I'd forgotten what it was like to ride all day and hang-out in the sun at a small town festival. We'd made the parade in time to see the Shriners in precision formation on their go-carts. Old men. Maroon fez with tassles blowing in the wind. Weathered faces squinted out the afternoon blaze as they drove the figure-eight at crazy speeds. The training was obvious...grueling practices, day after day drills at mach speeds 4 inches above the pavement. Terrifyingly fun. The crowd expected no less.
We crossed at a handy break and headed over to the food tents. Corn, chops, cheese glop with a baked potato underneath, Coke and pie. Small towns have the best pie.
We were a little slow heading out of town, and the hammerheads were content to stick with the pack and contribute -- I'm sure it was the desire to keep the group together as we battled headwinds, not the need to keep the brats down.
- Old Bag