Cycling in Bucks

When I'm not sitting with florists (more on them later), I'm afforded the opportunity to hit the open road on my recently overhauled road bike. I spent twenty-six years turning my nose at spandex and clipless pedals, but a recent dedication to fitness by way of triathlon has convinced me to embrace my inner steroid-free Floyd Landis. I was never a fan of Lance, so even though I enjoy cycling, he gets no props. Besides, we're in PA, no?

Today, I clipped in on Stump Road and got myself lost close to the NJ/PA border. Not being familiar with the area, I had nothing to guide me aside from a quick glance at a map before I left the house. If you find yourself biking around these parts, make sure you look at a topographical map. I had to jump off my bike more than a few times to walk up some gnarly hills. When I managed to stop being a wuss and clip back in, I zoomed past the country homes of who knows who, but they were all quite nice. Some quaint, some over the top, and one particular home that caught my attention. It was a rambler on Ferry Road with red brick and yellow siding, but the home construction wasn't anything out of the ordinary. It was the eight small flags at the corner of the lawn and the marine corps flag on the doorway. I'm no Stephen Hawking, but it doesn't take a world renowned physicist to know that those flags meant untimely and uncalled for death abroad.

At that point, I said thank you to whoever was listening. Thank you for my two legs one and my one bike and my inspiration and my exhalation, and in that same breath I said fuck you to whoever was listening. Fuck you for making yin and yang and good and bad and mostly bad and mostly death and mostly violence.

Fuck you for those eight small flags that didn't need to be stuck in the dirt in the first place.