I carried my bike through Pejza’s Tavern in Lydick and out onto the patio where some of my buddies were gathering for lunch.
They had golfed at Elbel. On this day, I had passed on my pathetic putting and poor pitching — and pedaled instead.
My bike at least usually goes straight. My drives rarely do.
But it was my turn to buy lunch and so there I was, looking very little like a golfer with my bike get-up on. You probably know the deal — black Lycra shorts and colorful jerseys that perk up passing motorists’ senses.
Yeah, I’m a little embarrassed when I’m off the bike and walking around anywhere in my biking gear. I figure I look a little like a cross between a soccer goalie and a rodeo clown. I sat down with my friends anyway and took the appropriate razzing,
When the waitress came back with our drinks (just water for me — I had to ride home, after all), I said I hoped she didn’t mind me bringing my bike through the bar. I explained to her that I had a bike stolen two winters ago in Arizona and liked to keep my eye on this one.
“Oh, I don’t mind the bike,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s your pants that bother me.”
Well, they bother me a little bit, too. Too tight for one thing. Maybe a little too revealing if you get my drift. But if you’re biking long distances, biking pants cut down on chafing and aren’t flying around in the wind like gym shorts would.
But back to the waitress. She stood there staring — right into my eyes, fortunately. I thought about putting my helmet back on for any more incoming insults. I must not have passed the dress code in her opinion.
“If you have a towel, I could throw it over my lap,” I said meekly.
“Probably a wash cloth would be big enough,” she said.
That got some laughs, but not from me — and she wasn’t laughing, either.
Before I could respond, she was off —probably tracking down that wash cloth. I tried to act like our exchange wasn’t bothering me as the guys snickered and had their own fun with it.
I was thinking that maybe I should pass on the Bill’s Burger that I had ordered from the menu, just leave my credit card and hightail it out of there. “I don’t think she likes me,” I said.
“Few waitresses do,” somebody piped up.
Finally, my buddy Kirby fessed up. “Okay, I have to admit that I put her up to that.”
Hahahahaha! I had been had.
When the waitress returned, she still wasn’t smiling. She was playing her role to the hilt. I told her I knew. She just nodded, maybe still thinking a wash cloth would be appropriate..
She did smile, though, when I gave her a big tip.
After carrying my bike back through the bar and getting a few odd looks (or was I just imagining them), I beat my buddies out of the parking lot. They would pass me soon enough.
Bill’s Burger was sitting pretty heavy in my stomach and I had miles to go before my nap.
Oh, well. Golf next week, I guess. Nobody makes fun of my outfit there — except the worn-out old Cub hat I can’t help but wear.