Dark, Damp and HL

Tuesday morning, for the first time ever, I drove to Jefferson Playground for the levee ride. My two experiences riding out on River Road to levee access near Causeway Blvd. in total darkness, once aggravated by fog, were exceedingly unpleasant. With Daylight Savings Time recently going into effect, 6:00 a.m. Tuesday didn't look any different than midnight, and I was happy with the decision to drive. On the way, I went through a very light shower which caused me to check the weather radar after I parked. There was a broad patch of light rain being shown offshore, south of Lafayette, moving at a good clip toward New Orleans but nothing in the immediate area.

View toward New Orleans at the Little Dip

 Once I got a picture of the dramatis personae at the start -- Woody, Robert, Daniel, Randy, Ray, Max, Big Rich, Big Scott, Vega, CA Rick, and HL -- I knew it wasn't going to be quite the ride I was hoping for when I loaded the bike into the car. I'm not claiming any form of unnatural prescience, I've just been there before -- mix HL's intractable compulsion to surge each and every time he's on the front on each and every ride in any and all conditions with cyclists who have the ability and willingness to play his game, e.g. Woody, Robert, Daniel, et al., and the result, for me at least, is an uncomfortable and usually unsustainable situation. This is especially so in pitch-black conditions, considering my documented history of being susceptible to the howling fantods anytime I'm required to ride blind at better than 28 mph through meandering dogs on long leashes and oncoming unlit, or overly lit, cyclists.

The rotation brought me to the front just west of the country club. I immediately pulled off and drifted to the back. I ended up in front of Vega and CA Rick. I learned later CA Rick was trailed off the back in the natural yo-yo caused by those on the front accelerating out of the small chicane at the new pump-to-the-river pipe crossing, east of Florida Street. Nearing Williams Blvd., I could see the intensity of shadows cast by Vega's super-bright headlight slowly fading to nothing. He was gone. Then Daniel, who was turning at the parish line, decided to show HL that he (Daniel) could take one last sustained, half-mile pull at HL's 20-second-surge speed. It was definitely time to stick the proverbial fork in me.

I slowed to recover until Vega came up and we rode together to the Little Dip. He continued west while I turned for home. As the accompanying images show it was still very dark. On the way in, the fog/mist turned to light rain, but I made it back to the car before it really started coming down.

I received a report later in the day that HL continued his antics, busting the group into pieces on the way in, even resorting to verbal attacks whenever anyone refused to play his see-if-you-can-take-this-surge game. Apparently, Ray, having had quite enough of the taunting, invited HL to join him on a little run.

Oh, how I'd love to see that!

View of Mississippi River batture at the Little Dip

[Note: This blog isn't intended to disparage or offend anyone. If anything herein is believed to be inaccurate or offensive, please leave a comment. Any such comment may change nothing, but will be stark evidence of your right to free expression of thought and opinion, much as this blog evidences mine. Thanks for visiting.]

Late for the Sunday Giro

Sunday's Giro was largely uneventful. The morning started strangely for me. I failed to reset the only two clocks (oven clock and bedside alarm clock) in my house which aren't connected to computers and reset automatically. And although I awoke hours before I needed to, I somehow managed to avoid looking at the ten clocks on two desktops, two laptops, two iPhones, an iPad, and three cable boxes, and relied instead on my oven clock as I sauntered around my kitchen, quite relaxed and unhurried, waiting for my second cup of coffee to heat in the microwave. I returned to my desk and perused a couple of articles about the shake-ups in the Saints roster. I checked the weather observation from Lakefront Airport. And then, for reasons unknown, I happened to glance up at the cable box sitting atop my TV and got most of the way through a double-take before realizing why the box read 6:25 -- daylight savings time. Damn. I usually leave my house by 6:30, and I hadn't started getting ready to go.

 I got away from my house at 6:45, and debated whether I could make it to my normal parking spot on Killdeer and then to the swim hole for 7:08, which is about when the Giro gets there. I decided to play it safe and park at Elysian Fields. At Nashville and Willow Street, about 12 blocks from my house, I saw a cyclist with an orange argyle kit (Ben, I think) heading toward the lake. It was 6:54. I wanted to find out where he caught the Giro because he couldn't have made it to the start, but I never got the opportunity to ask during the ride.

When I got on my bike I started soft pedaling east and ended up at the top of the Casino Bridge waiting for the group. Soon, I was joined by the OWNHB. Do you recall I indicated in the first paragraph that my morning started strangely?

I had an interesting conversation with the OWNHB, but I couldn't follow everything he was telling me sufficiently to relate it here with any degree of accuracy. He talked about the most famous European track cyclists training in the draft of motorcycles at 50 mph (40 mph for women), a largely equivalent workout he has devised locally involving a wildly geared bike and doing repeats from the top of the Casino Bridge, but only on the left fork, going to the casino, and only six repeats.

I keep nodding and looking back toward the west hoping to see the group appear. "They're late," I said.

"They're afraid of me. I'm too fast for them," he responded.

When the group finally did appear I learned that Max had a flat at the bridge over Bayou St. John. Max showed me his bloodied hand. I asked him if he had fallen, and he said it was the flat. Zipp 101s must bite because his hand was a bloody mess.

Nothing else of note occurred on the ride. The weather was perfect with calm winds and temperatures in the upper 50s. I was struck with how pleasant the ride was compared to last week's Giro which had split into several pieces both ways. The personalities present yesterday were almost identical to the previous week with the notable exceptions of Brett and Woody. But I've been on many pleasant rides when they were present. So I am at a loss.

Notes: Rob was present on a TT bike but was only seen on Hayne. HL beat the OWNHB in the Chevron sprint.

[Note: This blog isn't intended to disparage or offend anyone. If anything herein is believed to be inaccurate or offensive, please leave a comment. Any such comment may change nothing, but will be stark evidence of your right to free expression of thought and opinion, much as this blog evidences mine. Thanks for visiting.]

Sunday Giro -- Fast and Fragmented

Sunday morning's weather was pleasant, at least insofar as temperatures go, with a range of 62° - 69° during the ride. Not so pleasant was the direction of the 12 mph wind -- SSE. It was the sort of wind that doesn't look bad on paper (or a computer monitor), but made for a rather nasty crossing wind for most of the trip out to Venetian Isles and back. I hadn't ridden my bike for ten days, and with only two 75-minute swims during the layoff, I was keenly interested in the who and how-many would show up for the Giro.

From atop the rise₁ in Lakeshore Dr. at the west end of the Swim Hole, where Big Rich and I (and this week, after a notable absence, with CA Rick) usually wait for the group, the first impression one gets of the Giro is the how-many, as a line of silhouetted cyclists shoots out from behind the levee and flickers past the serial trunks of the pine trees west of Shelter No.2. I estimated about 30 riders. As the pack rounded the bend and began up the little incline toward us, I could see most of the usual suspects, perhaps a little heavier on the muscle than most Sundays, and holding true to the recent trend of an increasing number of riders who could be my kids if I had started a family after reaching middle age.

On the warm-up to the bridges I asked Vega about Saturday's Giro, trying to get a sense of the level of pent-up testosterone and the freshness of legs among those present. He said it was only half as large and he had hung on until near the end of the trip home, all of which sounded to me as if Saturday's Giro wasn't a killer and a lot of people were too busy doing Mardi Gras to ride, and all of which was, of course, not good.

Once we got going on Hayne the pace steadily increased and people started getting trailed off the back. I rode the centerline all the way to Paris Road with my head down and chest glued to my top tube. The pace and my level of stress at the turn onto Paris prevented me from moving up in the group like I wanted to, and any respite I thought we'd get turning into a headwind didn't seem to materialize. The wind was about 150° -- at best on our left shoulders while on Paris/510 -- and I was breathing hard and dodging the sleep bumps in the gutter going south. So while the pace was somewhat reduced once we turned off Hayne, the effort certainly was not. When I looked up coming off the raised portion of 510, I was in a group of about nine who had been gapped. With the speed of the leaders and the wind, I knew immediately we weren't going to reconnect. But we had plenty of muscle -- the OWNHB (wnhb)₂, Noel, Chip, among others, and we maintained a quick enough pace going out that I had to skip more than a few pulls.

The trouble with working hard chasing a faster, stronger group for 10 miles to a turnaround is that you eventually get to the turnaround and have to turn with the faster, stronger group which has been sitting up enjoying a snack and a drink for four or five minutes while you've been working. As my group turned and re-integrated, near the pee tree, HL made a comment that Rich would have to do a supplemental report for the blog.

When things started to ramp up coming in, there was a perceptible nervousness in the pack. I could hear Keith N. somewhere behind me admonishing someone not to let anyone cut into the line, as almost everyone was in the gutter and people were trying to move up to better positions. The speed seemed to go up and up and up, until, just past Little Vietnam, I was done and moved a little left into the wind and threw an elbow for people to come around me. Nothing. Another elbow. More nothing. I looked behind me and there was only empty highway. So I stood up and tried to accelerate thinking I might get back on, but my lungs had another idea, objecting in the strongest possible terms.

I could see HL just up the road, and as I passed the intersection at the Chevron station, a group of about 10 cyclists came by me like there was a fire somewhere. It caught me a little off guard and I found myself having to chase. Chip and Keith McD. turned into the service road but most went straight toward Bullard. I went straight but may not have made it to those guys if HL hadn't waited for me and pulled me up.

Once we got onto Bullard, HL got antsy and upped the pace. Most were pretty cooked and weren't interested, but I got onto HL's wheel and he pulled me to Hayne and for a couple of more miles until he signaled me to go around him, which I was happy to do, but was wondering why we were riding at an uncomfortable pace (at least for me) when we were a long way ahead of everyone. So when he came back around me, I slowed and let him ride off of my wheel. As I was climbing up the Casino Bridge a little pack of about seven or eight strongmen came screaming by. I didn't even think about trying to latch on. I never saw anyone else on the ride in until I was turning off of Lakeshore Dr. onto Beauregard Ave. and Mignon, who was now just behind me, alone, told me to have a good day.

As I was driving out of Killdeer, after talking for a little while with my friend George and changing, I saw Rich and CA Rick just coming off Lakeshore. My sense is that there were single riders and numerous little groups strewn over miles of New Orleans East for much of the Giro going both ways. Since I rarely saw the front of the group, I can only surmise as to the principal cause of the shattered morning ride. My best guess is young Ben and his orange-clad allies agitating the likes of Brett, Woody, and perhaps a couple of others -- the kind of behavior which, in the good old days, always irked Old Joe. He couldn't understand why anyone would want to "poke a snake with a stick" or "kick an ant pile."

I got no supplemental report from Big Rich about the ride out (as HL had suggested) only his profile (see below) and the briefest statement in an email subject line regarding his ride in: "flatted on the service road just as we were catching the front group--100yds." When I saw Rich at the Thoth parade later in the day he said Chip had played a big role in their almost catching the leaders. So maybe I should have followed him into the service road rather than casting my lot with HL and the others who went Bullard.

A few other random notes: The only fashion faux pas noted by Big Rich was Triceps Dave's decision to don a sleeveless jersey (all the better to show his enviable guns) along with warmers. Rich used technical sartorial jargon to describe the gaffe, saying, "That ain't right."

Just after we turned at Venetian Isles, Pat F. was found to be more than a little exercised about a cyclist who I won't identify except to say he once maintained he could ride better than everyone on the levee shortly after he had been de-biked by a turtle. Apparently this rider pulled a move Sunday which is closely related to what Donald would denounce as "getting on the bus without buying a ticket." This particular version of the move involved hiding in the pack until a gap opened and then attacking the gapped riders rather than working with them as a group to reconnect.

While Ray perhaps needs a few ski lessons, his cycling doesn't seem to have suffered a whit from all the tumbles he took on the slopes.

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1. Also known as The Rise That Rich Will Not Cross.

2.  The OWNHB (The One With No Handle Bars) was in a one-bike crash in late January, said accident no doubt having been caused, at least in part, by his having no handlebars. After a brief recuperatory hiatus he returned to the Sunday Giro on February 17th with a bike equipped with handlebars. That welcome change lasted, as far as I can tell, exactly one Sunday Giro (the 24th being a washout). Yesterday he was again on a bike wnhb (with no handle bars).

[Note: This blog isn't intended to disparage or offend anyone. If anything herein is believed to be inaccurate or offensive, please leave a comment. Any such comment may change nothing, but will be stark evidence of your right to free expression of thought and opinion, much as this blog evidences mine. Thanks for visiting.]

Worsening Fantods and Urolagnia

I couldn't ride Tuesday because I had an 8:30 court appearance in Gretna, on the West Bank. Driving across the CCC₁ it was so foggy the twin span carrying traffic back to the East Bank (which, only in New Orleans, right, heads not east but dead-on west) and which is, I don't know, about 100 feet away, was completely shrouded in, and obscured by, fog. This foggy Thursday morning it was a harrowing ride with Big Rich to Jefferson Playground on River Road, which was all but obliterated by thick fog and the darkness of night. I actually survived the hazardous trek unscathed but somewhat unsettled. Then we heard from Max and Ray₂ (who ride to the start from Kenner) that the fog out there was much worse than Tuesday, and I became further dismayed.

The Fog Begins To Lift

My sense of unease wasn't helped a bit by the wind (due south at 12 mph), which I knew would make for a dicey crosswind, especially with a dozen riders and especially in the open east-west sections of the ride (e.g., Williams Blvd. to the Old End, the borrow pits in St. Charles Parish, and so forth, and so on.)

With the above in mind, you can certainly understand the last thing my smoldering case of the fantods needed at the start was to hear Max directly tell me he was worried I might have "a thing" about photographing people urinating. Please note there was nobody urinating on the levee this morning and while Max didn't elaborate I believe now, as I did then, he was referring to a rather innocuous photograph posted in the last edition of this blog of the straight-on rear view of an unidentified, slightly fleshy rider standing next to a telephone pole staring off into the marsh. Although I wasn't sure what Max could possibly be referring to by "a thing," it unnerved me and I decided to investigate the issue when I got home after the ride. I can now report the results of my research: Max was basically characterizing me as a urolagniac, which lumps me together, in the same boat so to speak, with the likes of Troughman, an Aussie whose claim to fame is his proclivity for lying down in busy trough urinals, Rockbitch, an over-the-top British band of not-so-nice women whose popular stage preformance of their tune "Piss and Roll"₃ is not to be believed, and a porn actress, name of Annie Sprinkle.

So, burdened with all of the foregoing, nervous as a cat, I set off with 11 fellow cyclists toward the west, into the foggy night.

I know I said, "This is crazy," at least a dozen times before we passed the Florida Street pump tower in Kenner. At times visibility could not have been much more than 30 feet. Several times someone up the line screamed out an unintelligible warning, sometimes accompanied by the dull squeak of wet brakes, sometimes not. At one point we overtook an Orangeman, who latched onto my wheel -- I was on the back at the time. All of a sudden there was a rapid deceleration of the line with no warning. The orange-clad rider (I think it was Daniel) made a comment about the lack of warning and turned around.

I stayed in the rotation because that was by far the easiest alternative in the crosswind. When we got to the open area west of Williams, the rotation stopped, either someone ahead was shortcutting the line or whoever was pulling was staying put. I can't say which because I couldn't see the front of the line through the fog. At that point I was last rider and on Rich's wheel. Well, Big Rich (who, I feel compelled to note, has been bitching an inordinate amount lately about not getting any protection behind Triceps Dave, Randy, and me) was on Randy's wheel. As anyone who has ridden on the levee with Randy in a crosswind well knows, he can ride pretty close to the edge in order to try to get himself a draft, which he was doing this morning in spades. Rich is getting no draft. I'm getting less. Then I see Rich is increasingly riding on a little strip of grass that has encroached onto the path, where it needs edging, which grass couldn't really be distinguished in any manner from the grass that wasn't encroaching but was just grass on dirt. My fantods are now no longer smoldering, they're howling.

After a couple of more this-is-crazy comments, I decide to turn at the St. Charles Parish line, the so-called Old End. Then I see Rich pointing to a pothole in the middle of the path, which being within the six-foot range of visibility, I recognize as the hole that is two driveways west of the Old End. Apparently, I couldn't see enough in the fog to recognize the parish line when we crossed it. At that point, my anxiety outweighing any pleasure I was getting from the ride, I turned and rode in alone.

Mississippi River Batture

Because of the stressors which accompanied this morning's ride it was good to spend the trip in alone as it afforded me time to ponder the causes of the edginess as well as possible solutions. I've decided to rethink riding out to the start on River Road rather than driving and perhaps to not ride with a group at all in thick fog at night. And I definitely hope I have my camera next time Max needs a natural break.

A few miles after I began back toward town a single rider emerged from the fog just ahead. It was Keith, who as he passed gave me his most gravelly, "This is crazy."


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1. CCC is an acronym for the official name of the twin cantilevered bridges over the Mississippi River in New Orleans. The acronym was used herein rather than the full name because the third initial represents a word which cannot be used in this post cf. note 1 to my post of Monday, 17 February 2014.

2. Also at the start were Randy, Danielle, Triceps Dave, Judd, Big Scott, and several people with whom I am unacquainted.

3. You can google rockbitch piss and roll video, for visuals, but I warn you it's not for the faint of heart.

[Note: This blog isn't intended to disparage or offend anyone. If anything herein is believed to be inaccurate or offensive, please leave a comment. Any such comment may change nothing, but will be stark evidence of your right to free expression of thought and opinion, much as this blog evidences mine. Thanks for visiting.]

Numinosity, Contiguity, Confusion

During the warmup on Sunday's Giro along Lakeshore Dr. considerable discussion was overheard about who was overdressed and who might be cold during the ride. A lack of consensus on such matters often means conditions are borderline at the start and will improve as the sun gets up. Indeed, the morning was singularly magnificent -- low humidity and 50ish degrees at the start with only the faintest wisp of wind detected.

By the time we reached the Seabrook Bridge there were about 22 in attendance. Waiting atop
the Casino Bridge was the One With No Handlebars (OWNHB), on a road bike, with handlebars -- his notable equipment choice perhaps a small concession to the safety concerns of the group on his first appearance at a Sunday Giro since he hit the concrete on Bullard in late January.

The pace going east was a fairly consistent  24 - 25 mph controlled by the seven or so riders rotating at the front. Near Lincoln Beach an Orangeman went on a flyer but he was chased down and passed by Brett before Paris, while the rest of the pack was content to quicken the pace only so much as necessary to afford a good view of the contest just ahead.

A couple of times during the ride out on Chef Hwy. one Orangeman or the other attacked, but a concerted effort by those working at the front quickly contained all such attempts to get away.

The most remarkable thing about the outbound leg of the ride for me was just how spectacular the day was, how pedaling along apace with 20 or so silent riders is exhilarating, how tuning into the low dulcet whir of hundreds of spokes knifing through air intermittently joined by the sweet rapid-fire monotonal chatter of the freehub is magical, how connecting with, really being in the present during, such moments makes one feel truly alive -- an almost numinous experience. Then I stopped with a bunch of other guys and peed next to a tree (or in some cases a pole).

On the way in two or three riders (the OWNHB, Brian B. not MD, and someone else, I think) started off ahead of the bunch, but we remained steady for a short while. Then an Orangeman goes off the front and a couple of people try to bridge up -- Eddy D., Brady, and maybe another. I told Rich this didn't looked good, the group would likely chase these guys. "Yep," he said. There began a incremental, constant uptick in the group's pace, which was fine, until HL did one of his signature +3.5 mph 15-second surges. Before he lurched left off the front and faded to the rear, he split a small group of about four or five riders. The gapped rider was two ahead of Rich. Rich went around in pursuit of the little group, and for some unknown reason about which I remain terribly confused and conflicted, I went too. It took the better part of a quarter of a mile for us to make contact with the group we were chasing. Please construe the phrase "we were chasing" in the broadest, most generous fashion because in truth Rich was chasing and I was hanging on, my chest heaving convulsively looking for more O. When we did make a connection I'm thinking, good, now I can settle in and try to reestablish a survivable heart rate. But the little group Rich and I caught was in pursuit of the group in front of it, and the pace just increased further. So now I'm thinking, congratulations, you made it. Now what, idiot. So I made a deal with myself to hang on if I could until the beginning of the Chevron sprint, which I decided to define as the instant I could even smell Vietnamese food.

As I approached the Chevron station, two Orangemen were about a block ahead of me, and about another block up the road was Rich. The leaders were disappearing into the service road. Shortly after the two in orange, Rich and I got onto the service road, the main group came up. There was plenty of muscle in the group and we proceeded at a good pace, finally catching the lead group just east of the Casino Bridge.

We were presented with a little mystery on the way in. It was the conundrum of finding HL with the leaders when we caught them near the base of the Casino Bridge. HL had been in the main group that caught Rich, the two Orangemen and me just onto the service road. It would be pure conjecture for me to propose some explanation for how he ended up with the front group. Yet another of life's perplexing enigmas.

On the way in along Lakeshore, I noticed a startled look on Big Rich's normally phlegmatic countenance. He pointed to Vinny and said, "He doesn't match." Rich was then observed in congenial confabulation with Vinny regarding the accountant's wardrobe choice. Rich isn't one to conceal his strongly held opinions on color coordination. Apparently red and Bicycle World orange are a fashion no-no. Vinny offered a spirited defense premised, I think, on the notion that conformity isn't always best.

In some circumstances any attempted construct of the English language is inadequate. Overcoming the limitations of language is impossible in any attempt to accurately describe certain images, which reveal themselves as far more valuable than even a thousand words. Such is the case with the following disturbing image for which I will venture no guess as to what is happening. What is intended to be conveyed by the subjects? What is connoted by the gestures? What is implied by posture and proximity? What meaning does their contiguousness hold? I must confess; I am confounded ₁.

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1. Confounded is the 35th different word in this post beginning with con. I concede (36) this is probably excessive, but I am convinced (37) I can do better. I will confront (38) head on this troubling predilection and will continue (39) this practice no longer. In fact, I will contrive (40) to use no such words in my next post.

[Note: This blog isn't intended to disparage or offend anyone. If anything contained herein is believed to be inaccurate or offensive, please leave a comment. Any such comment may change nothing, but will be stark evidence of your right to free expression of thought and opinion, much as this blog evidences mine. Thanks for visiting.]

Bland, Prosaic Sunday Giro

It was perfect weather for a ride with calm winds and temperatures in the low to mid 50s. This pleasant change from the recent run of wet, cold, windy rides could explain the largely tame pace. The downside was having to listen to Rich complain all morning that he wasn't getting a workout and would have to go to the gym later and could only eat one doughnut.

Swim Hole Sunrise

On the way in we stopped at the floodgates just east of Hwy 11 where an Orangeman had a flat. Rich gave him a CO₂ cartridge in exchange for which Rich was called a fine gentleman and got an offer of  "a couple of dollars" (which he refused). Just after turning into the service road we saw Chip P., who had ridden off the front, fixing a flat. The group will often not stop for someone who rides ahead of it (e.g. Charlie "Ain't nobody gonna wait" D.), but six of us stopped with him. That was probably the best part of the morning because after fixing the flat we chased the group and actually got our heart rates going a little bit. We almost caught the bunch which was just over the crest of the Seabrook Bridge as we began its ascent.

Oh, and Vega made it both ways, but that may be attributable to his being on Racer X's fancy Pinarello.

So a bland, prosaic Giro makes for the same kind of blog post.

[Note: This blog isn't intended to disparage or offend anyone. If anything contained herein is believed to be inaccurate or offensive, please leave a comment. Any such comment may change nothing, but will be stark evidence of your right to free expression of thought and opinion, much as this blog evidences mine. Thanks for visiting.]

Wet, Cold, 1/2 HL

Observations from KMSY for 7 am were light drizzle and fog at 46° with winds almost due east at 8 mph. I can confirm the drizzle and fog, but the wind seemed brisker coming home. It was another ride without eyeglasses and eating whatever putrescent detritus the levee-top was serving up this am. It was too wet for photos, but here's one from the archives of a gardener's work-bike (he tows his mower with it):

The latest logistical tweaking of the Tues/Thurs levee ride was to try to start from the playground at 6:15 because of the extra time required at both ends of the ride due to the levee being closed downriver of Ochsner Hospital. I got to Rich's house about 10 minutes early and we rode out to Causeway without an automobile escort, which is probably just as well. I have this retina-burning blinky red überlight, which two people complained about, so I feel confident that if I do get flattened on River Road, it'll definitely be intentional.

At the start were Woody, Brian, Randy, Big Scott, HL's brother-in-law, Ray, Triceps Dave, and Max. The email notice about this most recent iteration of the start time was circulated by Randy late yesterday afternoon, and I noticed this morning that HL and Triceps Dave weren't on the addressee list (I think Randy must have used an old email for the message because it had Scott S. on it, who usually does not ride Tues/Thurs, but not HL and Dave). So I forwarded the email to them at 5:15 am. I know Dave got it and he showed up just after Rich and me. Apparently HL didn't get the email in time, and he and Judd were at the playground anticipating a regular start time. We waited several minutes, but people were getting cold and antsy. Woody and Brian rode off. The rest of us started slow-rolling west, until someone said HL and Judd were on, and then we went. After a couple of miles at an easy pace, I heard Randy say, "You know you all left Judd and Howard. I had to chase you." That was news to me, and I think to everyone else.

I had a flat just west of the country club and I expected HL and Judd to ride up, but they didn't. HL's brother-in-law had a flat in Kenner, but he said he lived nearby and was getting off the levee, so we kept going. Woody had ridden ahead to the Little Dip and passed us heading back to town. Triceps Dave turned at the Little Dip. Near the Big Dip, Pat F. joined us, expressing disbelief that there were people as crazy as he was to be riding in the crappy weather.

We turned at the Luling Bridge and HL and Judd, who were just behind us by then, turned with us. I tried to apologize to HL, telling him I thought he and Judd were with us, but he said, "I don't want to hear it." He was obviously angry, which I guess I understand but I truly don't think anyone thought they were not on when we left. When they didn't appear at the scene of my flat, we assumed they went home, as had Brian because he was cold.

So unfortunately HL was upset with us, which cast a certain pall over the ride home. But now at least I know how HL rides when he's mad: Exactly as he does when he's not.

[Note: This blog isn't intended to disparage or offend anyone. If anything contained herein is believed to be inaccurate or offensive, please leave a comment. Any such comment may change nothing, but will be stark evidence of your right to free expression of thought and opinion, much as this blog evidences mine. Thanks for visiting.]