since I couldn’t remember all the street names:
Unsurprisingly, I got lost. Fortunately, the wrong road eventually encountered Route 113, which was on my map and got me back on track.
Please help me raise money for the MS Bike Tour Cape Cod Getaway. Donate today on my MS Participant page.