I haven’t been able to eat anything containing gluten for more than eleven years.  I’m used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t mind it.  My mouth waters at the thought of a French croissant or a good bagel, and I still hate it when they bring the bread and olive oil to our table in a restaurant, and I have to watch everyone else soak up that virgin olive oil with artisanal bread while I sit there with my hunger pangs.

I tend to ask Peter how good the bread is.  His stock answer is, “It’s not so great.” 

It’s even worse when we travel and come upon a bakery.  This summer the fruit-filled pastries Seth and Peter picked up in Croatia looked especially appealing, most notably when still hot from the bakery oven.  “That looks divine, I say.”  And Peter responds, “It’s not so great.”

Last weekend we were visiting the summer home of friends near the Massachusetts/Rhode Island border.  Andy suggested that I bring my bicycle and that he and I go for a long ride while Peter and Andy’s wife Ruth walked the beach.  Since Peter can’t do long bike rides any more, and since I miss them so much, I couldn’t resist.  Peter said he didn’t mind so I brought my bike.

Andy and I started out at 6:30 a.m. on a gorgeous Sunday. We biked past vineyards and fishermen, across the river and through the woods.  The roads were empty.  It was heavenly. We parked our bikes at the beach and met our spouses as they returned from a long walk.  Peter asked me how the bike ride was.

“Not so great,” I replied.