Widespread lunatic

I hate visors. They look silly and they serve no reasonable purpose. They don't even cover the top of your head and sunglasses are always cooler and less cumbersome to shade your eyes from sun than visors. In fact, I wore a visor one and only time in my life.
I had a new visor and I had to wear it. Got it from Dave, the base guitarist of the Widespread Panic. My friend Kris, she's tight with a bunch of great bands from Atlanta. Years of bartendering down there and dating some of them gets you on the inside. So when the Panic comes, we get invitation backstage. WP played in the Orpheum, we got to hang on the side of the stage. After the show we ran with the band through the belly of the building into an unmarked white van. Another van with the band logo and all went the opposite direction to confuse the crowds of stoned fans. Coolness squared. We drank with Dave in their hotel bar until wee hours of the morning. For free. Some of the fans found us and kept buying the band drinks all night. Including me and Kris. Famous for a night. So, still being somewhat high from the concert, I adorned my head with a visor that Dave gave me once. I thought I'd wear it more often, after all, I thought that it will be good for biking. And I planned to do a whole lot of biking, for I had a month off, going back home to Slovakia.
Getting back home, I open the paper, wondering where I should venture this Sunday. There's a big article about old mills on a branch of Danube. Should be a picturesque ride through the fields, some dirt roads, nice. Granted I have to cross half of the town and some villages, but it will be worth it. It's a scorching hot day, I set out in tank top and bike shorts, crowned with my new Panic visor. It won't protect top of my head and I know it's silly of me, but I'm stubborn. Visor's new, it has to come with. I set out, steppin on the pedals light and fast. Gorgeous day. I whizz by a group of men. One whistles, another yells something after me. They laugh. Assholes. That's Eastern Europe for you. On the way through Podunajské Biskupice I pass a beer garden. That's where guys go to "church" on Sundays. Another group of men in their overalls. "Take me, take me!" one hollers. "Hey, baby, I'd show you a thing or two..." yells another. Damn, I didn't know Slovakia was this backward, I think, rolling my eyes. Finally I turn left and hit the small country road. Just a few villages and I'm near the floodplain forests. On the weekends people work on their houses. Neighbors and family get together and work on a construction or repairs or something. I pass a few groups hard at work on my way. All heads turn, hollering continues. "I'm innocent as a spring flower!" exclaims a young worker leaning on a shovel next to a cement mixer. Now that's beginning to be really weird. Either I look extra hot today, which is highly unlikely, or I'm paranoid and I imagine everybody is watching me and talking at me, or something's up and I wasn't informed. Luckily I reach the forests and wind my way through the paths and herds of mosquitos. I am quite glad to reach the water mill, my brain is half cooked by now. There's a wooden shack with a snack bar. I'm delighted to find out they have Kofola on tap. Kofola is a Slovak version of Coca-cola, except less sweet, more lemony, and fresh from the draught. Naturally superior to Coca-cola, as it's been around when I was growing up, and Coca-cola was not. Hefty woman behind the bar eyes me up and down and barely speaks to me. She is not trying to hide her dislike of me one bit. I don't care, everybody's bloody strange today, I refuse to take notice.
I walk my bike to the river, sit down in the shade, stretch on the grass. Ahhhh, it's beautiful here. My eyes rest on tops of the trees, fluffy clouds scattered on a turquouise sky, on boats tied to the bank, on my visor. 'Panic', it says. I'm about to continue the visual tour of the surroundings, when about ten thousand bells and alarms and lights go off inside my head. I read it again. "Panic". This time I read it in Slovak - and I'm truly 'panic'-stricken. [Pun-eetz], as one would pronouce it, means 'virgin' in my beautiful mother tongue. More than that, it describes a male virgin ('panna' being the female form). Damn! I am a walking personal advertisement, looking for an untouched male at that! "Take me," and "I'm innocent as a spring flower" suddenly make a lot more sense. As do grins and whistling and the old woman's disdain for me. I hide the damn visor in my shirt pocket. I shall never be seen with it in this part of the world again!
I drag myself home, the ride is endless. It must be well over 35 °C and the sun is baking right on my uncovered head. I run out of water third way into the ride. When I reach home, visor flies into a closet, as soon as I'm done downing gallons of water. I have a massive headache from a sunstroke. Serves me right, being so giddy about a stupid visor, just because a base player from a famous band gave it to me... Lesson in humility. Thou shalt not feel superior because of a damn visor!