I have been riding alone so far this summer, until I caught up with a fellow while riding on Route 22 yesterday by the Kensico Dam. As I started to pass him he asked me where I was headed. That started a conversation that lasted another fifteen miles as we rode in tandem until we split off.

We kept the same pace along the route until we came to the first hill. As we approached, he said "I love hills," and with that he took off. He bounced out of his saddle and danced up the hill leaving me behind. As I struggled to keep up, he floated further away.

How can you love hills? I hate hills, and where I ride they are all over the place. There is no such thing as a flat ride in these parts.

HIs name was Lou.  He appeared tall and thin though muscular. On each hill he slowed down at the top to wait for me, not even out of breath. With his helmet and glasses, I could not tell exactly how old he was. I was hoping younger enough and that I could play the age card. "Sixty-four," he said when I asked. Damn, older than I am.(I should ride with Fred instead, I thought.)

Riding with someone else, especially a better or faster rider, always pushes you, to limits you did not think you had. Half of riding is legs, the other half is head.

When my pace is low, I try to rationalize it by saying it is not all about how fast you go. But it really is.