miraculously recovered, it would seem), Mike of the fast rides, Mike
of the loud snores, Mike of the hatefully consistent cell phone
service (generally used to talk to the new girlfriend), Mike of the
fancy-schmancy racing bike that weighs about as much as a Kleenex(TM),
Mike of the fantastic poached salmon dinner for 15 cooked on a camp
stove. Mike is retired from Ford, and celebrated birthday no. 55 last
week, at the Hale's Farm stop outside of Charlottesville. Mike's cell
phone -- in his pocket -- rings: "I'll get it." Mike to me, as I'm
taking what he thinks is too much time and care to fold and pack my
tent: "Jeez; do you want to borrow my iron for that?" Dawn to Mike in
the scrum to make lunch: "You go ahead." Mike: "Goathead?! Who're you
calling a goathead?" When I ride with Goathead -- I mean Mike --
which has been fairly often, the only thing that keeps us in the same
time zone is the fact that he stops to take zillions of pictures.
"You go on ahead -- I'll catch up." Indeed he will.
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