Dean wished the bird luck as he pedaled by.
There was little conversation but at one point when they were exchanging the lead and Betty pedaled ahead, she called to him over her shoulder.
Back on the pavement, Dean pedaled past Tom, a well-known wild turkey who'd in past months adopted a location on the highway from which he never seemed to stray more than a few hundred yards.
After a quick supper of pastrami and fruit at Uncle Sally's Galley, Dean pedaled 27 hard miles, working up a good sweat and a painful case of shin splints.
In spite of his love of music, no pocket recorder filled Dean's head with voices, strings or horns through tiny toy earphones— he'd leave that to the bikers who pedaled unaware of the sounds of birds and springtime around them.
