We meet at the parking lot of a local Starbucks. Soon all the members are there. It is your usual sub-urban, soya latte drinking, prep school educated, iPhone-carrying crowd of trust fund babies. Almost all of them are carrying a whole bunch of accessories. They all have one of those big-ass wristwatches that measure a whole lot of things. They also have some kind of activity monitor on another wrist. Since they all seem to support everything from testicular cancer to shelter less animals, they have 5-6 of those colored wristbands. Your’s truly sticks out like a Chicago hotdog on a Michelin chef’s plate.
The head honcho is a Caucasian dude with an accent. I thought he was British. No, but he went to a private boarding school in New England. This means the dude talks as if he has a carrot permanently stuck in his throat. I almost want to reach out and pull out that carrot or whatever is stuck in his throat, so he can speak like a normal person.
The head honcho starts outlining the route we will be taking. I am somewhat confused now. The flyer mentioned a “quick” ride but this mad dude is talking about different towns. I politely asked if we would be leaving the boundaries of our wonderful sub-urban heaven. We will have to cross some “blue-collar towns”, unfortunately there is no way around it.
He apparently plans to 9.5 miles of descending U with a cross of 2 miles and then 9.5 miles of ascending U and then cross back 2 miles. I asked him politely if he could speak American (my lame attempt at a joke! Nobody laughed. I am finding out that in fact most of these dudes might have either gone to private boarding schools or have carrots stuck in their throat). He took out his phone and showed me some kind of an app where this route does look like a U.
So this bugger calls almost 25 miles a quick ride. What kind of maniac do we have here? I told him I don’t have whole day. He tells me if all goes well, we will be done in hour 13 minutes flat. What the heck is he talking about?
Soon they go through this ritual of checking tires, making sure they have “hydrants”, have a quick snack and making sure they have their ID and contact info on a paper. I asked them why are they doing this ID and contact thing. They told me about a possible scenario where someone gets run over, we should have a contact number. This is getting depressing real fast.
Now some of them are calling their “hon”, who are putting their kids on the phone so that they can say good ride to daddy. The air smells of wealth, old money, new money, superficiality and off course carrots stuck in someone’s throat. I feel like I have joined some kind of a Caucasian cult and will be sacrificed at the end of this ride.