Cripes. I went to the eye doctor. I like going to the eye doctor. My opthamlogist is a very pretty brunette with a remarkable shape under her modest smock. She looks deeply into my eyes and asks me to talk about myself. Swoon. The climax of our annual assignation is when she dilates my eyes and pronounces them healthy. I leave with a head full of fantasies involving exam chairs, eye charts, and lingerie. Then I step outside, and try to ride home in the unbearably bright sunshine, with eyes that can't see well. The route home involves streetcar tracks, heavy traffic, bridges, narrow bike lanes, and today it seems an inordinate number of large trucks. I can't see my helmet mirror. When I look behind me I see glare and whiteness. Looking ahead is a shifting blur of roadway and large moving things. I know the route well so I ride it partly from memory. Of course today happens to be a blazing hot day with not a speck of cloud to attenuate the midday sun. Somehow I made it to the refuge of my shady neighborhood pub where I am giving thanks for my survival with a thick black pint. My eyes are almost normal and the three blocks home should be drama free. I hope it was as good for her as it was for me.