Of Better Angels and Gods of Par

I know some people get just as excited about going to church as going to the dentist. Liz and I count ourselves fortunate to have a wonderful church home - for all intents and purposes, an extended family.

On this particular Sunday, Lonnie and I enjoyed a classic order of worship with Guillermo and Elena in their congregation, a small group with simple traditional and welcoming values. I felt the hugs of my better angels.

Afterward, Guillermo and I ventured to the golf course. Despite the fact this is one of my favorite pastimes with him, I was distracted by a few concerns.

For one thing, I wondered whether he would be showing me up since I hadn't been on the course recently. We'd always been pretty evenly matched, and I was hoping I could count on that.

And then there was the issue of my limited wardrobe.

Golf courses have always been a little finicky about what you wear for this gentleman's sport, and I was a little concerned. My saddlebags aren't what I'd consider roomy. Besides space for bike essentials (such as bungies, rain gear, a tire gauge, and Twinkies), they do provide a little additional room for frivolities like dry underwear.

Well, actually, there's a little more room than that. Like, I don't have to stand in my underwear and boots while waiting for the dryer, trying to pass it off as a brave style choice. Still, I'm limited to a small selection of all-purpose garments that can be somewhat compressed in the process.

Not only had I worn a collarless biker T-shirt to church (it's okay, the pastor was a biker in his youth), but I wondered how my swing would be affected by wearing boots instead of cleated golf shoes.

Guillermo signed us up at the clubhouse and rented an excellent set of clubs for me. It was a gorgeous day and we started off on the first few holes a little better than usual. The balls were mostly going where we wanted and it was great to spend some quality time catching up.

As we rounded the corner to the 7th hole, Guillermo groaned. With my master's degree in science, I immediately saw the problem. There was a significant lake squarely between us and the flag.

Besides the clubs we chose for the tee, we chased some older balls out of his bag - that looked like they'd enjoy a swim. I thought to myself we could just toss them in as a sacrifice to the Gods of Par and ride the cart path around to the hole, but of course we had to give it a shot.

I stepped up to the tee, lined up, and took my practice swing. I did my best to visualize the ball arcing nicely to the flag. Then I planted, lined up the shot, wound up, and let fly.

Sure enough, the ball flew directly to the middle of the lake.

... And skipped off the surface up onto the other side and up to the green.

I couldn't have planned it better. I would say I've never seen anything like it before, but incredibly, I have. While playing a round with my sister and third son, Luigi, he did the same exact thing.

I guess it runs in the family.

Next: Lonnie and I head for the Blue Ridge - and don't make it.

Wild Bill's Root Beer and an Emergency Stop

You never know what you're going to run into on a long ride. Or for that matter, what'll run into you. Lonnie would prove that later, as we left Burgaw for Fayetteville, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

It had been a good day's ride. Diverse, bright and clear, with a cool destination and a nice smoke column distraction. Rolling into Burgaw, I was sure we would easily find the row of classic cars that attracted Guillermo, since it was such a small town.

Thing is, it wasn't such a small town. Not only that, but the road had been longer than expected, and it was dinnertime. The classic cars had all but vanished, though the town was still abuzz with the Blueberry Festival.

We parked, and I picked up my cell.

Guillermo and Elena were across the square from where we parked. The going was slow as we made our way through the crowd, but my butt was glad to be off the bike, and with the smell of funnel cakes in the air, the spring was back in my step.

Once we found Guillermo and Elena, it didn't take us long to find the funnel cake concession and then Wild Bill's root beer stand. There you could buy a somewhat pricey mug, but then fill it up as many times as you wanted.

The root beer hit the spot. It was cold and tasty, and the big pint-and-a-half tin mug had a satisfying feel to it.

We found a picnic table, and it was good to catch up a bit and talk about the grape leaf thingies that Elena had gotten for us to try. (I didn't think they were anything to write home about, but don't tell her.)

We checked out the BBQ sauce tent, watched a guy who looked like Santa in a hawaiian shirt, and took a few miscellaneous pictures. We didn't buy (or see, for that matter) any blueberries, though I'm sure we could've found some if we wanted.

Our hunger satisfied, we stuffed the souvenir mugs into our saddlebags, stopped at the gas station, and got behind Guillermo and Elena for the ride to their house in Fayetteville.

The car took the lead, Lonnie followed them, and I brought up the rear. Though the day was beginning to fade, it was perfect for riding, and with spirits high from meeting up - and buzzing from all the root beer - we rode west.

Suddenly, Lonnie seemed to lose power and started to slow down. My mind immediately went to the slow start at the gas station earlier, but soon it was clear there was more than a bike problem.

Lonnie was squirming.

I didn't know what to think, but as we pulled off on the grass shoulder, it was clear he wasn't making a leisurely stop. He was off his bike in a blink.

The wasp that had gone up his shirt sleeve had managed to sting him several times while he was stopping, so he wasted no time in dispatching it. I was just relieved it wasn't something more serious, and after he finished blowing off some steam, we had a good laugh about it.

By the time Guillermo had realized we dropped off, had turned around, and was arriving back where we were, we were getting back on the road to finish the day's ride.

Next: A Sunday Miracle on the Golf Course

Man and Bike Are One

It's one of the best parts of riding. The relationship between bike and rider is a mind-meld. All it takes is thinking "faster" and the machine anxiously complies. There isn't much that compares. On the other hand, it can be so responsive it'll scare the crap out of you.

As we drew near, I slowed to take stock in the massive smoke cloud. It was dumbfounding in its proportions.

In the last quarter mile, it was clear that a farm house was between us and whatever was causing the smoke. It was directly in front of us. At the last minute the road curved left in front of the house, and we were skirting the house and what was behind it. Relieved to be turning away from the column, but knowing we were right on top of it, I braced for the reveal.

I expected a scene filled with flashing lights, agitated firemen and arcing snakes of water - perhaps surrounding a broken and sooty fusilage. Instead, a small group of overall-clad men surrounded the tornado-sized vortex. These people were leaning on shovels.

Why they were burning the field, I'll never know.

At first it was a relief we weren't going to be stopping to assist with some kind of catastrophic recovery effort. Then it was just a relief all the smoke was going straight up and not across the road.

Lonnie and I rolled by, taking it in - just for a moment. Then, with a thought that we needed to keep moving to make for Burgaw, our bikes didn't hesitate.