According to the computer that's on my bike, my maximum speed for today was 64.6 mph. All of the other data was on target for today's ride and, I'm pretty sure that if I even went over 60 mph the wet spot on my shorts would be a dead give away.
My wife wants me to take a picture of it because, according to her, that's the last time I'll ever see that number (and I have a feeling she's not just talking about my ability, but also her ability to break my knee caps if I ever even flirt with that speed).
I met another train today. I encountered it at about the middle and I was able to meet up with the engine before the tracks and I had to part ways. I didn't pass the engine.
I don't know what it is about the trains running parallel to the road that excites me. Though, honestly, I'm not alone. As soon as the train blows its horns, anyone with a road bike sits up and looks around the same way a gazelle pricks up its head if it senses a lion.
It's as if a challenge is issued by the mere presence.
Oh, and to the dude on the Cannondale who was taking turns on the front with me all morning until we hit the flood plains when he conspicuously, painfully and slowly disappeared. I waved when I passed you on the way back though. You looked like you could have used a cup of coffee. Or a testosterone patch on the family jewels (I hear they discourage that though). I'm sorry about that.
You can't be blamed. I was going 64 miles per hour, after all.
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