I found myself within a dark road, for the right way had been missed. I’d been certain the sign had pointed west. Turning back, I followed the meandering path through woods overgrown with towering cedars. Branches twined overhead, obscuring the brilliant blue of the sky. My bike became heavier with each step back, the sound the chain made as it dragged along the ground more annoying.
It took at least an hour to backtrack to the half-rotted wooden post. Three rickety wooden boards pointed in different directions, the hand-painted letters worn with age. Rubbing at the dirt encrusting the word west, the sign toppled, ending all ability to discern which direction might have been correct.
Checking my watch, I realized I now had less than two hours to reach my destination. I wished, not for the first time that day, that my bike hadn’t broken. Sighing in frustration, I chose a direction and set off, hoping this would be the right way.