Bink and I spent the month of April 1986 biking through Ireland. Just yesterday she scanned a bunch of the slides of our trip, and e-mailed me some.
Though it scanned in too dark, this is another of my favorite photos of myself (along with the one of me in Spain in 2001).
The guy was a sweetie named Wyatt, who joined us for a couple days. He was biking with almost nothing, while I, you can see, was an over-equipped American. I seem to recall Wyatt had a towel, however, in good Douglas Adams style.
I cannot recommend biking in Ireland in April. The guidebook had said it was the rainiest month, but in my Platonic way, I decided it didn't matter.
I was wrong.
One of the markers of mid-life, for me, has been the ability to take physical reality more seriously. While retaining an appreciation for the ability to ignore it.