I have two friends that I've known since the 80s when we worked together. About a dozen years ago we discovered our mutual interest in bicycles, and we began chatting online regularly. We are three women in our 70s. I live in a highrise in Miami. One friend lives on a farm in south Georgia, and the other lives in a town in rural north Florida. We all love solo rides. We all love to travel on our bikes.
Because they live in rural areas, it's a lot easier for them to physically distance themselves on their bike rides. Still, they have had to negotiate some compromises with their families.
- Pavement riding only so someone can drive out for them and their bike if there is a serious problem.
- They have to leave a route and expected return time at home (because there are areas where cell phones are iffy should there be a problem.)
- And no overnight trips. (No particular reason, it seems. Apparently it just drives family crazy to have grandma wild camping somewhere during the pandemic. My friends think it is annoying and silly but quaint and sweet, nonetheless.)
They think my rides are pretty unhampered by the pandemic. I try to explain the problems with urban riding, but they think my issues with scooters and finding toilet facilities are highly amusing.
We share photos of stuff from our rides. They have scenic landscapes and wonderful old homes. I share photos of Miami stuff. Skyline city views. Peacocks. Public art. Biscayne Bay. The reaction of these friends to things I usually dismiss as mundane and commonplace affected me in a way I hadn't expected.
To my surprise, I discovered my world was littered with little treasures. I realized I could be a bicycle tourist right here at home. No travel required. Just a change in viewpoint.
 |
| One of the many peacocks I pass on rides around Miami. |
 |
| A bit of public art in a tiny park between a traffic circle and a parking lot. |
