Don't Steer Me Wrong

At the bottom of Metcalf Road, I met a racer who had become separated from the rest of his flock. Yes, they're at the top, I confirmed for him. I guess I overshot, he mused. There was a pained expression on his face as he looked back up the steep hill we had just descended. No problem for you, I thought. Have a good climb, I said, before taking off to rejoin the rest of my group.

We made a short loop through the east foothills of San Jose today, rapidly leaving the suburbs behind. As we passed fields with grazing cattle, a curious conversation ensued. One fellow cyclist noted that he often sees bulls near the fence; another fellow said it was a steer, because bulls have horns. Goodness knows, I am no farm girl, but I am pretty sure that the defining characteristic of a steer is not his lack of horns. That bull may have lacked horns, but he was [shall we say] otherwise intact.