The Only Way To Go

I half expect the Queen of Hearts and Alice, with her flamingo mallet, to appear and challenge me to a game of croquet. Instead, I encounter two little girls, Zoe and Anna, who brighten an otherwise underwhelming final adventure. The two girls decide to decorate Whistling Dixie with flowers, and they secure the stems around the handlebars.

"Well, isn't it prit-tay?" says Zoe, quite pleased with her floral arrangement.

Quite, I tell her.

I leave a trail of petals in my wake as I head back to the cycle livery and say goodbye to Mrs. T, Miguel and my trusty machine. I remove the only flower that weathered the ride, a yellow morning glory that was wedged between wires below the headlight. As dusk settles in, the whistling frogs give me a proper send-off, a sweet serenade.

"Anything to declare?" the customs officer asks at the Bermuda airport.

I take a quick inventory: There has been much torment, little trouble, much to wonder, and much to my amazement, I have broken no bones and all my incisors are intact. I have weathered this supposed tempest.

The officer inspects my customs form and awaits my answer.

I delicately place my morning glory on the counter. "Just this."