As I boarded, the attendant, deckhand, ferry person (whatever you call them) directed me to the starboard rail. I dismounted, leaned my bike against the rail and leaned against the same as close as I could get to keep from being crushed by the following stream of cars. It was a busy day, so they were packing them tight.
As the ferry pulled away, I caught a glimpse of the western shore. It was a sheer cliff of red clay rising majestically above the surface of the river.
I glanced south and pictured the direction from which John Smith had sailed more than 400 years earlier.

I glanced east and saw the Jamestown monument marking the first permanent English settlement in 1607.


I was tempted to mosey to the bow and butt in, but my bike was leaning precariously against the rail and I dared not leave it fearing it would fall over into one of the cars squeezed but inches away. As with most of my encounters involving the fairer sex, I was a day late and a dollar short. All I could do was stand there and for the next 30 minutes resent the fact that this old fart had the unfettered attention of this drop dead gorgeous blonde.
I was comforted by but one fact. When this ferry docked on the east bank and this blonde drove away in her SUV, I would blow by this old fart so fast that my draft would literally pick him up and fling him off the road and into the river to drown. As the ramp lowered and the last car departed, leaving us two cyclist (one – a pot bellied old fart with thinning, gray hair on a 50 lb hybrid / the other – a younger, handsome, rock solid hunk of lycra, riding a 20 lb carbon fiber racing machine) we departed.
Imagine my incredulity and shame as I was left in his dust. Breathing hard, with my heart rate maxed out, I watched helplessly as he rode away from me and disappeared in the distance. Just before I lost sight of him, I was tempted to undo the straps of my helmet and tip it to him. It turns out that blonde had made the right choice. She had picked the better man.
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