Polyphemus in Polyester

You will pleased to hear that the spirit of adventure is alive and well within my hardy, optimistic soul. At least it is now that warmer temperatures have finally arrived and the Calypso of Spring is singing her alluring song. Last weekend, for instance, armed only with a GPS equipped smartphone, protein bars and refillable water bottle, I cycled down an unfamiliar path towards an unknown destination. Who knew to what obscure Jurassic wildernesses such previously unexplored trails may lead? I could have pitched up, Lord preserve me, marooned at some godforsaken Java Shack table, rather than discovering the promised land of that independently-owned, fair trade cafe I had heard so much about. Nevertheless, I embarked upon my expedition with all the optimism of an Argonaut of old, assuming they also rolled up their pant legs to prevent oil stains from getting on them.
As I rode pluckily along the dusty, unmapped road, flanked by alien chain-link fences, unkempt hedges, padlocked warehouses and all sorts of strange urban detritus, I was inspired to recall the epic quest of Odysseus in Homer's poem, eventually concluding that there were absolutely no similarities between his heroic seafaring exploits and my leisurely afternoon jaunt. Except that I also found my progress blocked by a man-eating cyclops. Alas, nice weather apparently brings out these classical horrors from their wintry lairs as well.
This cyclops was really just a novice rollerblader, dangerously flailing around in a ludicrous outfit of over-sized protective pads and lurid spandex. I'm only assuming he was also the one-eyed monster of myth because his peripheral vision was obviously severely limited. In fact, the ungainly beast seemed completely ignorant of any other objects in his immediate vicinity, be they animal, vegetable or plastic bag full of illegally dumped household trash.
I was filled with dread and apprehension as I approached, lest I be knocked down by a savage whack from his windmilling arms or one of his wildly dangling, wheeled feet. Fortunately, right before I entered striking distance, his knees buckled, his legs locked, the rollerblades skidded and screeched, and the cyclops uttered a blood-curdling yelp before veering off into a ditch at terminal velocity. Thus are the imitation terrors of antiquity hoist by their own petard.
Since this particular nemesis destroyed himself, I can't claim any great feats of strength during the course of my adventure. I'm more Argonought than Argonaut. It is unlikely that tribes would huddle spellbound around their campfires to hear sonorous bards sing tales of my uninteresting deeds; nor would any lyric poets be moved to compose lengthy verses about my relatively uneventful journey, except maybe Philip Larkin. So perhaps it wasn't worth writing a blog about it, either? Oh well. Too late now.

Comments

[Giric]

First of all, congratulations on your milestone bicycle ride. Did you ever think you would do that again?! I bet not.
My only wish is that you had put on a camera helmet and recorded it all, because I would love to see something like that for stationary bike graphics, than all those endless "cg" hills, with no thrills.
What an adventure,"All's well that ends well."

[Giric]

A plucky cyclist on the road was bent,
Upon adventure unknown and profound.
A ramble providence had clearly sent,
And so he took his ride upon new ground.
But soon he found himself in quite a fix,
A land not full of wonder but of mire.
Now providence can sure be full of tricks,
And not the dream you will at all desire.
He looked and low a cyclops in his path,
In fear he wavered. Was this his last day?
But low it self destructed as he watched,
So smiling he went forward on his way.

Not epic but the best I could do on short notice. Your descriptive powers are amazing.

[Giric]

To that famous person, now deceased, who first said, "There is nothing to fear, but fear itself." I say, he never had to deal with umpteen children on various and sundry modes of transportation, with less than optimum skill levels, careening down the street at break neck speeds. Screeching banshee's have nothing on these guys. It doesn't seem to matter to them that our street ends in a thirty foot drop into a craterous hole full of dead tree's and brambles.

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