Dude… my crotch is on fire. And not in a sexy way.
And that’s because I went on a KILLER bike ride! Holy crap. Wait till you hear this. From Dennysville to Race Point, 20 miles each way. BLAMMO!
It was the Collector’s idea. And it was a dang good one.
Before we left we packed our bodies with garden salad veggies and I made a special bike-ride-blueberry-coffee-cake. Shoved that in our guts, slapped on a thick layer of sunscreen, and we were putting rubber to the road.
What a great day! Taking turns drafting off of each other, handing off the water bottle like a relay baton. We stopped at the Whiting store to fill up on snacks and fried mushrooms. Spooked a falcon out of the pines along the Crow’s Neck road.
And Race Point, what a destination. By the time we arrived I was already stoned to bliss with endorphins, but we went a bajillion steps further on the road to relaxation. A blood pumping nudey-dip in the ocean followed by a muscle softening sauna. I tell you, what could be better than being naked with good friends in the sunshine of a summer day in Maine.
On our ride back, the Collector’s bike failed. He caught a ride home with our friends and I rode the rest of the way alone. It was a different ride without him, and I was so happy to see his tiny red Civic pull over up ahead of me when he drove back to check on my progress. “ALLEZ! ALLEZ, ALLEZ!” he hollered, running behind me and slapping my saddle sore butt with Tour de France encouragement. What a crazy man I thought while laughing out loud and pushing my soles against the pedals.