On Saturday Mike and I rode our final tune-up -- actually our first outing together with both of us fully loaded -- in the Windy 60, a big group ride in DeKalb, Illinois. Twelve miles into the shake-down cruise, in an effort to adjust a front pannier on the fly, Mike accidentally locked up his front wheel. It was a classic bike crash and I observed from a few feet behind. His bike stopped dead and flipped up. Mike went over the handlebars head first -- feet pointed straight up into the sky -- and he hit pavement leading with his helmet. Then the upended bike toppled onto him. Because this was an organized group ride, a sag wagon was quickly on hand to zoom him -- dazed and confused -- and his battered bike back to the start line, which seemed to be as far as they were willing to go. I had to pedal furiously back to the start, find my van, load up our bikes, and drive him to the emergency room.

Remarkably, Mike suffered only bruises and abrasions. He needs to write a thank-you letter to the helmet manufacturer. Ladies and gentlemen and kiddies, don't ride anywhere without a helmet. And -- believe me -- we will not be doffing our skull protection under any circumstances in Europe.

Sadly, Mike's bike didn't fare so well. Un-ride-able. The fork was toast. After a few hours at the hospital we realized, with our flight less than 48 hours away on Monday, we needed to scramble. Only one bike shop in DeKalb remained open on Saturday evening and they didn't have the right parts, but it was going to be too late to try to drive somewhere else and get the work done before departure. It took about four hours of emergency phone calls, piecing parts together, and rigging up a bastardized frame, fork, and headset with incompatible threads, but Morgan at DeKalb Schwinn performed a miracle.

Satisfied he had not suffered a concussion or permanent brain damage, and his bike would also survive, Mike drove home to Chicago for final packing. I headed south, performed some last-minute bike maintenance, and starting packing up Bob the Bike and all my gear in a sturdy box, only to learn the guy who had promised to drive me to O'Hare was flaking. I quickly lined up another strategy, had a couple of beers, and slept well.

Early Monday morning my buddy Larry drove me and "Bob in a Box" over to the airport shuttle bus for a ride up to O'Hare where I met Mike -- none the worse for his misadventure on Saturday -- and we boarded a flight into JFK and then TWA 880 for nearly ten hours across the Atlantic to Athens. 

Mike is dozing at 30,000 feet. I'm too excited to sleep. Writing up these notes. Worrying about damage to Bob in transit.