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Screech "Flying a plane is no different from
riding a bicycle. It's just a lot harder to put baseball cards
in the spokes." By half past seven Sunday morning it was already too hot to stay in the old nylon sweat lodge. Extra sleep out of the question, we packed up and rode to the Medicine Hat airport. There, we removed Sue's bike pedals, and turned her handlebars sideways. The plane's underbelly cargo hold was so small we even had to remove the bike's front wheel. And still, the baggage person had a tight squeeze getting the bicycle in (you know you're flying a small airline when the luggage handler and the pilot are one and the same). A crackly speaker announced final boarding call (at least the voice wasn't the pilot's). The four musketeers clapped each other in hearty goodbye hugs. "See you in Portugal!" echoed throughout the empty terminal.
The screech of rubber on tarmac jolted me from my reminisces. We were in France. I gazed out from our cozy confines at a never-ending skyline of grey drizzle. "Hmmm," I muttered, wondering if we were going to make it to Lisbon in three weeks to meet our cycling buddies. |
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