For a solid year our bicycles gathered dust in the garage, spiders weaving fly traps between the spokes.

Eventually the tires deflated, all four of them. Not that we cared. We had become ex-riders.

No longer did we pedal off to Yountville on Saturday mornings. Instead, we jumped into a car. No pain, no gain and proud of it.

How did this sad state of affairs come to be, adventurers one day, car potatoes the next?

Quite frankly, I can’t remember. It’s a common fact that sloth happens. I guess it happened to us.

And then there was Cheryl’s awful over-the-handlebars accident in the spring of 2007. Cycling wasn’t as much fun after that. There was the fear factor. A low-grade fear, to be sure, but innocence had been lost.

Also, we’d discovered Peet’s, a breakfast attraction right here in town.

We fell in love with Peet’s. It wasn’t as passionate a love affair as with Gordon’s Cafe in Yountville, but Gordon’s was shuttered so you move on.

I see my neighbors at Peet’s. At Gordon’s I never had any clue who those people were. Wine industry types. Upvalley retirees. Tourists, heaven forbid.

Oh, who am I kidding? The customers at Gordon’s were a fascinating bunch, the baked goods were great, the rustic atmosphere absolutely the best.

After losing Gordon’s, is there any wonder that the urge to bike on Saturday mornings dried up?

Yes, we could have biked to Peet’s, but the way I rationalized it, Peet’s was too close to even bother. It wouldn’t have been a proper workout.  

And so a year passed. And snappy autumn weather is just around the corner. And out of nowhere, I felt the urge to get back in the saddle.

What do you say, Cheryl? Yountville may not have Gordon’s, but it has Bouchon Bakery’s pastries. Just eight miles away. If we don’t consume gas getting there, we can eat guilt-free.

Cheryl was game if I’d get the bikes ready. Hers merely required inflation. Mine needed professional first aid at a bike store.

Labor Day morning, we set out shortly after dawn, hungry, thirsty, reflectorized.

Cheryl had trouble getting into a biking rhythm. She’d practically forgotten how to shift gears. Leg muscles had atrophied. The ride to Bouchon was going to be a long slog.

And then, not even halfway there, Cheryl yelled that her tire was hissing. One glance confirmed it.

In her dismount, Cheryl flopped onto the asphalt. Nothing serious — just bruises — but what happened? She got off too fast lest the rims rub on asphalt, she said.

This was not a good omen.

Cheryl wanted me to bike home and get the car. Cycling was too dicey. Let’s end this trek while we were ahead.

No way. I’d prepared for a moment such as this. I carried supplies, including a replacement inner tube.

Yet nothing went smoothly. We had to muscle the tire off and on. I got covered in grease. In the end, I could only partially inflate the new tube.

Cheryl was able to low-ride into Yountville. Bouchon was fine. Everything tastes better when you’ve worked for it. The biking life sure was grand.

On the way home, it became less grand. Cheryl’s rear tire deflated. Again. Flat number two.

Unbelievable. What had happened? The curse of the star thistle?

I had a patch kit in my supply sack, but lacked the will to fiddle with it. Leaving Cheryl under the shade of a tree, I furiously biked four miles home for the car.

It wasn’t a bad workout. Got to feel the burn.

Later that day we took stock of what had happened. Two flats were certainly a bummer. And almost inexplicable, given that her tires were lined with plastic flat guards.

On the plus side, I’d been able to sharpen my flat repair skills. Better yet, the future looked good. And as I figured it, we’d now coped with a year’s worth of flats.

Things went perfectly the next weekend. We sailed to Yountville under skies filled with hot air balloons. Trucks hauling grapes rumbled by. We felt part of the harvest.

Bicycling is wonderful ... except when it isn’t.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com