Last day of vacation. It’s been fine - nothing too spectacular, but very relaxing and ‘homey’.

We went to see the Indy cars race and got really, really wet, went shopping, cooked out, read lots and lots, visited Momanddad, picked veggies, cut grass, saw movies, ate far too much and drank even more.

Yesterday, Mr. Hot and I got the bikes out and went riding on these country roads. We used to ride all over the place when we lived in town - even, once, going from Royal Oak to Metro Beach Metropark - about 27 miles each way - on the hottest day of the year. It wasn’t smart (I have a stripe, to this day, where I missed sunscreen above my shorts and below my shirt), but we had a great time. We carried water and food, Shortman stayed with a friend, and we rode our asses off.

Unfortunately, since our move out “to the country” last year, we haven’t ventured out - it’s scary riding on two-lane blacktop roads with no shoulders and cars zooming past at 55 or 60. But, it was a nice morning, andwe really missed riding, so off we went.

You guys!?! Seriously. This is hill country. Guess what? We lived in flatlands before. The biggest thing we needed to climb was the piece of the driveway from the street to the garage. Now, we have hills. Big, mother-honkin’ hills. And you better hope that you go down one before you go up the other, because that’s the ONLY.WAY. you’re getting to the top. If you don’t get enough speed, you’re hikin’ it. There’s few things more embarrassing than walking your bike up a hill while the locals zoom past in their pickups.

And curves? Blind curves? Country road blind curves? You might see a tractor around the bend. Or a tomato stand. Or you might run over road kill. (Who knew that racoons got so big?)

Aaaaannnnyyyyway. So, we peddled along, stopped at the top of the biggest hill into town and watched the Classic car parade (we didn’t even know it was going on) while we sucked down bottles of water and checked out the best route (the one that had the fire stations, and therefore paramedics available) to get back home.

After another half mile or so, we stopped (oh the shame of being so out of shape) and admired the house that we originally wanted to buy (So, maybe it was just an excuse to stop. Shut up. Those hills are big.), drank more water, and started for home.

That’s what I heard Mr. Hot - “Damn it. Damn it to hell.” (He does have a way with words)

He had a flat tire. A really, really flat tire. And there was no way that thing was going to hold enough air - and the thought of walking the 6 or 7 miles back home along those roads? Had me thinking about calling a cab. (hee hee. Like a cab could find us out here.)

He looked at me. “So, do you trust Shortman?”

I knew what was coming. He was going to have our son, the new (brand-spanking-new, not even legal [shhhhhhhhhh. it was desperation time]) driver come pick us up.

I gulped. “Of course I trust Shortman. I’ll be scared shitless, but I trust him.“

“I’ll make sure he takes the back roads. There won’t be so much traffic“, was Mr. Hot’s response.

So, my darling husband dialed the phone, and at home, in front of the computer, the Gamer, the one you can’t pry away from the machine with a crowbar, answered (That was a miracle in and of itself). Mr. Hot explained our predicament. Told Shortman where we’d be standing, while I got down on my knees and prayed (well, not really, but you know - ), and told him to be careful.

After Mr. Hot hung up, I looked at him. “So, do you think he knows to bring the truck? You didn’t tell him, explicitly, to bring the truck. You should call him back and make sure he knows that we need the truck. Because two bikes are not going to fit into baby car.“

Mr. Hot looked at me like I was nuts. “Of course he knows to bring the truck. I told him I had a flat tire.“

“Okay, but I think you should call him back just to be sure.“

Just then Mr. Hot’s phone rang. I could only hear Mr. Hot’s side of the conversation: “Yes, the truck. We have the bikes.” [Snort.] I know how Shortman’s mind works.

We stood in the shade, and I asked “Is that him?” for every vehicle I saw in the distance. Note: a 1995 Ford F-150 looks nothing like a 1967 Chevy Corvette on its way to the Classic Car show. Mr. Hot felt the need to point that out. Ass.

But Shortman did fine. He drove like a pro, parked in front of us on the street, helped us load the bikes (well, no he didn’t, he just sat in the driver’s seat like he owned the road, while Mr. Hot and I did the hard work) and got us home. In one piece.

—- With a huge shit-eatin’ grin on his face the whole time. Beware - there’s soon to be a new driver on the roads of SaltNotFlatCountry Michigan, and he’ll be alone behind the wheel. —-