Biking on Foothill

It was rumoured to be a rainy day, with a thirty percent chance of a drizzle. In the morning, indeed, it was cloudy and wet; and once in a while you would see a sprinkle hit the pool, the tiny drops barely able to grow circles on the perfectly smooth surface of the water.

But then the clouds broke, like in summer. The front had passed and left us alone, and I was able to bike. Coincidentally, FedEx left a package from Performance Bike on the doorstep like a Moses delivered through the Nile. In the morning, I rode for an hour. Foothill up, foothill down. And then back home, trying to get Christmas organized. The afternoon brought some beautiful weather, and I thought a second ride would be appropriate.

Ever since I bought my new bike, a Lemond Tete-de-course, I am among the fastest riders on the Expressway. I passed the usual crowd, then ended up getting bored and turning around at Hillview, too lazy to do the Page Mill hill.

Riding back, a guy with expensive clothes, shaved legs and a brand new two-tone steel Bianchi in front of me. I pass him, but somehow he is quite fast and keeps up with me. I am always a minute or so ahead of him, but he catches up at the intersections.

Then, Loyola Corners, I turn off the road. I decide I want to see what he’s up to, and return onto the Expressway, but I lost him. Time to turn into St. Joseph and check-in. The traffic light just turned red, so I wait the obligatory two minutes, hoping I would see my fellow biker. But no, I turn.

And there he is, shouting something at me as if I didn’t wear headphones, listening to a blasting Republica singing ‘Ready to Go’. He came from Granger, from where I usually would be biking if I hadn’t been curious about him.

Suddenly I realize how much I would have wanted that guy to ask me if I wanted to ride with him on the weekend.

Solitude.

I miss having a real friend.