Nonetheless, there were diversions. Like the young woman who showed up on a mountain bike (a “guest” rider) who insisted on twisting the straps of her large (tote-bag-sized) purse through her handlebars. “How long will the ride be?” she asked. I gave her an estimate; another rider joked that we'd be home before dark. She turned back before we'd traveled half a mile (all for the best, I reckon).
Instead of heading for the (scenic) reservoirs, we meandered through residential neighborhoods. One of the benefits of riding with a long-time local leader is discovering new places. Just as I was wondering where we were and how we would safely cross the freeway, we popped out onto an interchange-free overpass at Lean Avenue that was entirely new to me.
A few of us had biked to the start; returning home, two of us were stopped at a traffic signal when a driver rolled down his window and leaned toward us. “Watch out for that Mustang, he's been all over the road,” he warned. I'd passed that distinctive black-and-gold car with caution as we'd approached the red light. It wasn't clear where he was headed, having stopped short of the intersection, straddling two lanes. Was he planning to turn right? Or go straight? [We waited for him to head down the road—straight—when the light turned green.]
Then there was the guy riding his bike, hands-free, while playing his guitar. That takes some real skill, but I was glad we were traveling in opposite directions.
With the extra miles riding to and from the start, a reasonable (but very flat) 32 miles—only 320 feet of climbing. Not much labor for the day.
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