"Finally got the bike dialed in, then I run into a tea party."

"Andy, if you'd hit those rocks instead of the water, you'd be in worse shape than your bike. Why didn't you bail?"

"Bike would've nailed the old ladies."

"Oh. A boy scout."

Andy stood. Either he or Tres was swaying side to side, he wasn't sure whom, until Tres grabbed his shoulders.

"Steady there, partner."

When the world finally stood still, Andy said, "My bike."

"I'll get what's left of it," Tres said.

Andy waited while Tres retrieved the remains of the bike. The wheels looked like potato chips and the frame like a pretzel, the tire pump would never pump again, and the seat was now floating in the water. Andy felt like John Wayne when the bad guys had killed his favorite horse.

"My trusty steed."

They climbed back up the ravine to the trail where they found Tres' bike and the three women waiting; they were wearing big wraparound sunglasses, visors that matched their color-coordinated outfits, and waist packs. The most dangerous obstacles on a single-track were not rocks, roots, or ruts, but white-haired walkers.

Andy sat on a boulder, removed his helmet, and ran his fingers through his thick wet hair that hung almost to his shoulders. He wore his hair long on the Samson theory: long hair made him indestructible on the bike. He dug out a few small rocks embedded in the raw hamburger meat that was his left knee, which made him grimace. One of the old ladies leaned over and yelled as if he were deaf: "Are you okay, sonny?"

He recoiled. "Yes, ma'am."

The second one put on her reading glasses and examined his face from a foot away. Her breath smelled like mints.

"I was a nurse. You may need stitches."