Hills of Sunday Mornings

Okay - so I'm trying to learn the sonnet form so I thought I'd write a description of our ride as a poem. So here goes, just for a laugh!

Sunday Riders

We parked and locked cars off highway 95
A morning so blue only a cloud could pity
The cyclists flew like bees freed from the hive
Flat ground giving way to Ellicott city

The usual threesome and Laurie a rider
Who only comes out for the long and the hilly
Soon arrived at a rise that would test carbon fiber
Empty your lungs and spin your legs silly

Up switchbacks where turns take a turn for the worse
Where you pray "one more gear" and find none
And just when it feels time to call for a hearse
The summit is reached - the climbing is done

Even one foreign to queue sheets knows when to stop
For a Sunday morning bagel at a small coffee shop

Here's our friend and hill compatriot, Laurie L:

Top of the Morning

What can I say. If you've never hoisted a bike up a seemingly endless stream of switchbacks to get to the top of a mountain ridge, you don't know what your missing. Here's the ridge itself. Dosen't look so bad from the ground!

Return of the Rest Stop

So many stores with no names on the rural roads we ride. Sometimes selling nightcrawlers. Some with bathrooms and some without. Gatorade - Red Bull. Maybe a power bar and we're out of there.

A lot of these stores struggle and eventually go out of business and off the queue sheet. This one was long ago given up for dead. It sits in the tiny town at the foot of the climb up the Blue Ridge. So it was with great joy that we found it reopened and ready for Sunday morning business. I don't think anyone bought any laying hens, but a cup of hot coffee and friendly conversation were definitely on the menu. Good luck and welcome back.

If God was a Cyclist...

All roads would have the smoothest asphalt. Every switchback would bring to you the top of the hill. Rain would be confined to night. The Devil would have a special place for hotheaded drivers where they would be eternally stuck behind an infinite column of cars just like their own. In the end, your carbon fiber soul would be taken up to heaven drafting a team of angels consisting of the greatest Tour winners. And of course, there would be no flat tires!