Clark Kent and the Puppy

I went cycling in my own neighborhood last night, but I think my secret identity is safe. (Apologies to Kahuna. I am shamelessly adapting one of his own ideas). I looked nothing like the sleek and sinewed "man-of-steel" triathlete that exists in my minds eye, nor even like the new and improved middle-of-the-packer that exists in reality. I was Clark Kent, the mild-mannered suburban dad.

Instead of the Canondale road bike, Clark rode Mrs. Greyhound's Raleigh hybrid--big knobby tires, squooshy suspension system, and big comfy saddle. Instead of skin-tight cycling shorts, Clark wore cotton, knee length, khaki, Bermuda shorts. (Clark noted with satisfaction that the waist band of said shorts, bought three years ago, was three inches too big and required a belt). Instead of tri-specific cycling shoes with the single velcro strap, Clark tied up an old pair of trainers. Clark even wore socks; however, (unlike his father) he refuses to wear black dress socks with his Bermuda shorts out of principle.

Clark did wear his bitchin' Oakley shades, though.

There was a cyclist in front of me, spinning furiously on skinny little legs in a low gear. She rode a purple mountain bike and wore a pink skate boarding helmet with heart stickers on it. Clark did not call out, "on your left" in order to pass. Hiding his secret identity, he shifted to a lower gear and fell in behind. The cyclist was, after all, the Greyhound puppy, and she had called dibs on being the "leader." So she led---past the new park, to the end of the neighborhood, onto the dirt trails, and all the way back. She even raced me to the street sign.

She won.

What a great secret. What a great evening.