Knee socks, green jackets, black lycra tops straining across bulging bellies—or maybe hanging loose.
White hair floating beneath a helmet.
Fat tires, skinny tires.
Drop-bar bikes, upright rides—
Meet me in Rio Vista Park on a 70-degree November day.
Listen for a Swiss-German accent, an East Coast brassiness, a Midwestern diffidence.
We’re deep in the Sun Belt and ready for the Sunday morning bicycle meetup.
Ten strong, we pedal through retirement Mecca: miles of one-story beige houses arranged in concentric circles, dotted with golf courses and rec centers.
Windows are barred and shuttered against the sun. Garage doors closed, sidewalks empty, gravel-covered yards tidy. Garbage bins are stowed underground; the lids sit flush with the driveways.
(Do the garbage truck drivers have to bend over all day, I wonder, lifting the bins from their underground warrens like bears pulling cubs from their dens?)
The asphalt is flat, the traffic is light, and riders look out for each other. Wait at the lights so no one’s left behind. Call out “car back.” Compare notes on hobbies, travel plans, former homes. Everyone has migrated here from somewhere else.
Our destination: a locally owned bakery (rare in these parts) on the other side of the tracks.
The smell of sugar assails us at the door. I try not to look too closely at the offerings—I’m off the sweet stuff. But a chest-high glass display case stretches from wall to wall. In it sit row upon row of cookies, pies, muffins, cakes, cream horns…
And there, in the corner:
“You know you’re in a retirement community when…”
Instead of a pastry, I pick up a conversation.
On my right, a husband-and-wife team are health inspectors for the county. Restaurants, hospitals, food trucks—“anything with four walls.”
They love it when their employee newsletter features co-workers from other countries: what holidays do they celebrate, what foods do they cook?
But hey, come to think of it, why no LGBT+ presence in the government newsletter?
Casey says that, when a young woman health inspector walks into a restaurant, it’s hard for her to get the respect that owners automatically afford a middle-aged white guy like himself. He chalks it up to the culture (but doesn’t say which one).
They’ve seen how expectations for eye contact vary, depending on where you’re from. Remember this in Morocco, I tell myself.
I leave the bakery still sugar-free but feeling pretty full. I’m more than satisfied with my choice.
On the ride home, the houses still stretch in an unending beige monotony. But as we glide beneath the palm trees, I know that—like my friend the Zen Buddhist monk might say—we’re all riding beneath the same sky.
You have some real gems in here or should I say…some tasty morsels hidden in the bear claws.
Thanks, Linda!