The summer after completing 7th grade I decide to spend time in a local theater program. The final production of the session will be “The Wizard of Oz” and when I get picked for the Cowardly Lion, I am pretty happy.

So for months I pedal my bike a couple of miles every day to rehearsal, through the increasingly parched landscape of an Oklahoma summer. Tiny two lane roads, 55 mile per hour speed limit, but the prospect of the final performance keeps me on those narrow shoulders.

The day comes when the costumes are handed out. I wait in line, expectantly, practically hopping from foot to foot. Uhhhh, what's this? It's an enormous orange fake fur dog suit, and instructions to take it home and sew a mane on it.

Well, OK, I’m game. Anything for the theater, right? Try to stuff it in my bike basket. It spills out like a shower of orange vomit. Try to cram it into my backpack. I can only get a third of its bulk under control four legs tentacling every which way. Fold it up, try to sit on it, and my feet don’t even reach the pedals.

One thing left to do.

Oh yes and you know I did. Put it on. And ride through the heat shimmers and rolling hills of the rural hinterlands, one huge orange dog on a bicycle.