Ayer, MA-Upton, MA-Braintree, MA 9/13 32 bike miles; 54 car miles

After a restful night's sleep to the rhythm of soft rain peppering our tents like a muted snare drum, we broke camp under a dry sky. We spent the morning meandering through the affluent bedroom communities west of Boston. The area, once farm land and apple orchards, now grows understated yet palatial homes that sit on five acre plots and cost well north of a half million dollars. They sit back from the road, each  one winking through stands of hard wood trees. The wet roads, misty air, and quiet mystery had me thinking of Ichabod Crane. One especially ostentatious edifice had bright orange pumpkins mounted like heads atop the brick balustrdes leading up to a magnificent leaded glass door. I could easily imagine a darkly clad butler gurgling, "The Master will see you now". We did pass one working farm whose signage proudly proclaimed its historic lineage. It was easily the best stretch of riding we had done to date. Things went well until after breakfast. We climbed a long steady hill and down an easy grade into the little hamlet of Upton. There Ed's energy dissipated and his heart rate soared. Decision making under any circumstance is complicated, often influenced by trauma, pressure, bias, greed, self-interest and any number of factors that muddy the waters. At this point our process was as muddy as the Mississippi. It was about this time that an angel arrived. He came in the form of an immensely compassionate man named Chip Kent. Chip, an avid cyclist and fellow adventurer, noticed us beside the road. Naturally, he was curious, and in a few minutes learned if Ed's condition. He immediately offered to let us stay at his house for the night (At this point, we were grasping like desperate beggars to the coat strings of the ride). Ed, unable to ride, waited while Chip and I rode to his  house where Chip hopped into his pickup and retrieved Ed. Chip, who generously gave us the rest of his afternoon, showed us around his place while we thought out loud like punch drunk fighters. I finally suggested we call our friend Johnny Logue since it was Sunday, a non work day, and since he lives less than sixty miles away. The short of it is that Johnny came and got us. I'm sitting in his living room right now. Had Johnny not been available, we were still fortunate. The town back up the road from Chip's house has a bike shop,  a UPS store, and an Enterprise car rental outlet. We couldn't have planbed a better exit  point. But wait, GASBBT may live. Plan A (Assuming Ed's doctor gives the Ok) is to continue the tour. We simply plan to change vehicles (Just like Pony Express Riders). We'll exchange our bikes for a midsized car with a V6 engine and roll on down the coast all the way to Key West. This is the beauty and the grace of living in the first world. We will simply sqweeze this lemon into sweet Southern tea. In this light, how can we hold any other position except that life is good, especially today.

Just a sample of our morning scenery.

Chip-just a curious cyclist at this point.

Chip's home.

Miss Kitty nestled up against Chip's workshop. 

My scraggily selfie self.

Chip's brother's home, also on the family property.

Ed, Chip, and me.

Johnny Logue's zinnias. It's great to be American.

Lettuce and chicken for me from now on. I won't burn that many calories with my flabby ass sitting in a midsize so no treats for me.