That looks like a totally fun time. Very sweet! And a belated happy birthday. Yeah!

Hey Luke, thanks! It was a great, great time. I’m smiling just looking at the pictures again. (And you made it under the wire: it’s still my birthday here on the right-hand coast.)

Giant spacegoing crabs.

Giant spacegoing crabs?

Giant spacegoing crabs!

It looks like you all had a great day. Maybe some day I’ll be able to ride 20 miles without my butt falling off, and I will come to New York and ride the Tour de Bob myself.

Oh, I think there was some butt-fall-offery among us: because the rally point was my house, the Tour itself was 20.5 miles; the rest of the guys rode a very impressive 35 miles! You’re more than welcome to join the Tour next year.

Yeah, Giant spacegoing crabs. I’d say you can’t make this stuff up, but (one hopes) Petaja did.

happy birthday, bob. i can think of no more joyous gift than a day like that.

You’re a great tour guide, a great cook, and a great friend. Who else would we ride an extra 15 miles through deepest Brooklyn to hang out with?

The 7.5 miles to get from where the Q train stopped running (Atlantic & Flatbush) to Bob’s house (ass-end of nowhere) was no big deal at all, except for the wanker with Florida plates who kept honking at us and trying to run us over on Avenue N. But try riding 20 miles and then having Bob feed you enough to keep all of Rome fat and happy, so much that it’s agony to breathe, and then ride those same 7.5 miles back to Atlantic & Flatbush. In the dark.

It was a great day.

Thanks, Maggie. Yeah, it was a pretty damn good day—good enough to blur the sensation of the odometer ticking over another notch.

You know, I completely forgot about the Q train not running until I read it here. Since you guys arrived at the house I’ve idly wondered why you’d only take the train as far as Atlantic Avenue. I really should have been wearing Laura’s short bus socks.

Aww, thank you. It was a delight to spend the day with you guys, and to cook for such an appreciative audience.

Oh, man, bravos all around. Wish I coulda been there (for the cooking and eating part).

Say what you will about the giant crab monsters, that’s a mighty cool cover there. “So, puny humans, now I show you how to make real bisque.”

(And, my god, Laura’s just getting even lovelier and lovelier.)

And here’s the route for those of us who rode the extra mile (or 15) for the Tour. Well worth it!!

In the dark. And it was raining. And it was uphill.

But still wonderful.

Well, the rest of the guys seemed to enjoy the eating okay—I personally ate until I was ready to moult my shell like a giant, pink crab.

They are a delightful bunch.

Gah! It looks so much further in red.

“Honey, does this color make my route look long?”

Sounds like a fantastic time. You all look great- remarkably un-sweaty and awake. Bob, when did you have time to cook?

That’s so sweet! Good friends you have there, sir. And a happy birthday to you.

Chris

Ha!
“Does this route go with my padded lycra biking shorts?”
“Honey, nothing goes with padded lycra biking shorts.”

I was partially anesthetized with Valpolicella—I have no idea how the rest of them managed to be so bright-eyed. I made pasta; started the sauce early in the morning, before the Tour.

Why thank you, sir. Yes, they’re inexplicably nice to me. I’m lucky in my friends.

Bob’s being modest. I was tremendously impressed by his ability to keep a nine-quart pot full of bubbling marinara sauce balanced on the back of his bike.

Oh, that was easy. Keeping the rigatoni from getting overdone, now that was a challenge.

The Tour de Bob looks wonderful. Of course, next year you’ll have 150 participants, and the year after Lance Armstrong will show up.

Are those the same camo pants you had when we were married? If so, they have to be getting old enough to vote.

And then Armstrong will win the damn thing because he’s injected himself with mare’s sweat. As long as he brings Sheryl Crow, I don’t care.

Those BDUs are old enough to drink in New York State. I know you could not possibly be objecting to my garmentage, because: A. Camouflage goes with everything; and B. I know somewhere in your extensive trousseau you have finery that was venerable when Cato was wearing short togas.

Oh, har de har. Only some pairs of shoes. And a sweater. And this one skirt…

And then all the vintage stuff.

Boy, that stretch of Ocean Parkway seemed endless. Now I can see that it was.

I was most impressed with the freshness of the duck, and the deftness with which Bob speared it in the Gerritsen Inlet.

We work freelance, too, and we’re available for parties.

😎

I’ll give you a call….

Gee, and all I got you was a lousy phone call. I guess I am the lesser of the three Bills.

Bill the Lesser

Tell me if this conversation is at all familiar:

“Bill, do you have a bike?”
“Oh God no!”

I would be daunted by the prospect of running all the way to the Silver Gull and back. Now I know you’re made of sterner stuff than me, but still. You have eleven months and twenty-eight days to buy a bicycle. The clock, she ticks.

Yes. You have pencils older than I am.

Um, Bill, that was in Dead Horse Bay, and it wasn’t duck…

<holding my sides>

Bill the Mustachioed

Oh my. There always has to be a neighsayer.

Not to mention all the little old Jewish ladies throwing themselves under our wheels.

That is, hooves down, the worst pun atrocity I’ve ever seen.

Isn’t that the punchline to a very filthy joke about a rabbi, a priest, and a kiddie pool full of Astroglide?

That was my mane goal.

I think this Tour De Bob thing is awesome!
I hope you do it every year and it gets so popular thousands of people do it and they show it on ESPN and even after you move away or don’t even participate people will still do it and say “Now why is this race called the Tour De Bob again?” (and of course, someone will know the answer regaling all your wonderful other ideas that were never actually put into practice)

Hey, thanks! I don’t relish the thought of cooking for thousands of participants, I have to say. Not even to get on ESPN.