Most of this post about a bike ride down the Splat River will be written by cold medicine. That is to say, we are operating without the benefit of Yawp's charm, wit, and good judgement. For this, we apologize, but we no longer have the good judgement to go ahead and not write the following.
Last week I went on a ride with two friends and a banana. The banana was the most cheerful of all when the ride began, swerving its bike into all of the puddles and honking its hoota honka horn about six million times. My friends and I were looking back and forth at each other like maybe we should try to drop that there banana, but the banana turned out to be in better shape than I, and thus we were stuck with the banana and its stupid puns.
A majority of the path was dry, but there was lots of slop and slush and messy goose poop to ride through. Not every cyclist's kind of ride, but there were still a lot of riders out, one of whom passed us singing AC/DC out loud despite his not wearing earbuds. The banana honked persistently at this.
In the photo below, you can see my friends up ahead riding at a "conversational pace." I, the photographer, am hammering out of the saddle with the camera zoomed all the way in so that they appear in the photo to be cyclists and not schmutz on the lens. The banana was behind me, ramming my rear wheel and doing its Robin Williams on cocaine impression.
All of a sudden, the banana--as bananas are wont to do--turned. We didn't see it after that.
I don't think this ride had anything to do with the virus that is now wrecking my body, despite the general uncleanliness and weird smells of the Splat River. I imagine I contracted this cold as I contract many of my diseases; by habitually opening doorknobs with my mouth.
Until next week.