Some of you may remember that Rick had his bike stolen from a locked roof rack when we were in Berkeley this past summer (he doesn't have the best luck with bikes, as you will soon see). He spent months researching what bike he wanted next, waiting for the insurance money to come in, and trying to decide whether to go with the bigger wheels (a mountain biker thing). About a month ago, he made the decision and ordered a new bike. He loved that bike (notice the past tense) like a child. Rode at every opportunity, was so happy with the bigger wheels.
He went riding today, while I finished the edging on Simurgh. We were having friends over to dinner, so he called on the way home to see what I needed from the store. I got a call five minutes later and thought he'd forgotten the list. But what I heard on the phone, in a dull voice, was, "The bike came off the bike rack. On the freeway." He sounded ready to cry. Long story short, the bike flew off the rack, dented the hood of the car behind him, and got completely smashed by everyone behind that guy. Thank god, no-one was hurt, no-one crashed. But the bike is destroyed. (Dinner got cancelled; thank goodness it was my dear friend who was totally understanding and supportive.)
I was planning to wait until tomorrow to write a nice, long post about our weekend and about the lovely Simurgh (which is now at the halfway point), but I had to tell someone. Thanks for listening.