If a Secret Service agent tells you he's a Secret Service agent it isn't a secret anymore, is it?
Midnight suppers are romantic, but they don't mix well with 6 a.m. alarm clocks, 30-mile bike commutes and long days on your feet in the workshop. Sundays we open two hours later, but somehow I still manage to be rushed. This morning I pounded down a big stack of peach pancakes and a quart of coffee before bolting out on the road bike to sprint to town. It's been a week of midnight suppers and early mornings as the cellist worked a show gig in Tamworth. The show closed last night.
On 28, I was just feeling for the right pace to keep me on schedule to get to work while still keeping my pancakes down, when a decked-out road rider flashed up on my right.
"Allez! Allez!" he yelled, but it was a local rider, leading the few who had made it on the Sunday morning ride. He pulled the pace back to something I could manage, so I hung in the pace line to the height of land. Then the others slowed to wait for a straggler, but I had a good start and a route mostly downhill the rest of the way. My pancakes and my punctuality were safe.
At the shop, a Secret Service agent came in to check on some arrangements we'd been helping with, and to pick up a couple more helmets. The French will be maneuvering. More I cannot say. But I did chuckle to myself about the term Secret Service. Shouldn't they try to convince us they're something else, like dog-walkers or house painters?
Back to the old workstand. I'll be working late today.