The Texan tells great stories. And talks about the roads. He says "These are good roads" and he's right. He says"I love these roads" and so do I. "These roads are nicely paved." "There's barely ever cars on these roads." "Yes, these are some good roads." And so on.
We passed my favorite hill to see (as opposed to my favorite hill to ride). Perfectly round and covered with nothing but clover, thick with the smell of it. Nearby strawberry fields also smell, of strawberries of course, but with a scent so sweet it seems artificial.
The Texan, like me, likes to play. So, after our ride, I watch his eyes light up at the mention of the giant inflated water slide at the other end of the astro-turf. We go over, climb up, slide down, run around and repeat a million times until we're soaked and tired and leave it for the kids.
Then, over to Vertigo Brewing, located in a secret-seeming and strange industrial complex, like a storage locker, but much nicer. We sit, discuss tires with the locals, and drink caramelly flavored beer.
I head home, shower, nap, then get up again, don a fresh chamois, pump up the white tires on my gorgeous butter-colored Miyata, and ride out to Velocult to meet friends and add another ten miles on my computer, feeling like my mission to live life on a bike is being fulfilled.