#hundred

The asphalt ribbon ascended, finally cresting at the highest point of our route and I rolled to a stop. This was the peak of our route—the reward before the long, thrilling downhill sweep.

I checked over my shoulder. The road behind me was empty of cyclists and full of vehicles of different sizes, all speeding together. I figured my friend was back, grinding out that final steep grade.

I was enjoying the rest under a tree for a while, watching the wind ripple the leaves of the trees.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The silence began to feel less peaceful and more oppressive. My phone buzzed once—a phantom call from my mother that dissolved into static before I could answer. The signal vanished again instantly.

A prickle of unease started in my stomach. Why wasn't he here? I pulled out my phone to check his progress, but the screen stared back blankly. No bars. "No Service."

Deciding I needed a network connection more than I needed a rest, I clipped back in. "I'll just roll down until I get a signal and call him," I thought. I leaned over the handlebars and let gravity take over. The wind roared in my ears as I picked up speed on the highway descent, the yellow lines blurring beneath my tires.

Suddenly, my jersey pocket erupted in vibration. My phone was ringing off the hook.

I braked hard, pulling onto the gravel shoulder. Four missed calls from home. A string of frantic texts. I answered the next incoming call.

"Where are you?! Are you hurt? Say something!" It was my family, their voices overlapping in panic.

"I'm fine!" I yelled over the passing traffic. "I'm perfectly fine, just riding downhill. Why are you shouting?"

"He called us. He's going to the police. He thinks you crashed." They had reached almost halfway to my last seen live location.

Confusion washed over me. I quickly sent a selfie and a fresh live location to the family group chat—proof of life. Then, I dialed my friend.

He answered instantly, his breath ragged. "You're okay? Oh my god, you're okay." The sheer relief in his voice was heavy.

"I'm fine, man. I was just waiting at the top. Where are you?"

"I'm at the police station turnoff," he stammered. "I’m turning around."

When we finally met up on the side of the highway fifteen minutes later, he looked like he’d aged five years in the last hour.

We pieced the timeline together on the roadside. My live location hadn't just stopped; it had frozen before the peak, where the flyover ended. He could not see the peak from the bottom & I was just over the crest, hidden by the terrain—he assumed the worst.

While I had been resting peacefully in the silent dead zone, wondering why he was not arriving, he was in a full-blown crisis. He had ridden that stretch of highway three times, hunting for skid marks or a broken bike. He had flagged down heavy trucks, terrified to ask if they had seen a cyclist go under their wheels.

We looked at our phones, finally reconnected. We realized that during the peak of his panic, when I was waiting and he was searching, we were maybe 600 meters apart. Less than half a mile.

Six hundred meters of physical distance, bridged by a technological void that had filled the space with absolute terror. We rode the rest of the way home together, a little slower, and a lot closer than before.

Cycling on 18-01-2026, Sunday from 7 am to 7 pm.

For more cycling with leisure, check the link below:

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So it was Dick van Dyke birthday yesterday, he has reached 100 years old. This is my first time posting on an actor who started his career even before I was born.

Should we only celebrate actors and actresses 100th year birthday with a grand celebration or just start celebrating the average person down the street 100th year birthday.