With night still holding on to the fog, the parking lot seemed quietly alive. Dome lights put glow to the air in each man’s car, marking his territory and hinting at each’s preparedness. My layers were in tact and the helmet perched. I had left but to shake my sporte mixe.
He approached me, trying to suave himself as he clopped slowly. He should have been in sock feet. Nobody can suave in shoes like these, not off the bike. This fool’s pomp was reduced
to a joyless sense of order. I was already dreading the transaction.
The fog was turning into heavy air and dome lights were being dismissed as I secured my helmet. I could hear the scattered click of pedals being engaged. Car doors thumped shut. The hush of Saturday morning tension was beginning to give way to an organized procession. That’s when he decided to ask, “Do you think that bar wrap is worth the 35 bucks?” I pretended like i was already on my bike. Then I was. My back was turned. I’m not here for the friends. The grouppe began to roll out and exchanges were being made.