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Black Lace "The harder I work, the luckier I
get." Our streak of early morning wake-ups ended. Well, sort of. The cool mountain air let us sleep in comfort; other campers, tuckered from the late night sing along, slept blissfully. All was peaceful. Even the usually raucous crows had taken the morning off. But do you think I could sleep? No way. After tossing for half an hour, I gave up and stumbled out of the tent to greet the sunrise. Sue was in her familiar pose atop a picnic table, waiting for us. "You couldn't sleep either?" I asked, stifling a yawn. "Nope," she frowned. "It was too nerve wracking ... just lying there, waiting for something to explode." She gave me a tight-lipped little smile. We roused Vicky by collapsing her tent. "Time to get up, Sleepy Head! What do you think this is? Vacation?" Vicky crawled forth. We packed and rode to a beach concession to fill our water bottles for the return trip to Medicine Hat. While Sue, Vicky, and Sharon strolled the abandoned lakeshore, I strode to a trash barrel to dispose our rubbish and jelled bag of marshmallows. Opening the lid, a surprise winked back at me: a racy pair of women's black undies. A twisted smile creased my features. Not wishing to pass up such fine luck, I liberated the risqué darlings and slunk over to my cycling partners' bikes. I tied the panties off one side of Miss Vicky's panniers - the side facing traffic of course. When the three wanderers returned, I contained my mirth (barely). We cycled through Elkwater, past gawking tourists. Riding behind Vicky, chuckling, I pointed out Vicky's secret acquisition. Several young men gave me wide grins and thumbs-up (I wondered if anyone recognized the X-rated attire?). If Vicky was curious why she was garnering so many admiring glances, she didn't let on. I guess she was used to it. Then we were out on the open road, taking turns in front to break the slight headwind. It wasn't until Sharon drafted behind Vicky that my naughty addition was discovered. "Vicky, what is that you have stuck to your panniers?" Sharon asked in a perplexed tone. "Huh?!" Vicky snorted. She reached around and tugged the undies free. Then she cycled up and pinched my bum. Hard! "Hey!" I wailed in mock innocence. "Why do you suspect it was me?"
The return trip to Medicine Hat rolled off at an average speed of 32 kilometres per hour. Sue pasted herself in the slipstream between Sharon and Vicky and whisked along with the greatest of ease - her best day ever! Compared to our previous day's dogged uphill and wind five hour grind, it only took two hours to get back. A fat-filled meal (one of the four food groups - the other three, of course, being salt, sugar, and caffeine) finished our robust feat of physical prowess. We headed straight for a burger joint and ordered two each with double everything. Along with cholesterol laden burgers and salty fries, Sue and Vicky ordered diet soft drinks. "You don't think that's gonna save ya, do you?" I snickered, ordering a Jolt cola with all the sugar as regular cola and twice the caffeine. Nothing better than a caffeine overdose after a hot ride in the sun. On our return to 'Glass City' campground along Medicine Hat's glass strewn streets, Vicky and I both suffered flats (three of our four Alberta flats occurred in Medicine Hat). Each time we found tiny slivers of offending brown glass. Perhaps beer bottle deposit fees were too low? "Those little brown bottles cause hangovers for cyclists!" Vicky hissed as her tire assumed a horizontal position with the pavement. "I'll time you!" I challenged. She needed no further provocation. Vicky flew into action. Total time: 4 minutes. Flat. "You're a pro!" I said, duly impressed as she replaced the valve cover, ready to roll once more. We made it to the campground without another deflating episode. After setting up the tents and showering, we scuttled off to our favourite hang out, Caroline's Restaurant. We had a marvellous time inhaling mountains of nachos slathered in thick cheese, sour cream and spicy salsa. Chips were merely means of conveying the piles of sticky goodness into our gaping maws. Cheery conversation flowed amongst litres of ice tea. "Hear about the Indian that drank 40 cups of tea?" I asked after downing an unknown number of glasses of the amber liquid. "They found him the next morning, drowned in his teepee." Sharon excused herself - my bad jokes and all that iced tea. There was a momentary lull. Vicky and Sue cast dour looks my way. "Why the long faces, chums?" I enquired. "You guys are so lucky!" Sue said, pouting. "You're going to have such a great time in Europe." "And we're going to be slaving away at work," Vicky sulked. I was being double-teamed and didn't even know it. Like a lamb before wolves, I joked, "You could join us in Spain for a week in February. We'll probably need some company by then." Like blackbirds spying a shiny object, their eyes brightened. "Yeah!" they crowed in unison. I knew immediately I was in big trouble. I flagellated myself. See what happens when you open your big mouth before engaging your tiny brain? My brows knit together like a Granny intent on breaking the Guinness record for afghan-making. How was I going to explain this little turn of events to Sharon? For the past few weeks, Vicky had been dropping pregnant hints in an attempt to finagle an invite for herself to join us somewhere en route. Relishing our free-spirit status, we had resisted rising to the bait. After all, who knew where we'd be from one day to the next - let alone months in advance. The best bike trips were often affairs of spontaneity ... unchained from timetables, rigid routing, and written-in-stone schedules. "Plan to be spontaneous" was our motto. Instead of admitting to Sharon that I'd fallen for the second-oldest ruse after tears, maybe I could keep my unplanned invitation a secret? I'd save my blunder as a delightful surprise, for that blustery day somewhere in Spain when Sharon was feeling a tad homesick for the old gang ... I'd casually slip it into conversation: "Wouldn't it be great," I'd say, "if Sue and Vicky joined us for a week or two?" Yeah, I decided. That sounds like a great plan! Sharon returned. "Guess what!" Vicky spouted before Sharon even sat down. "We're meeting you in Spain!" So much for secrets. Sharon scowled at me. I blinked in horror. Feeling lower than a snake's bellybutton, I wanted to slither under the table and hide in a dark corner. Fortunately, no sharp knives were present - and I doubted Sharon could inflict permanent damage with a nacho chip. Dodging a murder-one look, I puckered my lips and pretended to be extremely engrossed with a gob of cheese stuck to my fingernail. The discussion turned to dates. February turned out not to be good for them. "Too busy at work." Same with January. And, naturally, they wanted to be home at Christmas. Let's see ... that left the last week in November and the first three in December. They set a date. Sunday, November 20, in Lisbon. Oh, my! Way too much reality for me! Our carefree agenda of happy wanderlust crashed around my feet. We were committed to a rendezvous! Not in February. Not in Spain. Not for a week or two. November 20. Three weeks. Portugal. Be there or be square. Me, oh my. |
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