The bike path I was riding on ran under a bridge that crossed a creek. Two men sat in folding chairs by the path, fishing.
“What kind of fish do you catch here?” I asked one of them.
“Catfish,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Joe,” I said.
“I’m Dan, and this is my good friend Bob.”
“Hello, Dan and Bob,” I said.
“Do you fish?” asked Dan.
“No.”
“Well, why not?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s because I just can’t sit still that long.”
Dan gave me a look that told me he knew better.
Bob said, “That must be why you ride that bike.”
Dan said, “You ever ridden RAGBRAI?”
“No,” I said. “But this bike has. My daughter rode this bike on RAGBRAI when she was sixteen. She rode clear across Iowa.”
“That’s just sad,” said Dan. “Your daughter rode RAGBRAI when she was sixteen, and you don’t even fish.”
“Worse than sad,” I said. “because I’m on my way to work.”
Dan sucked in a deep breath.
“But I’ll be back with a fishing pole,” I said. They laughed.
“No, I won’t,” I admitted. I mounted up.
“Thanks for stopping,” said Dan. “Good meeting you,” he called as I peddled away.