A regular 1world2wheel reader sent me something he wrote about a ride he experienced.   Like many of us, he attends a regular group ride and, well, you’ll have to read Paul’s short story.   The piece is called “His Last Ride” and it’s a lovely take on what one can feel on a ride.  Indeed, maybe that is why we ride? To feel things?  Whatever the case, enjoy and thanks, Paul, for sending this in.

 His last ride

6/29/07Last night was one of those times that almost didn’t happen. I almost missed it. I had left the office late, traffic was backed up and then of course the cats needed to be fed right away. The ride starts at 6pm, sharp, I’ve been late before, and I’ve always caught up but this week, after seven days of not riding; the clouds gray and pregnant along with near 100% humidity I was in no mood to play catch up. Still, I was lucky. I rode into the parking lot, up to the gaggle of riders, eleven of us tonight. Mick, the shop’s leader said that tonight was Scott’s ride. “Scott’s ride?”, I asked, why? His birthday? What was the occasion. “Its his last ride”, came the measured reply. “Yeah”, I’m moving to Boston Saturday morning so this is it for me” explained the man that until that moment I didn’t know his name. From his expression I knew this move was not what he wanted.Scott it turns out is the name of one of the men I have ridden with for two years now. Every Thursday night, from April through October. While most of us miss a week or two, not Scott. Scott’s one of those guys who tries. Really tries. If you met him, you might not guess he’s a bicyclist and yet one look at his legs and you know he’s serious, chiseled calves and shaved legs. It’s the shaved legs that give us all away. What seems to throw things off however is the extra 70 or so pounds that he carries. Yet every week he is there. Every week he is happy, full of enthusiasm, ready and always a smile. Every week we start out and every week he fades off the back of the pack within the first 10 miles. Every week its always the same, he smiles as he waves us forward telling us to go ahead and that he’ll see us at the end; and that if he has to wait too long he warns he’ll head over to the pub to get an early start on the gang. Every week he has enthusiastic compliments, he is ready, he wants it. In fact he may very well want it more than any of us.Not tonight though. Tonight was Scott’s ride. We all agreed that no matter what Scott was not going to get dropped from the pack, no matter what we would hold the pace on the route of his choosing so that tonight he would be there, the place he usually can’t be.So as we rolled out of town west, heading into the muggy summer night, the air clammy and thick with humidity we held our pace, we adjusted to a speed that would ensure that tonight there would be no waving us onward. We snaked along through the hills and fields, through the tunnels of trees, Scott taking his turn leading the pace line, falling into an artificial rhythm that carried him along his favorite roads. We twisted and turned following the roads, roads that for now I took for granted. Roads that he did too but sadly not after last night. He pedaled and we all felt the pang of regret that would visit us too if we knew this was the last time that we would complete this circuit.At one point we passed another group heading in the opposite direction, “Hey Scott, nice job!” Someone yelled as their wheels whizzed past. See he may not be the fastest yet surely he is one of the riders we can all feel good about. As the ride wore on it was obvious that the pace, despite our efforts was getting the best of him. We adjusted, waited and adjusted again. We were nearing the home stretch, if 8 miles can be called a home stretch. There was a yell from the back of the pace line, “rider coming up” he yelled as we neared one of the favored descents along the way. Its one of those magical places. The road sweeps gently to the left until it seems to fall away, down, splitting the meadow and the pond to the left. It’s a spot that as you coast down you accelerate like you’re on a roller-coaster. Tonight was Scott’s night as he plunged down the descent, giddy as he led us down the hill like a run away freight train and then part way up the next. Here he fell back, out of breath but unwavering in his commitment. How many of us can claim that; unwavering in our commitment. The final miles sped past and soon we were coming up to the last descent.Before we had left we had all agreed that we would stay together, let Scott lead us on this final thrill ride of a hill and then as the road arced and then straightened into the last straightaway. It was here, where that turn stiffens and straightens along the railroad tracks that we would sprint, we would be free to speed off and finish the night. But something strange happened.