With the ducks safely secured in “Bubba,” our beat up, old, high top wheel chair van, that is shades of faded blue and primer gray, and rocks like a boat on… the high seas at the gentlest of breezes, I attempted to make my way home. This is where the route became circuitous. To my dismay, after many wrong turns, and turnarounds, somehow the ducks and I found ourselves amidst the cyclists of Pelotonia. Hundreds of cyclists filled the streets; driven by cause, they made no effort to move to the left or right to let my overly large vehicle pass them by. At this creeping pace, the ducks and I kept a watchful eye for any turn off, barring that, we settled into quiet self-reflection. In hindsight, any turn, even that of a driveway, would have been better than staying the course.
As mile two approached, we arrived at the epicenter of the event with vast multitudes of screaming, bell ringing, well-wishers, who found our hulking yacht more of an insult than inspiration to the cause, meeting us with jeers and dirty looks.
Keep Calm and Carry On…Keep Calm and Carry On…
Through the gauntlet we rode. As we finally cleared the whole hullabaloo, I had the opportunity to stop and speak with a policeman directing traffic. I relayed my tale with a combination of bewilderment and desperation. The policeman burst into laughter, and boomed in a jocular voice: “You can’t make that s*** up!” He then kindly pointed to the right, and the ducks and I made our way home.