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Colorado
During the wild trail ride the night before, I managed to explode my rear derailleur, losing a critical screw and washer. Thanks to Gary’s foresight of packing essential spare parts, I’m able to repair it. In his black bag he finds what I need; a bolt with the right diameter and matching washer. My chain once again glides smoothly over securely fastened jockey wheels.
The more we spread out, the less likely we are apt to get tangled up with motorists who, ironically, seem to form a paceline of their own. I hammer through the inside corners where the bike lane paint has worn off—an indication to me of how the road is being used—and soft-pedal instead through the outside shoulders.