Sunday morning, as per our weekend tradition, Gumbo and I headed out on various errands. Gumbo is our very fine hound, and he enjoys these excursions, perched on the shotgun seat with his head sticking out to face the wind, which he calls Mariah.

Now, we live in New London not far from the once-stately Lighthouse Inn. Remember that place? It's embroiled in some silly legal proceeding — the sort that seems to infect, well, most everything in our little city. It will never open again.

Which reminds me: what's up with Chili's? Fire damage several months ago, and now the sporadic work efforts seem to have stopped completely. How does that happen? Every time we went in the place, it was crowded. You'd think it would be a high priority for the Chili's Kingdom to get the damned thing open. Hell, who knows? As with the Lighthouse Inn, I predict it will remain a boarded-up eye-sore until well into the next century.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Gumbo and I were in the car, cranking the Red album by King Crimson because it's so delightfully rude, and headed on Montauk Avenue towards downtown. The title track was peeling our heads off! But wait! At Gardner, a police car blocked the road. It seems a triathlon was taking place and bicyclists were headed up Gardner from Pequot.

Fair enough. As a former triathlete — albeit the worst one in history — I have empathy for these situations. Plus, I vaguely remembered a sign, the sort you see in front of a house for sale, alluding to some sort of race. So I simply turned around and figured I'd head up to Ocean and get out that way. Surely they would be directing the bikers on one side of the road, right, allowing for vehicle access.

Hmm. Nope. Ocean was blocked, too, and a line of cars were logjammed. Okay. I scratched my head, because I was puzzled and that's a clear indication of puzzlement. Then I scratched Gumbo's head, because dogs like that sort of thing.

Ahh! I figured it out! The magic route out of the Sixth District must be Pequot, down by the water, where they'd have a traffic lane open. I zipped down Glenwood toward Pequot — and a cop car there was blocking Pequot.

And then the beauty of the whole thing hit me. Awesome!

The race organizers and, presumably, the City of New London, had designed a race course effectively trapping several hundred citizens in the Sixth District from leaving! It was like the M.C. Escher of triathlon courses!

I felt like I was part of one of that idiot Christo's conceptual art projects where he covers the entire Adirondack mountain range with Sugar Crisp cereal boxes or whatever.

No worries, though. By now Crimso was starting the song "Starless," which was a nice segue into mellow and contrasted with the rage of the automobile kooks around us. It's a very cool song. Gumbo and I wheeled back to Pequot, and eventually there came to pass a gap between bicyclists. Several cars were able to pass through. Gumbo and I were among them and we ran our various errands and picked up newspapers and tea and cola and finally headed back up Pequot – and smack into the same police car at Gardner.

An officer stepped over and asked where I was headed. "Well, I live on Lower Boulevard," I said, pointing helpfully towards my street.

That was a problem, he explained. I couldn't actually go to Lower because the street was closed to traffic so the run stage of the triathlon could be completed.

"But, that's where I live," I said — somewhat moronically, since I'd already imparted that information.

"Yes," the officer said, a patient smile on his face, "but the street's closed to through traffic."

"Well, for how long?"

"I'd give it about an hour."

Gumbo started laughing. While he's only a dog, he nevertheless understood the ludicrosity of the whole set up. He also understood that "ludicrosity" isn't a real word, but that, to describe a triathlon course that cuts a big portion of the city off from the rest of the world, we need a word like "ludicrosity."

The officer suggested I take a side road and could perhaps park a block or so away from Lower and hike to our property.

Well, sir, as it turns out, our driveway is on a side street off Lower, and in fact I was able to get there without hiking, but I still found the whole thing amusing. I'm not sure the neighbor who was missing his dialysis session was pleased by the Forbidden Triathlon Zone, and I could hear screams of agony and the desperate pleas for a helicopter, but in the end that wasn't my problem.

Plus, given all the delays, Gumbo and I had been able to hear the entire Red album, which frankly should be listened to in one setting for maximum appreciation. So we have no complaints. If you were trapped in a Forbidden Triathlon Zone with your dog, what album would you listen to?