When you gotta go, a B&E seems like a minor matter

I should preface this column by stating the following: The text contained herein may offend the delicate sensibilities of some of our more cultured, refined and educated readers. If you’re like me, you can just go ahead and read on.

The day dawned bright and beautiful, an early summer’s Sunday as fine and lovely as a postcard. Beyond the sun-dappled bedroom window finches and starlings chirped and chittered, honeybees hummed through the breeze. In the distance, a dog woofed into the big, empty sky, sounding glad to be alive. It was for days like this that I moved to the country.

Previous experience should have told me that any day beginning this wonderfully is sure to end in disaster, but I was lulled by the sheer agreeableness of it all.

“What do you feel like doing today?” The Lovely Mrs. Taylor murmured as she rose to wakefulness.

“I dunno, bike ride?” I said.

Several minutes passed as Mrs. T processed my comment. Usually a quick-minded woman, she is slow to rise and doesn’t function well prior to breakfast, a shower and the morning paper.

“Lemme get ready really quick,” she said, finally, pulling back the sheets and heading for the bathroom.

I knew from experience that “really quick” meant I had time to fix breakfast, get dressed, shine all the shoes in my closet and translate the entire works of Dostoyevsky into Sanskrit before she’d be ready. I settled for breakfast.

Sunday’s the only day I eat breakfast, so I usually do it up right—Denver omelet, bacon, homemade toast with cherry preserves, some fruit, lots of Starbucks Breakfast Blend. By the time Mrs. Taylor came downstairs, I had eaten enough chicken and pig products to upset PETA for months.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Umph,” I said around a final mouthful of cherry preserve-encrusted toast. A nice, little bike ride was just what I needed to work off breakfast and maintain my near-perfect physique. (Look, if you’re gonna read this column, you should know some parts of it are truer than others, OK?)

Rolling down the driveway, Mrs. Taylor said, “We’ve got all day, let’s make it a long ride.”

“Oh,” I said. “OK.”

Now, my male pride would never let me admit this to Mrs. T, but she has considerably more stamina and ambition than I’ll ever possess. For one thing, she was learning to use the bathroom by herself just about the same time I was getting fired from my first fast food job, so there’s a bit of an age difference, one that becomes most noticeable on bike rides of more than 20 miles. Also, she’s more ambitious than I ever was.

Out we pedaled toward the edge of town and beyond. We soon were surrounded by fields of corn, beans and ‘taters, where front yards are measured in acres rather than feet. The miles rolled beneath us as we moved into the Big Empty. Nothing as far as they eye can see, which, in this gently rolling countryside, is far indeed. An hour passed, then two.

Suddenly, I was reminded of breakfast. Of the omelet, the bacon, the three cups of Starbucks Breakfast Blend. The homemade toast, rich in fiber. (Do I need to spell this out for you?)

My father-in-law’s farm—and Mrs. T’s aunt’s house—represented the nearest “facilities,” a couple miles farther up the road. I pedaled faster, then faster still. By the time I neared the farm I had broken the sound barrier, twice.

No one was home. Somebody’s always home there, but not this day. No sirree.

But that’s OK, I figured. Nobody locks their doors out here, and we’re family, for heaven’s sake.

The doors were locked. I tried the windows. Locked. I tried the cellar door. Locked. What’s up with this? I thought. Are they cooking meth in there?

Mrs. T muttered encouraging words about a gas station five miles back the way we had come, but it didn’t help.

In the end, paper towels from the barn in hand, I visited the nearby cornfield, glad for the early growth spurt caused by all the rain we’ve had recently. Mrs. T stood guard, but nobody drove by.

Until biking season’s over, I’m skipping breakfast on Sundays, too.