Me and the girls

It’s been a couple of months since we started a cycling group where I live. As with most other groups we started strong and dwindled down to a core of riders. What were about ten are now four. With me the only male. Again.
It seems to be a pattern in my life that I get along with women and they seem to enjoy my company. Pretty sure I get that from my Dad. Anyway, the group went for our usual Friday morning ride. We carpooled to the bike path and while waiting for “Dotty” to return from the restroom I, in my usual manner, started dispensing advice. This time about properly equipping a bike for riding. The two women, Mary and Libby were rapt in my speech. Or at least they were putting on a good act.
I mentioned that for riding anywhere but on the streets of our community, a spare tube should be carried. Plus tire levers for prying tires off rims and a pump for inflating tubes. All this would necessitate a saddle bag. Not the kind cowboys use, but a small bag that attaches under the saddle of the bike. That’s what the seat is called; the saddle.
As I pointed to the one on my bike, Libby commented on its cuteness to which Mary agreed. She also mentioned that it would be perfect for carrying all kinds of stuff. I agreed and repeated some of the items considered essential for riding. Libby then said she meant it would be perfect for lipstick, a comb or brush. Mary added that maybe a small mirror would be useful. Sheesh.
By then Dotty joined us, much to my relief and off we went. I alternate between riding alongside the three dispensing encouragement and more advice. When we hit a hill that it too steep and one has to walk, I’ll walk alongside suggesting that the spot be remembered where they dismounted for comparison on future rides. This day the clouds were putting on a spectacular display so I used them to distract and put thoughts of the humiliation of walking out of our minds.
The rides are slower than my usual pace and I ride my mountain bike instead of my road bike. It makes for more congenial rides. I subscribe to the practice of never riding faster than the slowest rider. I remember well the feeling of being the last guy; the slowest; the shortest. Besides, these are supposed to be fun, leisurely rides and not races or endurance contests.
We had a good time as usual and then went to Starbucks. It’s where we solve the problems of the world. Where the girls wonder if there’s a saddle bag big enough for a thermos of hot coffee. Sheesh.