Besides the family bonding, the beach, the restaurants, and the not working thing, last week’s Cape Cod vacation was about riding my bike. A lot. I had one goal going into the week: to do a 30-mile ride, but once I logged an opening 26.48 on Sunday, a dual goal of 100 miles was established for the week, mostly pedaled along the Shining Sea Bike Trail. I hit both goals and scored 14.79 bonus miles on a family ride from West Falmouth to Woods Hole.

The week was a 3-generation potpourri of Senior Citizens (not naming names), daughters, a son, and grandchildren of varied genders, ages, and bike riding capability (again, not naming names). I must give props to my daughter, Megan, who at (number redacted) years old and quite pregnant, banged out the nearly 15-miles like a champ. Grandson Luca and I stopped about 15 times so the group with the newbie rider (no names) could catch up to us. The boy and I were a tandem, with the little dude’s “bike” hitched to mine. It was more like a chariot, with Luca playing Charlton Heston and me playing the horse. A few times over the route, this conversation took place:

Me: “Luca, are you pedaling?”
Luca: “No!”

My solo rides were just as eventful.

Day one, I was riding along the bike path when I approached a damsel in distress. I initially rode past her, but seeing that one of her pedals had fallen off, I thought I could help, so I banged a uey. When she looked up, I was startled and said, “oh, I’m not sure I can help you wearing that Yankees hat.” The poor woman explained that she bought the hat in Canada and didn’t know what team it was for. You know, since 2004, I have more empathy for those poor fans, so I helped her get her pedal back on. A few miles later, as I was crossing busy Route 28 to get back on the path, the same pedal fell off my bike in the middle of the road. Clearly, the karma police were not happy I helped someone sporting the dark mark of the Evil Empire.

During the dirty thirty, I navigated downtown to see if the wonderful Greek place could accommodate a party of 12 for my granddaughter’s birthday. Across the street, in front of the Falmouth Post Office, a woman caught my attention and pointed to a man across the street who seemed lost. The woman said she believed he was blind. I wheeled over and asked if he was OK. He wondered where he was. “Well, Osteria La Civetta is behind you to your right, and Estia is behind to your left.” “Is the Post Office across the street?” “Yes,” I replied. The problem the man faced was a delivery truck protruding out over the sidewalk from a driveway between the restaurants. I helped him and his guide dog around the truck and we chatted for a few minutes in front of Estia. Dwight was in town for six weeks while his wife worked at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. After speaking with the hostess about seating, the encounter and conversation with Dwight stayed with me. Though disabled and facing a frustrating obstacle, Dwight was unfazed and calm. As I rode off toward the bike path, so was I.