Unlike some of my more urban-located and sophisticated cycling friends (Doohickie, Rat Trap Press, and DFW Point-to-Point), I don’t have ready access to a local coffee shop. I enjoy reading their accounts of rides through the city, including refreshment stops at those fancy gathering places. Sadly, my own experiences fall short in comparison.
They enjoy the comforts of furniture and the stimulating hustle and bustle of other friendly patrons. I am required to sit in solitude under a pecan tree on a small patch of blanket that I must pack and bring with me.
At those urban coffee shops, visitors have a mind expanding array of product and accessory options. I suppose one could order his coffee ten thousand different ways. He can doctor up his coffee with all sorts creams, sprinkles, and sweeteners so as to make it taste less like coffee, and more like dessert. I just have my thermos with only one choice, and I had to brew it myself. It’s coffee that’s black, and just tastes like coffee.
Finally, my coffee stop is not down the street and around the corner. I must pedal along on desolate roads, some of them gravel, for two hours to find it. After a series of hill crests and creek crossings, a serviceable spot appears. By then, a short stop, even my humble spot, is something I can live with.