Today was El Tour de Tucson, a giant bicycle race that raises funds for non-profit charitable agencies. Around 9,000 folks cycle all over the city, 109 miles in one race, a bunch more go for 66 miles, and some head onto the roadways north of Tucson in Oro Valley for a mere 40.

I don’t know how they do it. My longest cycling experience so far has been 30 miles. We went over to the 66-mile start this morning to vicariously join in the excitement. Afterward we stopped for breakfast, then rode home through back streets because cars zooming by on Speedway or Broadway scare me.

Eighteen miles in all. Hell, my short legs are tired tonight.

But a lovely activity, cycling. Riding east on Pima Street toward the tour’s starting place this morning, Dan was on my left. He may have strayed six inches out of the bike lane. A humongous pick-up truck roared by, its engine saying something that couldn’t be good.

Dan’s a really nice man. Nicer than me. The pick-up pulled into the parking lot of Second Amendment Guns. “My bad,” Dan called out to the driver as he embarked from his Noah’s Ark-sized vehicle.

“You shouldn’t ride like that. You’re going to get killed,” he hollered back.

“Guns kill people,” I yelled, but by then he was probably inside perusing weapons, as if his truck wasn’t one itself.

“There are some people you just can’t apologize to,” Dan said to me.

I hate the political divisiveness in the country, the meanness, which I’m sure I’ve written about before. And I don’t get it.

Back on the road after the depressing exchange, cyclists kept passing us — cause I’m slow — polite and cheery, smiling as they went by with an “on your left.” Crossing Tanque Verde my cell phone fell out of my pocket, hitting the pavement hard. Two cyclists behind me had already stopped to pick it up for me by the time I got back across the street.

It has a few dings on the back but nobody ran over it. It still works fine. The luck of the draw, a miracle, or am I just living the good life?