08/16/2026
A True Story (with a few embellishments)
I was on the last 5-mile stretch of my 35-mile Saturday morning ride to Murrells Inlet. Winds were light and westerly—no more than 6 mph—not strong enough to be a bother, but fresh enough to cool. It was still early, so the Carolina heat had yet to become insufferable. All in all, a pleasant summer morning for a bike ride.
As I approached Enterprise Landing, I saw a figure in the distance, barely discernible in the long pine shadows covering the road ahead. Years of solitary riding have honed my ability to perceive their presence long before my aged eyes bring them into focus. I recognized it immediately: the slightly rounded shape, the narrow silhouette hugging the edge of the road, and a soft, almost imperceptible side-to-side wobble combined with a low-to-the-ground, circular motion. Another cyclist!
It appeared to be a lone rider, almost invisible due to his dark attire. Initially discernible only by slight movement, the gleaming white of his helmet, and the flashing white of his shoes, he easily blended into the muted grays and blacks of asphalt and shadow. No headlight, no flasher, He was a shadow rider, a ghost rider.
I was elated knowing I was not alone on the road, looking forward to greeting a fellow rider with a friendly wave and a thumbs-up.
But as we closed the distance, a second and third rider emerged from the shadows, trailing closely behind in tight formation. They reached a break in the tall pines and burst into the bright morning sun. There was not one, not two, not three riders, but to my delight, an entire peloton.
Emerging from the shade like a long, colorful train exiting a dark tunnel, their semi-professional pomposity was on full display. They kept coming, determination and intention etched on their visored faces as they took full advantage of the light morning tailwind.
Then suddenly, to my left, another blurred flash of movement caught my eye. I immediately sensed danger as a white sedan, piloted by a demure elderly woman, lazily rolled through her subdivision stop sign at the exact moment the peloton emerged from the shadows. She never saw them, never heard them, and never acknowledged their existence. She simply drifted onto the road, completely oblivious that she had just imperiled a dozen cyclists.
It was their skill, training, athletic prowess, and perhaps their hydraulic disc brakes that saved them. Acting as one symbiotic organism, the entire group decelerated abruptly and in unison. No rider spilled. No rider crashed. No rider collided with the car or each other. Well done, gentlemen.
In the next instant, their outrage boiled over. Fueled by the driver's audacious negligence and their sudden loss of ride momentum, they broke into what seemed like a choreographed chorus of curses and colorful disparagements, complete with coordinated fist-pumping and middle-finger salutes.
Their animated, self-righteous anger was almost comical, but the near miss was no laughing matter. Thankfully, ruffled feathers and bruised egos were the only injuries suffered this morning.
Be safe, y'all.
