There's nothing quite like coasting downhill on a bike. Wind rushing past your ears, shirttail flapping in the wind, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes. It's the closest to thing to flying without leaving the ground.
The problem of course is that at some point you have to go back up that hill.
While the hills in my area are not as steep as those found in the northern end of the state, I was enjoying an effortless bike ride propelled by the winds on the leading edge of a cold front. At the farthest end of my circuit I turned - and caught the wind head on.
I immediately downshifted, then downshifted again, and yet another time. When realization hit that first gear was as low as I could go, the mile-and-a-half in front of me suddenly seemed like five. I was forced to admit that at fifty-four years of age a bike ride wasn't what it used to be.
The idea of the after-dinner excursion was exercise, but a moped was looking like a really good investment,
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