Toy Story, Burundi-Style (1)

On bike rides in the hills outside of Bujumbura, I get a fun look at what kids in a developing country come up with for toys.

Ain't no Toys R Us here, no hobby shops.  There's no Radio Shacks selling remote controlled this and Nintendo that.  'Bout the only toy-type stuff available is Chinese-made, plastic, and cheap.  But most kids can't afford even that.

Which is where imagination, and a little ingenuity, comes in handy.

In Burundi, all a kid needs to have fun is a discarded wheel or some rubbish.  The wheel gets simply rolled down the road, the kid pushing it along adeptly with a stick; think those line drawings of girls in frilly dresses rolling hoops around in turn-of-the-nineteenth-century American novels.  The rubbish - some wire, perhaps, along with a few bottle caps and a bit of old styrofoam - gets turned into a small toy car or truck.

Recently, though, a saw a couple kids who went even simpler than that.  They made their fun out of nature.

I was riding a dirt road I hadn't set tires on before.  About an hour up from Bujumbura's university-on-the-hill, I took a left heading down toward a large school complex atop a valley knoll.  After dropping in past the school, I reached a river and decided to turn around.  

(The road continues, I think, to the mountain town of Bugarama, a back-country hill route that avoids the busy paved highway.  Can't wait to ride it...)

By that time there were, as often happens, a few kids running along behind me.  I was in a hurry to make my U-turn and get back home, so I didn't pay them much attention.  That is, until I saw something that made my camera appear lickety-split.

Attracting the attention of my lens was a rather unusual toy: a live beetle on a stick!

Who needs radio controlled cars and personal video consoles?  In Burundi, if you got a beetle, you happy.  Flapping wings included, no batteries necessary.

(Stay tuned for more Toy Story installments.)

I Heart (My View Of) Congo

Now that the rains have been around awhile and cleared the air, I have a view of the Democratic Republic of Congo from my porch.  Where before there was only Bujumbura town, then lake-edge, then an impenetrable screen of haze, now I can watch miles of Lake Tanganyika shimmer blue and green as puffy-white clouds build and dissipate above it.

And, on the far side of the lake, majestic mountains.  The Congo.

When I came to Burundi I knew little about the Congo, the neighboring state to the west.  Inside I held a vague sense of equatorial mystery and dread, perhaps a vestige of emotional memory from reading Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

These days, I'm learning a few facts.  I'm reading a book, Blood River, by Tim Butcher.  The author is a veteran journalist who, around 2004, decided to follow the explorer Stanley's route across the African continent from east to west, back when the intrepid adventurer 'discovered' the Congo River.

Entering eastern Congo after crossing Lake Tanganyika, Mr. Butcher found a lawless country developing backwards, a result of decades of dictatorship and conflict.  Where the Belgian colonizers had at least maintained thousands of kilometers of roads, an extensive railway, and regular ferry service on the mighty Congo River, now he found little except jungle, narrow footpaths, ruined towns, and fear of marauding rebel groups.

Apparently, life over in those hills that I now delight to see is a mess, or at least it was a few years back when Mr. Butcher wrote his book.

It all looks so peaceful from here, and beautiful.  It's hard to reconcile the chaos and fear from the book with the lovely view that I have out my windows.

But I guess that's life: sometimes beauty hides a terror.

Still, I enjoy my view, and love to watch the play of clouds and sun and rain and lake and hills.  A glance westward from the porch makes my day.

The White Man Performs, or 'Mzungu' in the Market

Last week I did my first performance art piece in Burundi.  I didn't intend to.  When you're a white man in Africa, these things just happen.

I went to the central market to pick up a few things, including a large woven basket to use for yard work - you know, carry leaves and grass clippings and such.

How to lug purchases around is always a problem in the market.  Aisles are narrow and cramped, there's shoulders and elbows everywhere, and if you put your stuff in a backpack it's likely to get filched right out of the pockets.

But this time, my brain had a solution for me.  "Perfect," it whispered in my ear, "we'll buy the basket first, then carry our other stuff around inside it."

Good work there, brain!

Except, the basket ended up being a little too large to maneuver comfortably through congested aisles.  And, as I kept putting stuff in it - a pineapple here, a pumpkin there - it was getting a bit heavy.

As I banged into more and more people with my increasingly unwieldy basket, I kept getting more and more attention from the young guys who hang around trying to make a few francs carrying stuff for market customers.

It's not a bad idea to trust this job to a professional, really.  Even the locals who can afford it do so.  But I was stubborn; I kept turning them down.

Finally, though, I had to do something, before I inadvertently knocked someone, or their pile of produce, to the ground.  

Then, my brain had the day's second great idea.  The only real space available, it realized, was up in the air above us.

"Psst," it whispered in my ear, "hoist the basket atop my skull.  Haven't you noticed that's where everyone else carries their stuff?"  It sounded pleased with itself.

"Well, duh," I hissed back, embarrassed I hadn't thought of this myself.  "That's a no-brainer."

In Bujumbura, you see, people don't really use backpacks or other fancy carrying bags.  I haven't seen any two-wheeled dollies around here, and very few wheeled carts of any sort.  No, folks simply put their stuff on their head.

Got a pineapple you don't want to carry?  Put it on your head.  Rain's a'comin' this afternoon, but you don't feel like holding your umbrella until then?  Put it on your head.  Someone gave you fifty cents to get ten bags of grain from a taxi to their market stall?  Pile them, one by one, atop your noggin (photo left), then hiss at the crowds to get them out of your way and hope your cargo doesn't flour the sidewalk white.

So, when I and my brain both realized my basket-carrying situation had become untenable, I did what any Burundian would do, and hoisted the basket into the overhead airspace.

And, just like that, I had everyone's attention.  Instant audience.

Heads snapped around at the strange sight of a white man carrying things like a Burundian.  Vendors smiled.  Their customers laughed.  Each tugged at their neighbor - "Look, look, the funny mzungu!"

I walked into an open area where dried fish is laid out on tables for sale, and, suddenly, I was attracting a standing ovation.  Hooray for the mzungu with the basket on his head!  Huzzah!  Ole!  Encore!  Encore!  Everyone stopped what they were doing and clapped.

Well, ok, mostly everyone was already standing.  But hey, it's been a long time since I've done a performance of any kind.  The applause, any applause, felt nice.

So I continued my little show, balancing the basket out into the center city streets to finish my shopping.  I went to the posh downtown boucherie (butchery) for my Dutch gouda and to the expensive we-import-it-and-we-know-you'll-pay-for-it Dmitri Supermarket for my South African powdered sugar.  I felt a little giddy - whether from the attention or the pressure on my cerebrum, I couldn't tell.

With my shopping done, my brain advised catching a taxi home.  "Loading your noodle through the market is one thing" - it seemed a little stressed - "but hoofing that basket for two kilometers uphill..."

"No, that's what machines are for," I agreed.  I was tired.  My brain sounded relieved.

Walking up to a taxi, I took the basket off my head.  The driver laughed at me.  "You're trying to be like an African," he told me as he drove me home.

"Well, not really," I said.  "I just like to perform."

Runnin' With the Bikes

It's taking me a long time to get the news in Burundi.  There's interesting things going on, but all the notices are in French, and besides, I don't know where to look for them.  Mostly, I've been hearing about cool stuff after the fact.

The last couple weeks have been better, however.  Now, I'm hearing about events as they are happening, at least.

But only because I have a well-situated house, and a house guard who is much more clued in than I.

Last week, for instance, I caught a soccer match at the central stadium.  How could I miss it?  I could see it happening from my porch, the red and white-shirted players tiny running blips on the green soccer pitch down below.

This week, it was the Burundian president being honored upon return from a trip to Italy.  This time, I could hear it happening.

For fifteen minutes the rise and fall of sirens, the sound of music and a crowd, had been wafting up the hill on the lake breeze.  I was engrossed in writing, and couldn't be bothered.

The guard, however, knew something was happening I might want to see.  When I walked onto the porch, he caught my eye.

"The president is coming.  It's a big time.  Many people are there," he said.

I went out to the road in my house-shorts to look.  I could see a crowd of people at the major intersection just down the hill.  Lots of action, just like the guard promised, the people welcoming their president back home.

"I need some pants," I said to myself.  I ran back, changed, and hopped on my bike to go join the throng.

I didn't get far.

The presidential motorcade was already promenading past.  From a pickup, men in dark blue gestured emphatically that I should get off the road.  The men had guns.  I obeyed.

I stood with my neighbors and watched the president slide by behind tinted windows.  Then I continued down the hill.

There was still a press of bodies and vehicles blocking the intersection, backing up traffic on two of Bujumbura's largest central avenues.  There was a festive air, and a brass band in forest green uniforms trimmed with gold braid.

But what really caught my eye were all the two-wheeled taxis.  Several hundred motorcycle and bicycle taxi-men had congregated.  They clogged the road en masse, their bikes decorated with sprigs of celebratory greenery.

I admire these taxi-velo (bicycle taxi) guys a lot.  They fashion a rear rack out of gaily-painted rebar, slap a cushion on it to make a seat, and call their single-speed rig a cab.  They get paid peanuts, maybe 25 American cents, to pedal a passengers a few blocks.  One would think they have little reason to give the state any loyalty.

But, the president is an avid bicyclist.  When visiting rural towns, he often, folks say, stops his motorcade to pedal the last kilometer.  So, when there is a presidential occasion, the taxi-velo guys break off some greenery and show up in force.

By the time I got to the scene, police had begun their struggle to unblock the road and get traffic moving again.  I hung out, though, wanting some action photos of the bike taxi guys.

Thankfully, they started heading off in clumps on an impromptu parade past the university.  I joined a clump, and got some shots of my first occasion runnin' with the bikes through Bujumbura.

Gliding down the hill with my impromptu posse...

...we stop for no man, woman, or car, clogging intersections as we roll.

There's mugging for the camera...

...stunts for the crowd...

...and a final line-up of bikes before they all go back to pumping pedals for pennies.

'Quartier' My Blues Away

A few weeks back I had a case of the blues.  A whole sack-full of funk.  A real mother-lode of melancholy.

It was gonna take more than a stream, more than a river even, to keep me afloat.  It took a whole neighborhood to wash my blues away.  

Bujumbura's Quartier Asiatique, or Asian Quarter, is sort of like a local Chinatown.  Only, there's no corner carryouts selling egg drop soup, no gray-haired ladies sunning in front of apartment buildings.  Instead, there's mosques, import-export shops, and hardware and building supply stores.

I've never in my life been so glad to see a hardware store.

The week had been tough.  Moving into a permanent house - after six months of living in the houses of others - had been a big happiness bump.  But I had since cleaned my way, literally, into a fever, and the frustrations of outfitting an empty house in a post-conflict, developing African country with no port had started to stack up.

Shopping in a developing country means severely taxing one's tolerance for jumble.  The roads are a clot of cars and diesel fumes and dodging motorcycles, and there are no street signs.  There's dirt and dust, a press of people, and you must keep control of your wallet at all times. 

What's more, you can't find anything.  There's no phone book, no yellow pages.  Everything, at least in Burundi, is in French.  No one has a website.  Directions rely on such landmark jewels as "where the pavement ends" or "at the red gate" or "near the new school."  Thanks, but I don't know where the new school is, either, and what do I do when there's three red gates?

If you can actually find the right shop, the jumble takes over again.  Bolts of cloth trip over each other, tight rows of bright plastic toys scream from overflowing cabinets, aisles are so crammed with appliances it's like one long freak dance just moving around.  But, you know that what you want must be in here somewhere, so you keep looking and looking...  Until you give up.

The week of my shopping blues, what I really needed was tools and building materials.  I needed a hammer and screwdrivers to make household repairs; I needed a proper paint swatch to pick pleasing wall colors; I needed a shower curtain rod.  But I didn't know where to go, and I didn't have the French to ask.

Then, just as I was giving up, I found the Asian Quarter.

Taking a motorcycle taxi down the hill from the city center, I drifted past a mosque, past a knot of women with black shawls covering their heads - already, it reminded me of home.

But when I hit the local shops, that's when I really lit up.

It's like paradise! I texted to a friend.  The Indian merchants speak English!  The headscarfed proprietress of the local grocery store sells dried chickpeas and homemade samosas!  The DuraCoat paint shop has 4,000 colors!  There's so many hardware stores I can't visit them all!

Finally, I could buy a hammer, some nails, a heavy-duty knife.  I could get caulk, a drop cloth, vibrant paint in shades of orange, blue, and red.  I could paint that wall, hang that shower curtain, make that lamp, fix that hole in the wall that the ants had made into a tunnel for their highway.

But first, I shopped my blues away in the quartier.

Bikes, Bananas, and Goats - Oh My!

Last Friday, riding my bicycle, I drafted off a goat.  Yes, a goat.

It was only a few seconds, but I had a chance to study the black fuzz on its head, the resigned look in its eyes.

Drafting, for the reader not biking-inclined, is riding behind a fellow cyclist so close you enter their slipstream, or "draft."  This makes pedaling much easier as you are sucked along behind the leader.  Tucking yourself behind another biker in this way is like taking a quick snooze, resting up for hard riding ahead.

The goat was tied down to the back rack of a black, single-speed bicycle.  Together with a brown-fuzzy-headed twin, it nestled in a large, round, woven basket, moving down the road at approximately 15 miles per hour.

I'm guessing that goat had never gone so fast before in it's life.  The draft it created was restful, though smelly.

I was coming down the mountain from Bugarama, a town about 35 kilometers (22 miles) from Bujumbura city.  After leaving my house in the foothills on the edge of the city, I had climbed on a good, paved road for exactly three hours to reach my destination.

For most of those hours, I marveled less at the mountain scenery and more at the pedal-driven transport industry everywhere in evidence.  Undaunted by the mountainous terrain, young men careened down the steep road on loaded bicycles, taking products from the hills to markets in town.

A sample of goods speeding down: large bunches of bananas, huge sacks of homemade charcoal, crates of empty beer bottles, clumps of live chickens hanging from handlebars, an occasional wooden door strapped upright on the rear rack, and of course those goats.

Video: Racin' the bananas downhill to market.

While bicycles going down were fully loaded, those going up were mostly empty, and mostly being pushed instead of pedaled - not surprising given the steepness of the hill and the local cycle's lack of gears.

The lucky bikers, however, or perhaps simply those who were comfortable defying death, sped easily uphill by grabbing rides on the back of passing trucks.

Apparently, the road to Bugarama is like an amusement park for bicyclists.  Or, perhaps the Burundian version of mountain biking, extreme style!

Bugarama itself, when I got there, was socked in with clouds and full of street vendors selling fistfuls of kumquats - like little yellow cherry tomatoes - in clear plastic bags.  I got a bag, just for kicks, then bought three wooden monkeys from the row of carved-crafts shops at the edge of town.  The wooden drums and walking sticks tempted me, too, but I decided to wait on those till I have a real vehicle in which to stow them.  No Burundi-style extreme(ly loaded) mountain biking for me!

By the time it was my turn to descend, a light rain had begun to fall.  The moisture kept the bicycle transport guys from braving the road, so I didn't get to race any of them down, trying to match their 40-mile-per-hour speeds on the corners.

But I did get to draft that goat.

Video: Bunches of bananas careen downhill while climbing bikers get a fast ride up the steep road.

My Soggy Soul Bursts Forth

Today it rained.  And hard.

It's been a dry month, two months, three months.

Is that right?  Yes, it hasn't really rained since I got here, and that was three months ago.  I've watched the hills become half-brown.

But today, water for my soul, a downpour, lightning, my hair on end, the thunder, my mind alight, body sliding into ease and slurping up the moisture.  I feel like I can grow again.

Now the grass will grow, too.  I've really got to hire that gardener.

Since this was the first rain in my new (for me) Burundian house, I ran around like a madman looking out windows to see where all that water was going after it drenched onto my roof, my patio, my hillside backyard.  No one has gutters and downspouts here, you must understand, so it's all waterfalls of rain cascading off of roofs, splattering onto concrete, churning away in dirt or cement channels.

And thankfully: no big pools of water, no roof seepage, no sudden stream splashing in beneath the back door.  Whew.

Sat on the porch, then, to feel the windy spray; gave a small shiver of delight.

With a freshly soggy soul - praise for downpour-ous thunderstorms! - I've been thinking about the blessings of Burundi.  A small (and by no means comprehensive) list:

Bite-size USB sticks from U-Com that get me, most of the time (well, half of the time), internet anywhere I have cell phone reception.

Motorcycle taxis that whisk me around town for cents, hair blowing in the wind.

Local cheese from Boucherie Charcuterie Nouvelle, Bujumbura's meats-and-lots-more food-ery.

Strawberries piled for sale on little round rattan mats outside Dmitri's, pineapples from the central market, avocados from street-side vendors, mangos getting ripe on the tree in my backyard.

A made-to-order desk I put together using a hand-made door laid on top of four tall hand-made stools; it's been over six months, you understand, since this writer has had a desk on which to spread out his papers and prop up his feet (imagine big smile here).

Standardized electrical outlets.

A foot-and-a-half tall, blue-and-white statue of the Virgin Mary that sits on the corner of aforesaid desk (at the business/craft fair where I bought it, my friend was holding the statue for me, and a guy came up to her and said, "I see you have a Mary, would you like to buy a Jesus as well?").

The scent of palm oil and roasting peanuts on the mountainside air.

Passionfruit juice, locally made and packed into little brown bottles of sweet goodness.

Inviting stretches of beach beside the now blue, now green, now gray and wind-whipped lake.

The view of said lake from my newly-outfitted home 'office.'

And, of course, orange dirt roads running through green hills, just waiting for me to pedal them whenever I wish.

Oh, right, they'll be naught but mud-paths now...  Hmm, perhaps time to forsake the desk and get my now-soggy soul dirty, too.

Passing Strange

Awhile ago I rode my bike south along Lake Tanganyika.  Except for a short distance at the north end of town, there is no water-side promenade.  Instead, I wound through city neighborhoods, often sensing rather than seeing the lake.

Eventually the high-walled compounds of the city gave way to a maze of under-construction houses - proof that Bujumbura is expanding - and then to gardens and grassland.  And a view of the lake.

Though I am getting used to being in Burundi, on this ride I still found a multitude of strange things to make me think, "Wow, I'm in a new place."

There was the heady scent of palm oil, the smell of orange dust, of burning garbage, sniffs of the lake.

There were teenage vendors walking the street with their wares - sneakers, hair dye, belts, dandy-style hats - draped over arms and shoulders.  There was a line of twenty men digging a roadside ditch by hand.  There was the River Kanyosha with naked boys swimming in it, with workers laboring to extract sand and gravel from its sluggish course.

Even the other bicycles - perhaps especially the bicycles - presented their strange sights.  One carried, on its rear rack, a man (not really unusual) and a dog (definitely unusual).  Another had ten live chickens hanging from its handlebars.  A third supported stalks of bamboo twelve feet high.  Others bore huge bunches of bananas or two butchered pigs or a wooden rack from which hung round loaves of bread for sale.

Then there were, of course, the periodic shouts of "Mzungu!" - or, sometimes, just "White!" - from people I passed, marveling to see the shorts-wearing pale-skin ride by carrying that weird helmet on his head.  Who's the strange and new sight now?

But, on this ride, the strangest sight of all made me feel, somehow, less strange.

I saw a man pedaling a three-wheeled bicycle.  He wore a white motorcycle helmet, the clear visor pulled down over his face.  Between his two back wheels he carried a pile of luggage in teal and purple duffel bags.  Before him flew the flag of Burundi and behind the American stars and stripes.  Water bottles proliferated around him.  A blue fanny pack cinched up his blue sweatpants.  And, taped to the handlebars, staring perpetually into his eyes, a Santa Claus doll.

I confess, I gaped as I rode past.  Then I went back to talk.  Unfortunately we spoke no similar language.  But it was clear: he's just a guy touring the country on his decked-out tricycle.

If we had been able to talk, I would have bought him lunch, asked him a thousand questions, soaked in his story.  But as it was, I was holding him up on a busy and narrow roadside.  I snapped a few photos and let him go.

Bon voyage, fellow biker (well, tri-cycler).  And thanks for being a more outlandish sight than me.

The Gifts We Bring

I did laundry, recently, in the bathtub.  In my temporary house in Bujumbura, there was no working washing machine.  As the uncertainties of my still-newly-Burundian life were piling up, along with the laundry, I had to do something decisive and practical: so I washed clothes.

I had never done laundry in a bathtub before.  But it wasn't too bad.  It's just like using an automatic washer back in the States, really.  Only, you have to turn the faucet off and on to control the water inflow.  Well, you also have to agitate the clothes yourself.  And, actually, you have to wring them out with your hands, too, since there's no spin cycle.

Ok, so it's nothing like an automatic washer.

I daydream about the US sometimes, the things I'm missing: shopping malls, movie houses, grocery shelves that aren't half-empty, an over-abundance of modern appliances, crowds that speak my language.

But it's not so bad here, really.  There's a lake and a beach.  There's good restaurants to go to for a night out.  My house has a high wall, a big yard, flowering frangipani trees, and a guard to open the gate for me.  The water and the electricity supply have been pretty good.

And, now that I have a permanent house, I could easily hire someone to do my laundry for me.  No more bathtub washing.

After the hand-wringing, I hung the clothes out on a line strung between a lime tree and a window's security bars.  The next day, taking the dry clothes back inside, I glanced briefly at one of my wife's socks.  To my surprise, I saw two dry, dart-like seed pods embedded in the weave.  Obviously, my hand-agitating of the laundry hadn't been vigorous enough.

Absent-mindedly pulling them out, I recognized the pods as some that we had picked up during a long hike in California's Santa Barbara mountains eight weeks earlier.  Idly throwing the seeds on the leaf-strewn ground, I pondered the journey they had made, traveling thousands of miles with us from the California mountains to Burundi's lake-side hills.

I wondered if they would do what they were made to do and grow a California plant on Burundian soil.

I thought, too, about how, in the Santa Barbara mountains, we had been camping with only, what is for us in the US, the basics - no electricity, no running water, without comfortable beds - essentially depriving ourselves for fun.  And we took that long walk for fun, too.  Here in Burundi, many live the camping lifestyle, but all the time and not by choice.  They don't take long walks for fun, but because they have to get somewhere.

After years of war, Burundi needs help from outside to right itself.  But does it always need the gifts we bring?

Some things, like those seeds, sneak in with us unintended.  I'm waiting to see whether they produce a wildflower or a thorn.

From South of France, My Tour de France

I had fun, in the last few weeks, following the Tour de France, the world's most popular bicycle race.

For the first part of the Tour I was living in a hotel and had the full privileges of the electronic world.  Every afternoon I would turn on the TV, open an internet ticker, and follow the live Boulder Report blog.

Burundi is, more or less, due south of France, and so I got to watch the race, for the first time, in its original time zone.  No need to wake at 6 a.m. for a bleary-eyed pedal over to the house of a friend who had cable.

I also got to watch in French, the language in which God intended Le Tour to be appreciated.  Of course, I understood squat.  J'etudie francais these days, I study French, since Burundi is solidly Francophone.  But the TV commentary was way beyond me.  I refreshed the live blog often to get the scoop in English.

For the crucial last week of the race, however, I was living in a temporary house: no TV, no internet.  I missed the Tour, and I didn't miss it.  There's good and bad to having most of your afternoon taken up watching a bunch of men in skin-tight shorts bob back and forth on bicycles so well-engineered you can lift them with a finger.

It got a little ironic, too, following the Tour from Burundi.  First of all, there were no black Africans in the race, never have been (though at least one guy is trying to change that).  It's a very white, Western sport.  For diversity, a couple of Japanese and Colombians rode this year.

Second, these men are riding bicycles that cost more than the average Burundian will make in half a lifetime.  Here, even buying one of the typical single-speed bikes - about all that's available in Burundi - is unaffordable for many.  Here, most people walk.

In Burundi, bikes are for work, not for racing.  They're built heavy and solid, so you can do things like install an extra seat over the back wheel.  Then your bicycle becomes a taxi.  You can make a little change, enough for some lunch.

Photo: a bicycle taxi driver in Bujumbura.

I confess I was thinking of the Tour de France, however, when on a recent ride I found myself suddenly surrounded by three of these bicycle taxis.  The drivers were all chatting with each other, grinning, pumping their pedals hard to get in front of me.

The passengers, women in colorfully patterned wraps, smiled from the back seats.  "Jambo," they hollered in Swahili, hello.  Riding sidesaddle, they swayed easily back and forth as the men pedaled.

I popped up into my big gear ring to keep up with these six companions.  We made a perfect Burundian peleton, I thought.

Then, another rider joined us.  Leaning lightly forward, he crossed his arms casually atop his handlebars, as if he were sitting on a sofa drinking tea.  He cruised to the front of our convivial pack.  Then he attacked!

He opened up a gap.  Thankfully, since I'd been watching the Tour all week, I knew what to do.  I got on his back wheel.

We'd be a breakaway, I thought, hammering hard all day for glory, hoping the women riding sidesaddle back in the pack wouldn't make their pedaling men feel too bad about being left behind and whip them up to catch us just before the finish line.

But no, I was the only one racing for glory; soon I was riding by myself.  While I dreamt of fame, my breakaway companion just wanted to get to the next town.