In September Chad and I rode the Tour of the Scioto River Valley. It’s a century ride from south of Columbus, Ohio to the Ohio River at Portsmouth, Ohio, following the Scioto River. I grew up in suburban Columbus (Upper Arlington) so the ride was familiar to me even though I had never done it. It was run annually from 1962 until its final iteration last year. At its peak it drew more than 5000 riders; last year was fewer than a tenth of that. It’s a beautiful ride.

After riding all day the crowd descends on the small town of Portsmouth. In the peak days it must have been overwhelming. There aren’t nearly enough rooms available, so we and many others spent the night on the floor of the local high school, where my story occurs.

On the morning of the return day I was in the locker room brushing my teeth, wearing a Los Angeles Dodgers t-shirt. The rider washing up next to me said

“You’re a baseball fan?”

“Yes”

“Who’s number 55?”

“I can’t think of a number 55”

“You don’t know a number 55??”

“Not off the top of my head, no.”

“OK then.”

At this point he looked at me as if I were an exceptionally stupid person, one who probably shouldn’t be allowed to ride a bicycle on public roads. We parted.

About an hour later, as I was riding through the fog out of the valley, I pondered our interaction. I was wearing a Clayton Kershaw t-shirt. (It was a giveaway on Trevor Bauer bobblehead night, but that’s another story.) Kershaw, a certain Hall of Famer, wears #22 for the Dodgers. The other rider talking to me was looking at me in the mirror, so the #22, especially in that font, looks very much like an inverted #55. He subconsciously saw it as 55 and asked me who #55 was. His confusion was understandable, and I would likely have come to the same judgement if our positions were reversed and not just my image.