Knowing that we were going to be in Patchouli Fume Central, I dressed for the occasion in my Filthy Hippies t-shirt and my faded and sweat-stained Blackwater hat, since they make such lovely conversation pieces amidst the Obama buttons and "Coexist" bumper stickers.
The sky was constantly threatening rain while we put probably twelve miles of asphalt under our tires. At one point we stopped in a bike shop, where a young guy on a Surly fixie called out "Does that hat say 'Blackwater'?"
His chin went up a little. "You're kinda... far from home, aren't you?"
"Uh, no. Actually I live here in Broad Ripple."
As we pedaled on down the trail, Bobbi, Turk, Shootin' Buddy, and I came up with possible alternative answers to his question. Some of the droller ones:
- "No. Actually the secret meeting is here in Indy this month."
- "You're not cleared for the answer to that."
- "No. We're doing security at the Art Fair."
- "Gotta wash the blood off someplace."
- "Actually, I'm here to give a class on waterboarding to the IMPD."