I never thought I'd end up smuggling rats

Here I sit on the deck of our third-story room, looking through leafy oaks and sharp-edged pines at the pale waters of Lake Minoqua, watching the morning sun trying to poke through the solid clouds, hoping for it to succeed. A monster rainstrom moved through about 8 p.m, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching the wind whipping the trees as sheets of water flew by -- all while I was beneath a secure roof. I could only wonder what it would be like to be camping out there, or maybe an early settler or Native American. Or on a bike. Cold and wet. Not my cup of tea.

I didn't bring the bike with us, having reserved the rack for Daniel's walker -- and reluctant to spend chunks of family vacation time away from family. But I did put in ten miles on the exercise bike downstairs, enough, I hope, for maintenance purposes. I certainly worked up a sweat, though much of it might have been due to watching the morning news. Of course I followed it with two waffles loaded with syrup, to nullify any possible calorie loss. But I hope fishing and wandering around will burn off some more. If the rain backs off, and we can get the kids away from their TV fix (since we have neither cable nor satellite at home, they are gorging on the stuff).

As for the rat-smuggling: Anna's two adult rats were never apparently never well socialized and have tendency to bite hard. Making them useless as pets -- and impossible to place. But because Anna especially is reluctant to convert them to snake food or have them put down, we've been desperate. My jokes about using them for "Muskie bait" fell on deaf and hostile ears. Enter Rhinelander Rat Rescue, a lady up there who takes in homeless, troubled rats. So via the wonders of the internet we set up an exchange this morning -- we smuggled the rats into this "pet-free" establishment and she is driving down this morning to pick them up. It all has a sort of clandestine feel to it, especially for Anna, who tends to feel guilty at any thing that even smacks of nefarious. In her code, "Aunt Bess" is coming to pick up "the cousins."

So keep all our fingers crossed. And if any law enforcement is monitoring this frequency, please be assured that "the package" is all legal.

Another Morning Run

It's been three days since I last rode, or walked the treadmill for that matter. Tomorrow we leave for a few days at a condo up at Lake Minocqua, sans bicycle. So it was imperative I get out this morning, before work. August 8 is not that far off, and will arrive whether I am ready or no.

Did the short version of my basic route, Mineral Point to Am Fam Children's Hospital, a brief sojourn through Shorewood Hills (Columbia Road), along Locust Drive to the trail, and along Old Middleton to it's intersection with Old Sauk -- and Mt. Nemesis. Then Ozark Ridge, Yellowstone, and home.

Nice beginning, by the time I got the bike going the sun had come up, and traffic was still very light. Smells of flowers and greenery, sound of the birds of course. My new shorts and gloves had arrived from Bike Nashbar, and all worked accoring to promise -- the shorts are nicely padded, and I didn't realize how nice that would be -- my old Trek shorts were never well padded, and what there was had seemed to thin over the years, in the same proportion, I think, of my personal thickening. The old gloves, also Trek, are old friends, nicely darkened palms, scented with sweat and sunscreen from years of riding, but the right palm has torn open. So their time has come.

As I drew closer to Nemesis, I could almost feel a heaviness growing in my legs, as though the hill were emanating its own gravitation -- or, more appropriately, I was generating my own psychological weight. I was reminded of what I see as a basic truth -- the external world is indifferent to my thoughts about it; the hill is the hill, whether I want to climb it or not, my resolution or determination is simply irrelevant, no matter how much I convince myself that I can define my relationship to it.

Anyway, I charged up it as best I could, did end up shifting to the lowest gear, but did it probably the fastest yet.

A sidenote about Nemesis. The city is widening Old Middleton Road, tearing out a lot of old trees to do so, and, irony of irony, largely doing so to put in a bike path. A lot of neighborhood squawking, of course, Madison being the queen of the NIMBY cities -- "bike trails are great, but NOT IN MY BACKYARD, I like the trees." I agree with both sides, the road as is is beautiful, but dangerous.

In any event, it's a done deal, and when it is a done path, Nemesis will probably lose its role as dominatrix of the bike route; I'm sure the route will extend past it, and it will be a side route rather than the main one. As George Harrison sang, "All things must pass away."

Not What I Expected

What I expected, was
Thunder, fighting,
Long Struggles with men
And climbing,
After continual straining
I should grow strong;
Then the rocks would shake,
And I rest long.

Stephen Spender, "What I Expected"



I found some of this this past weekend, especially the "climbing;" Sunday I went back to the Mt. Horeb area. I set out to do the Blue Mounds loop, a series of hills that will be in the August ride. The weather was pleasantly gray, promising to reach only the 70s. As I headed down Hiway 78 toward Black Earth, past farms and a roadside repair shop, I found myself on a long smooth, winding, sometimes steep, descent, including a sign warning trucks of the steep incline; I recalled that the ride will go up this road and decided I should maybe do it myself, that day. So I changed my plans and rode on to Black Earth, reaching up to 30 mph at times,turning over the 400 mile mark on my way there. The ride was pleasant and fast, the road wide, cutting between rock-ribbed hills, past a shetland pony farm and a side road with a sign pointing to the Vermon Lutheran church, somewhere in the hills. Black Earth was just beginning to stir, though the VFW park was busy, with folks preparing for their annual Father's Day BBQ. One young man greeted me with "Beautiful day, hey? Perfect for Father's Day." "Yeah," I replied, "Good day to get away from the kids." He chuckled uneasily, but another, older, man laughed, with shared, good-natured, cynicism. But no one offered me a sample of the feast.

So I settled back with a Clif bar and some rehydration, and soon set back on my climb.

The first part of the return went remarkably smoothly, I clipped along, admiring the green hills against the sky, which had become pale blue with specks of cloud. No other cyclists, just spotty jetsam -- a few remnant route markers from the previous day's Horribly Hilly Hundreds event; a sign announcing an impending barn dance; a spot of unindentifable roadkill; flecks of gravel and chips of asphalt, the sort of things one never sees from a car.

I decided to stop at the church cut-off to take my last tube of Gu, in preparation for the final ascent. The cut-off road was gray, narrow, pocked, and steep, lined with woodlands on both sides. Seemed an invitation to explore, so I went thataway. And I expected that the churchyard might be a place of spiritual rejuvenation and recharge before the charge to the summit.

Things were not as I expected.

That portion of the trip began with an incredibly steep hill, and, despite my desperate thrust on the pedals, for the first time this spring, I had to stop. Either that or fall over, since I'd lost all momentum. I told myself it was a matter of overoptimism and underestimation, but I found myself doubting. I checked the tires in hopes that a flat would excuse this -- but they were firm. So I walked the last hundred or so feet to the crest, remounted, and visited the churchyard, which turned out to be under constuction, all dirt and equipment, no easily accessible green spot, not even a handy bench. Not what I expected. So I stood and refreshed, and turned back toward the main road. A cyclist appeared from that direction, moving at a good clip; I refrained from asking him if he found that first hill daunting, but I didn't. Because I didn't want to know the answer.

Then back to the road and upward. The grade steepened, a turkey vulture circled ominiously over the nearby hills. A small dead fawn stared blank-eyed from the verge. As I climbed the sweat built up on my brow, and began trickling into my eyes. Back to Spender's poem, I was beginning to find, I feared, "the gradual day/Weakening the will."

A sidenote here. The day before I had gone to my barbershop with a photo of Lance Armstrong, and told her to cut my hair just like that. And she did (you'd think maybe she'd have tried to talk me out of it). I'm not sure what I expected. I know I was tired of having my hair plastered to my forehead after a hot ride, and tired of trying to keep it reasonably under control at other times, only to end up like Einstein on a bad day.

One thing certain, I didn't come out looking like Lance, I looked like me with a buzz, maybe what Lance might look like if he were 30 years older, shorter and pudgier and with different ancestry. I also didn't expect that the lack of hair would mean less to hold back the beads of sweat. But that was what I got with, I feared, none of his iron-will. I wanted, I confess, to look a bit like Lance; I ended up looking like his maternal grandfather. And my eyes burned.

But something good did happen on this ride -- before I realized it, I had reached the top, and had energy to spare after all. Maybe I am "growing strong," after all. At least a bit. I rolled on into town, and added another ten miles of spinning at high speed, through Mt. Horeb and nearly to Blue Mounds, then back to the Mt. on the bike trail, mostly alone on the hard-packed dirt, with just an occasional chipmunk dashing in front of me, and one angry-looking woodchuck who glared as I rolled by. Thirty more miles. Not sure what I accomplished, though the lingering images of the previous two hours did provide me with, Spender once again, "[s]ome brightness to hold in trust."

Note, by the way, that Spender's hair is nothing like Lance's, but then I bet he never did the Tour.

Mt. Nemesis before breakfast

Got up just before dawn today, the sky gray not with clouds but with lingering night, the birds just beginning to stir, soft morning breezes slipping past. Headed out for my hill run. Few cars, most traffic lights still on flashing reds and yellows. Felt pretty good, the Mineral Point hills made their presence known, but manageable. The cemetery lawn glistening as the sun rose, sparkles on the tombstones and the statues. The bluing sky dotted with pale white clouds. The liquid trill of robins.

At and around the hospital, traffic began picking up, cars, bikes, and pedestrians. As I rounded the last bend toward the turn to Nemesis, I thought about the guy who passed me the other day, the one I re-passed on the climb. At that moment it happened again, another, younger guy, in matching jersey and shorts, who shot past without a sound and, I suddenly realized, without the faint chain chatter of the other guy, which had led me to suspect the other, first, guy had been more of a wannabe than a strong rider. Not this new guy. He turned toward the Mount and attacked it, riding hard and, halfway up, standing in the saddle and thrusting up the hill. By the time I reached the first summit, he was gone. As for me, I had climbed at a good rate, better than I recalled, and perhaps not even dropping into granny. I say perhaps, because when I reached the first summit, I shifted the wrong way, so that I couldn't tell for sure what gear I had been in during the climb. But no matter, really, I know I climbed well.

A peaceful ride home, a good breakfast and shower, and the day at last began.


This afternoon the Centurion route was posted and, just as I suspected, it will loop around the Mt. Horeb area. So I feel good that I know the route, and I feel a bit apprehensive, because, I know the route, and it will be hard. But that's the point, innit? We shall see.

Can't close here without mentioning last Sunday's ride with Anna, six or so miles up and down the Southwest Trail, beginning at Regent Street and riding up to Midvale, then back again. Nothing challenging, but a good ride for her. She spent much of the ride filling me in about manga books, especially her favorite series, with a few side trips into teenage theology and philosophy. Saw squirrels and rabbits and birds, oh my. And I saw how careless people can be on the trails, lost in their earphone worlds, or flashing past with inches to spare. But then, one can't protect them from life, can one?

Certain the Final Run to Home

"Not knowing where mount and rider end,
or where they come together,
I see myself as statue weathered,
sitting its saddle like an Ichabod."

William Kloefkorn, Uncertain the Final Run to Winter

This title poem, by a prominent Nebraska poet, came to me as I turned toward home Saturday, halfway through my planned half-century. Once I made that turn, any uncertainty as to the immediate future vanished -- I could watch the landmarks, so hard-won on the way out, reappear in reverse order, and I knew both where I would end up, and how the ride would end. And having spent time enough on the saddle as of that point, I did indeed feel weathered and one.

The ride began under grey and uncertain skies. I parked the car at Lake Monona, caught the Capitol City Trail, and took it north and east. About three miles in I came upon trail-pass checkpoint, which I greeted with great pleasure -- only the night before I had decided to buy a pass; the debate had been,not so much a moral one as a practical one -- whether the odds of anyone really checking passes was worth parting with $20. I felt so damned vindicated and proud as I showed him my spanking new pass, the ink barely dry. And I ended up being checked twice more.

The trail wound on past Anna's school, and through a long wondrous patch of deep dark woods. The sensation was like one of those dreams, in which unexpected vistas open up behind doors one never thought to open. The smell was green and pungent, the paved trail wended, the birds sang, and I saw very few other cyclists. Past water retention ponds, through a wildlife preserve and a public hunting area (that gives one pause), up long hills and down. Until I came to the Military Ridge Trail, not far after which the paving gave way to hardpacked gravel and clay. I rolled along nicely, paused briefly at the second trailpass check, through patches of woods and prairie, over small bridges over burbling streams and moss-topped ponds. I entered a more urban area, swatches of the city of Verona, pausing briefly at stop signs before charging across roads and streets; being on a bicyle trail tends to give me a sense of unexpected priority -- instead of being on constant guard against dangerous cars, I find myself as the dominant life form, cautioning hikers and slower bikers, letting down my guard just a bit.

With that attitude, I darted across an intersecting pathway, leading on one hand to a small carnival and on the other to a residential development. I noticed with interest that it was the pathway that had the stop sign, not me. At the same moment, I caught a flash of color on my right, coming from the residential area, a flash that solidified, in seeming slow motion, into a man on a bicyle, a large, Simian-browed Nordic sort, short blond hair and a ruddy face, on a cheap hybrid bike. Everything moved so slowly, as I slammed on my brakes and he began to skid. Somehow he stopped, the merest fraction of an inch from me. We both stood for a moment. "Sorry," I finally said, and he murmured. "But you had the stop sign," I added a bit defiantly. He murmured again, and looked blearily sheepish, a sort of Budweiser enhanced expression. I resumed pedaling. "Moron," I said under my breath, when I was sure he couldn't hear.

About 23 miles in I began to suspect I had miscalculated the mileage. I found a wondrous spot by the trail, a monstrous old cottonwood tree in a clearing, with two round picnic tables made of large-stoned cement. A sacred spot if there ever was one, the faint rustle of breeze pushing the weeds, and an undertone of clicking, chirring insects. I consumed a tube of Gu and a Clif Bar, and spread out the map. I'd never make it to Mt. Horeb and back in the time alloted. So I rode another two miles on, ensuring the certain fifty miles, and turned back toward home. For the most part the miles and markers clicked by, but I began to feel it, a bit tired. A familiar pain recurred under my left kneecap. About ten miles from home the gray sky began to spit, and my ride was punctuated by the stacatto of rain drops pelting my helmet. But I spent much of that time back in the deep trees, and it never did rain much. Three miles from home the cell phone rang in my back jersey pocket, and I knew I had passed my allotted arrival time. I ground on toward the car, the stroke of my pedals accompanied by strains of a CD Daniel insists on playing in the car, paens to various numbers and mathmatical games. "Adding with seven is easy, it's a very special game. . .." I was amazed I knew so many of the lyrics, and hated the fact that they crowded out my ostensible choices, like the Beatles or even the Bonanza theme song.

Finally I arrived at the car, called home to announce that fact, and was done. Feeling, perhaps, a bit Ichabodesque.

That Old Familiar Feeling

This has been Bike-To-Work week here in Madison, but I was never able to participate -- the need to be home in a reasonably short time precluded relying on the 45- or so minute ride. So Wednesday seemed the perfect compromise -- Bike-To-Dr.-Appt-From Home. The distance was only about 8 miles, each way, Daniel was in school,and Anna would just as soon have the extra time home alone, so I did it. The day was sunny, a bit windy, and in the upper 70s. The ride began on a negative note -- as I was waiting at the first traffic light, to turn left, a car pulled alongside me and cut in very close, edging me back. The irony was that the bozo driver had a bike rack on the back, with a bike in it. I felt like explaining things to him, but opted to let it go. I was happy that the hills leading to the bike trail were easily managed. It all felt so good, so much better than driving there in a car.

The majority of the ride in was on the Southwest Bike Trail, a gradual downgrade under arcing trees, and smooth asphalt, underpasses letting me see the underside of familiar-sounding street names. The greenery around the trail is astounding, carefully cultivated gardens alternating with wild patches of every sort of weed, many of which I recalled from my childhood, though not their names. The trail was moderately busy, bikers, hikers, strollers (human and baby). Patches of scent wafted by, from blooming trees, flower gardens, and wildflowers. Birds, of course, and the usual squirrels and chipmunks dashing across the path. Even a big-eyed orange tomcat who glowered at me as I went past, no doubt interrupting his pursuit of birds or chipmunks.

I emerged onto the streets again down by the Stadium and, inter alia, Mickie's Dairy Bar. A straight shot down Regent Street found me in front of Budget Bikes, with still 20 minutes or so to kill before my appt. some three blocks away. So I wandered about, enjoying the ambience and camraderies, bought some energy goodies for my next long ride, and a small bungie to replace the frayed one on my handlebar bag. Then on to the appt., which was in a new, pseudo-old, multi-story office building of brick and stone-facade.

I had opted for regular shorts instead of the usual spandex, but because I don't currently have any panniers, I couldn't carry spare shoes, meaning I walked into the tiled lobby with my cleats clicking, the shoes making my gait a bit duck-like as I tried to moderate the wear on my cleats, my helmet tucked under my arm. But this being Madison, no one seemed to nocice.

Afterward I began rolling home, into a fairly stiff headwind, and hungry as hell (it was noonish). I contemplated healthy snacks, ranging from a turkey subway to an order of beans and rice from New Orleans Takeout, then I rationalized myself into eggs and hashbrowns at Mickies. The thinking went this way: Bicycling magazine mentioned Mickie's in their recent article about Madison as a place not be missed, and to refuel. The place was right in front of me, I'd worked off at least the equivalent calories, my cholesterol level was down enough that I could risk it, and I was hungry. Visions of the old Cecil's Cafe in Dundee welled up before my eyes, so I went for it. Any pretense of this being a rare exception was shattered when the little old waitress greeted me familiarly and asked if I wanted my "usual eggs over easy and yanks".

I emerged into the hot sunshine 20 minutes later, sated and a bit sluggish. The air seemed hot, the wind even stronger. I worked back up the trail, feeling just okay, then onto the roadway. The image of the last hill before home kept insinuating itself into my mind; I told myself it was nothing, I'd done it before, and so on. But visions of that old Traynor Iowa ride kept nagging me, where I'd downed a whole stack of pancakes and let the west wind do me in. Every push of the pedals seemed harder than it ought. But I did climb this hill, with only moderate effort, but I felt it more than I thought I should have.

Later that evening, a massive head cold hit like that same west wind, and I collapsed into bed after dinner. Only today, two days later, do I feel myself again. And, I hope, ready to ride tomorrow.

A few Good Miles

Yesterday a massive Nebraskaesque thunderhead welled up around 3 p.m., same time that Anna and a friend had planned to do some biking around the neighborhood. The storm burst just after the friend arrived, so they spent the afternoon in the house, talking and texting and so on. Just as the friend left, the rain stopped, the wind died,and the clouds broke. Raindrops glistened on leaves, and a few recalcitrant drops pocked the brimming bird bath.

I talked Anna into going out with me, for a brief ride before dinner.

We took a neighborhood bike route to where it tunnelled under the freeway, and into quieter side streets and through a park, beneath wide trees still dripping with rain, the path dappled with sunlight, past a baby rabbit, disturbing a lonesome drake paddling in a big puddle. Anna had the lead, and she charged through the puddles and small lakes that dotted the bike path. I'd forgotten the exuberance of fat tires and water, but she reminded me, as her rear tire painted a dark line along the back of her white t-shirt, and she sparkled with laughter. We just rode a couple miles, up and along a meandering path, turned about and rode home. She's still finding herself on her bike, shifting is a mystery to her, but her balance is good and I sense her beginning to want to do it without prompting. She's talking about going out with her friend today or tomorrow, and even wondered to me what it would be like to go on a long, multi-day trip.

As for me, it felt good just to stretch the legs a bit after yesterday's climbing, and her enthusiasm was a reminder that the measure of things is not in miles but in memories made. I think we did a few yesterday.

Them Centurion Blues

The Centurion route has not yet been published, but it will almost certainly include the Blue Mounds region near Mt. Horeb, the area's highest and hilliest patch. With that in mind, I decided to check it out. The day was cool and gray, with a slight chance of showers and thunderstorms, but the increasing patches of sunlight convinced me the weather would hold. Just to be sure, I packed my rain jacket (which I never needed).

The trip involved driving to Mt. Horeb, since I had neither the time nor the certain energy -- nor the commitment -- to do it all on a bike yet. Driving up involved whizzing along the same hills and roads I'd ridden up the weeks before; as always, what seemed so critical on a bike seems so almost irrelevant from a car seat. A friend of mine long ago remarked he preferred riding a motorcycle to a bicycle, because from the bicycle all he saw was pavement and the immediate surrounding area. On this drive I saw what he meant, and had to agree; the vistas were much broader. But it's also a tradeoff -- the experience is much more intense on a bicycle, details from the road surface to the smell of the landscape to the windshifts, all matter more.

I parked the car at the Mt. Horeb visitor center lot, sucked down a tube of Strawberry Banana gu, and headed out Hiway 78, to the Hiway J cutoff, which led to the Tyrol Ski Basin. Which of course implied downhill. One fundamental of cycling, to me, is that one ought never surrender high ground easily -- the rationale is simple: if you are uphill, you must have gotten there somehow, so if you go down, you'll need to go back up to be back where you were. This truism burst into mind as I headed down a marvelous long steep decline, into deep woods, with no one around, simply me and Rocinante and the moderately well-maintained winding blacktopped road. As I went deeper, I passed a sign announcing the Township of Vermont; I understood immediately why the early settlers had chosen that name, the tiny farms tucked into the hillsides, with small bands of black-and-white dairy cows and decrepit barns reminded me of a Ben and Jerry's ad.

The road leveled off, still winding and silent, and the smell was that of the deep woods, almost like the mountains. Just me and the bike and the occasional squirrel and chipmunk dashing into the road, some large bird gliding down into a nearby copse. I stopped at the intersection of Hiway J and F, and unfurled the map. A pack of cyclists came whizzing past, resplendent in garish jerseys, sort of a Monty Python parody of a motorcyle gang, their appearance preceded by snippets of conversation and the whir of chains and tires. One shouted to me as they passed, "Got everything?" I gave the thumbs up, and they vanished up the road, toward Mazomanie. I heard one remark to the group, "Zip it up," to which the others laughed, no doubt an inside joke. I turned the other way, to finish the loop back toward Mt. Horeb, and toward the lost altitude I knew I had to recover.

My only request, as I had gone down the long steep hill, was that the road back be one of long moderate climbs instead of one steep grind, and I got that wish (to be filed, perhaps, under one should be careful for what one asks). I worked my way up some long hills, fortunately broken by level areas and even a few brief downhills. Mostly I did all right, though at one point I pulled over and checked the tires, convinced my lack of speed must be due to a flat -- nope, just the hills and a hint of fatigue. I stopped briefly at a small cemetary, refueled and rehydrated, and went on. I felt spent by the time I reached Brigham County Park, but perked up again as I reached the highway, and spun happily into Mt. Horeb, to my car, and to home, already planning next week's adventure.

Old Sauk, Old Middleton, Old Guy, New Story

As I mentioned before, Mt. Nemesis is an 11% grade at the intersection of Old Sauk Road and Old Middleton Road, a hill that looms in the middle of an otherwise moderate to easy bike route. I try to end my local rides there, as a final challenge. With due respect to Edmund Hillary and his ilk, it strikes me as Everest struck them, an indifferent obstacle that can't be bullied, only respected. I look forward to the day I can reach the top without dropping to lowest gear, when I can pass the "Thanks for Slowing Down" sign without feeling as though I'm being mocked.

Yesterday seemed pretty much the same. I stole a couple hours from the middle of the day, and rode downtown to the bike shop, from there across campus along the lake. I took an alternate route through Shorewood Hills, with a couple fairly long gradual climbs, along winding roads under massive trees and past stately houses, the smell of money mixed with that of the flowerbeds. Then curled back to the bike path, toward Nemesis. As I drew near, at a moderate pace, a rider whizzed past, startling me with a curt, "On your left," a lanky gray-haired guy (so many gray haired cyclists here) on a decent bike, with an air of confidence, maybe even arrogance. I decided to pace myself with him, which was not easy, since he was making a good clip. A few blocks later he made the turn toward Nemesis, and I followed.

As we began grinding upward, I noticed I was gaining on him, and ended up riding at his left shoulder during the final part of first of Nemesis's two summits. On the brief flat before the start of the second ascent, I passed him, with a brief, "Hell of a hill, innit?" He grunted. It occurred to me that, perhaps, he was more like me, aiming for a level of performance he had not yet achieved.

In any event, I gradually pulled away, and topped the hill with him fading into my mirror. I turned toward home, on Ozark Parkway, and he continued down Old Sauk.

The climb had been hard, as always, and still involved granny gear, but once I had topped it I felt charged, and the moderate incline toward home seemed irrelevant. As I rode along I thought about what had happened, and reminded myself to steer a careful course between the Scylla of smugness and the Charybidis of confidence. Certainly the hill is easier now than it was in April, and I climbed it better than at least one Madison cyclist.

As I drew near my final turn, I came upon another cyclist. I pulled up alongside and greeted him with, "Beautiful Day, hey?" This rider, very gray-haired indeed, jerked sharply, turned toward me with a startled look on his face. "You shouldn't sneak up on people," he scolded.

I apologized and went on my way not, I hoped, too smugly.