Sail, ho!

On the horizon I see a speck of white, its shape indiscernible through the squiggly lines of heat and haze of smoke. I am back on the bike path, surrounded by nothing but rolling pastures and the occasional olive tree. Like the sails of a distant ship at sea, there is nothing of note to see but me and that far-away white speck. So I watch it. Not out of any personal interest really. I am in The Zone again despite the triple-digit heat and choking atmosphere. I am stubborn. I will not be pushed out! And in The Zone, not much matters except breathing in, breathing out, pushing the pedal with the right foot, pushing the pedal with the left... breathe in... breathe out. And even these are only a vague pattern in the pack of the mind, a rhythm that lulls me through the miles as my consciousness drifts I know not where. The white speck is merely something to look at on an otherwise blank surface, a mild curiosity, nothing more.

As I watch, the speck grows larger, shaping itself into the shirt of another biker, its legs barely visible now as each moves up and down in turn. But I still cannot make out any detail, spy any colors on the nearing vessel. Is she friend or foe? Merchant or brigand? Will she hail me or fire on me? I do not know, but I refuse to alter my pace. I have a good wind and a fair course; I will not reduce sail now.

Slowly I gain on her, closing the distance between us until I can see that "she" is a man of medium age, perhaps three or four years older than myself. The white shirt is made of an opaque mesh, the kind that breathes well, allowing the dry California air to wick away sweat, cooling the wearer marginally but thankfully. He also wears spandex pants and rides a thin-wheeled racing bike, all signs of a serious cyclist. However, I notice that his pants are of a red and black tiger pattern, the sort you might find at Walmart rather than a bike shop, and his waist is thick and slightly protuberant. These details show him to be a novice cyclist, much like myself.

I think, carrying on with the nautical theme, "Ah, she is bluff of bow and drawing deeply amidships, not as heavy as a man-o-war, which one hardly ever sights in these waters, or as light and fleet as a schooner or clipper." These last two being the "serious cyclists" I often spy on the bike path. "She is a friend and fellow countryman," I think. I will draw alongside and hail her.

But suddenly the guy's head turns, and he sees me closing on him, moving out to pull up next to him, and he lays on speed. I think, "What is he doing? For more than three miles, I have gained on him steadily without quickening my pace at all; he was clearly in no hurry. But as soon as he thinks I am going to go around him, it becomes a race. Jerk!" He pedals harder and faster, unfolding more and more canvas, as it were. And I begin speeding up as well, letting him see what I can do. The desire to pass him, born out of competition, grows strong within me. I will blow him out of the water.

Then I think, "Perhaps he isn't a jerk. Perhaps he merely thinks I am a pirate." I reduce speed, return to my former pace. Soon, he is no more than a speck again, and in a short time, I am back in port, safe and quiet. We will both survive to sail again tomorrow. Perhaps we will meet again... or perhaps not. Only Poseidon knows for sure.