One day, back when I still lived outside of Elizabeth, Colorado, I decided to take the high-wheeler out for a ride. Riding the 48" wheel around the neighborhood was always an adventure. The roads were all gravel, at that time, and they were all hilly. Our house sat near the top of the Palmer Divide, and the terrain was a bit steep, in places.
I got on the bike and rode in the only uphill direction from my driveway, toward Matt Rambo's house. Matt was a motorcycle riding buddy of mine, whom I had met when I bought my Norton 850 Commando from him. He was handy to have around, since the Commando required the typical amount of maintenance and repair associated with Nortons (that means a LOT of work, by the way). He now runs a company called Colorado Norton Works, out of Dolores, Colorado.
I rode past Matt's, and saw that he wasn't home. So, I continued past the chicken coops with the bowls of dog food outside (feed the foxes, and they leave the chickens alone) that his across the street neighbor had, and on down the road. I spent about an hour, trying to stay at a higher elevation than my house, so that I could ride home on the downhill.
Eventually, I headed back toward my house. As I turned on my street, I heard a droning noise in the air above me. I looked up, and there was a Stearman biplane flying along, a couple of hundred feet off of the ground. I waved, and the pilot wagged the wings of the plane, in reply.
I thought it was a nice juxtaposition, my old-fashioned bike and the old-fashioned plane, both following a country road in Northern Colorado.