This story might not make sense to those who don't know southern California. I like bicycles. I like them a lot. Yesterday I went out for a very long ride. The Atwater Village neighborhood of L.A. to Fontana in San Bernardino County. Depending on the route, a 115 to 120 mile round trip. Now, for the non cyclists out there, that seems like a huge trip, but it's not. I'm 59 and haven't had a 30, 31, 32, or a 33 inch waist for a very long time. In short, I'm not even close to being some sort of iron man athlete. We live in a world were people drive distances more than four or five blocks away, so we've all come to believe that any sort of trip beyond that distance, that doesn't include a car, is some sort of heroic trek. It's not. In the nineteenth century, before Henry Ford and the Model T came along, people, especially rural people, often walked twenty or thirty miles a day.
Anyway, back to the story. I made it to Fontana without any problem, but on the return trip, my bike chain snapped. I zeroed out the bike computer, and started pushing. Nine miles latter, I was at the Montclair Transit Center waiting for a train. Now, I've got lots of photographs in the collection. I've never counted them, but there are thousands of photos sitting in my files. As I was waiting for the next train back to downtown Los Angeles, I thought, "Where are the Shriners?" How strange the human mind that this one, very insignificant photo, should have come to mind. Truthfully, I'm not sure it would ever have been posted here if my bike chain hadn't snapped.
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