Sunday, May 16th 10:30 A.M.
The weatherman totally blew his Sunday forecast. What was supposed to be sunshine, mild temperature and puffy white clouds turned out to be intermittent showers and a sky as gray as Dean's sweat socks. In spite of the disappointing weather Dean was determined to fit some serious biking into the salvaged half of what should have been a free weekend. With his silver pride and joy secured to the bike rack, a spare change of clothes and rain gear in his pannier and some fruit and crackers for a snack, he rolled away from town to the peace and quiet of the countryside. No blue car followed.
Dean chose an area well away from town and parked at a roadside rest stop. After doing some stretching exercises and setting his bike's trip odometer, he began, slowly at first, to swing into his rhythmic cadence of 70 revs per minute, maintaining the pace by shifting gears as the country hills rolled beneath his wheels. It was a fine feeling indeed. He drank in the sights and sounds of the bucolic world around him and for the first time in days felt relaxed.
In spite of his love of music, no pocket recorder filled Dean's head with voices, strings or horns through tiny toy earphones- he'd leave that to the bikers who pedaled unaware of the sounds of birds and springtime around them. Besides, if an eighteen-wheeler was going to make "possum pizza" out of him, he wanted to hear it coming.
Slowly munching an apple at mile 23, he noted with satisfaction that his legs felt good in spite of the lack of practice. Earlier he'd signed up to take his July vacation in Iowa, biking the 400 miles across that state on a seven-day bike tour known as "RAGBRAI," named for the sponsoring Des Moines Register newspaper. He would need all the training he could get in between now and mid-summer, even for that relatively easy tour.
Biking was usually Dean's thinking time, but his brain felt overused lately and had opted for a day off, restricting his thoughts to nothing more pressing than the next hill. He had already stopped for lunch and was rolling toward mile 47 when a sudden thought from nowhere hit him between the eyes. If Alfred Nota in his blue Ford was really interested in following Dean, why had the con taken off like a scared rabbit as soon as Dean showed up? The answer had frightening implications with Fred O'Connor at home alone.
Dean calculated he was 12 to 14 miles from his car, with nothing but corn and cows around him. He quickened his pace. It was three miles before he came to a closed gas station, but there was a phone booth outside. He dug change out of his bike bag and dialed his number but he might as well have saved his time. There was no answer at Collingswood Avenue-not a good sign. It took Dean another 40 minutes to reach his car, pull off his rain gear, and secure his bicycle. It was nearly 4:00 when he pulled into his drive.