We rode our squeaky bicycles, which hadn’t seen a drop of oil in a decade. They were beautifully heavy bikes, built as if they should invade Normandy, with their broad handlebars and wiggly seats topped with cracked leather.

These were bikes on perpetual loan, borrowed by hotel guest after hotel guest. Their smooth and thick tires had seen better days.

We were searching this tiny town for a grocery store, someplace with a bag of apples and laundry detergent. We consulted a map while stopped at a red light.

Across the intersection, a man wearing an ostrich feather in a bowler hat stopped his own bicycle. He had a fat chicken in the front basket. Despite the 80 degree day, he looked quite comfortable in his leather overcoat. The sleeves were torn and ratty.

“Stay six feet away at all times!” He directed his pronouncement at us.

We both gave him a thumbs up.

The light turned green and he pedaled toward us and then suddenly turned left. “Six feet! Six feet!” He pointed his volume at a group of teens huddled together and shuffling down the sidewalk.

They paid no attention and soon joined another twenty people all gathered around a food truck, everyone smashed and crammed and squeezed together, laughing and holding drinks far above their heads.

Zombielike.

We abandoned our excursion for apples and found ice cream instead. We ate within convenient shade, far from the invulnerable crowd, our bicycles locked to a bitterwood tree six feet away.