Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Firstly, there was the weather. A romantic mist at the beginning of their ride turned into a pissing, frigid downpour by the time they returned, and I was just as happy to observe from within the comfort of my dry shed.
Secondly, there are the amenities. I understand that they serve beer, soda, juice, and coffee at the Blue Mountain Grill, but only out of mugs, glasses, or cups. A bucket of Guinness would cost a pretty penny, and I'm pretty sure those lawn chairs on the patio aren't designed for the likes of me.
Thirdly, there is the roadway. Rushing along a paved back road is fine for wheels but hard one hooves, and with the pace they were setting I was well advised to remain behind.
Fourthly, and perhaps most importantly, the Blue Mountain Grill sits on Highway 9. The means by which to get there are quieter, but the parking lot is right on the main drag. It would be a shame, I think, if I was overcome by my Annual Stupidity while in such close proximity to the thundering lorries. (My Annual Stupidity, for those unaware, is a gigantic megaspook, which involves whirling, bolting, and braying in abject terror. It has happened to me twice in my two plus years with FarmWife.)
I won't begrudge FarmWife and her littlest filly an occasional bike ride, then. I just hope they bring me back an oatmeal stout and a side of onion rings next time.