If there were a climax to the plot of tonight's story, it might sound like this: he discovered that the ground was very hard and unforgiving. Mistakenly, I believed that the climax had happened eight or so miles northeast of Pratt on a country road, where I listened as a large chorus of coyotes, very [...]

If there were a climax to the plot of tonight's story, it might sound like this: he discovered that the ground was very hard and unforgiving.
Mistakenly, I believed that the climax had happened eight or so miles northeast of Pratt on a country road, where I listened as a large chorus of coyotes, very nearby, howled, yipped, and serenaded the prairie darkness. But this was only a prelude to the crash that happened several miles later.
The normally intensely bright helmet light was malfunctioning. I unplugged and then plugged the connector between battery pack and light several times with only had a momentary flicker of brightness resulting.
So I rode the mountain bike home with the equivalent lumens of a pen light, as the helmet light only created a small circle on the ground a foot or so in front of the tire on the sandy roads. It would have to do.
It's hard to determine where the middle of the road is out in the middle of nowhere with only faint light shining the way. Once, I rode up into a field, abruptly stopping, and another time halted after hitting some deep sand along the edge of the road.
'You're not going to stop me again,' I proclaimed out loud to no one in particular. Ha, nature seemed to reply. Less than a minute later I slammed down onto the ground while torquing on the pedals in some very deep sand, all the while determined not to fall over.
There are so many morals to this story. You can draw own conclusions.
The conclusion to the story sounded like this: a pack of coyotes loudly broke the silence as the cyclist arrived back in town.
Battered and bruised, but not broken, all I can say is that I survived.