I tend to do some of my best thinking when I’m mowing the lawn, which, now that I think about it, means I’m exercising my mental midgetry only once every week or so in the growing season, and far less often ever since a long, hot summer made the Sahara look lush by comparison.

But something about the mindlessness of pushing a whirling dervish of a machine lends itself to deep thoughts, until I realize I’ve wandered off as far physically as mentally and my nice, straight mow rows veer and converge as if I took part in my post-mow beers pre-mow.

Anyway, I was mowing over the weekend when I was struck by a disconcerting thought –other than, “Geez, it’s 147 degrees with 214-percent humidity, and I’m mowing brown grass in the heat of the day.” The thought: I’ve barely been cycling with my dad this year.

I’ve spent a lot of saddle time with my parental unit. We participated in the Wheel to Weston charity ride for umpteen years, until organizers woefully moved it from its lovely, scenic route from Kansas City, Mo., to Weston, to … wait for it … Kansas Speedway. Yep, they traded the rolling, tobacco-covered hills for Kansas City, Kan., pavement, so Dad and I politely passed the past couple of years.

We’ve ridden the Kansas River levee trails — on the nice, smooth levee and the mountain-bike trails — and the rail-trail south of Ottawa. We’ve done Octoginta, and the defunct Headquarters ride. We’ve just ridden. We make sort of a cycling Odd Couple, with Dad kicking back on his recumbent and me on my fixie.

This year so far, the only ride we’ve done together was the Lenexa Midnight Bike Ride, and, nice as it was, I had to share Dad with the rest of my family, my brother and niece … and a few hundred other strange folks.

I sorta miss the one-on-one time, and I feel some urgency in riding with pops.

Neither of us is getting younger, though I’m not worried about Dad. I reckon he’ll ride to my funeral — pulling me, if I asked ahead of time, in a casket he carved by hand from a single chunk of wood from a tree he grew from seed, on a trailer he made from ore he dug out of the ground himself, then smelted (and I can recall as a youngster making myself scarce anytime Dad was smelting) and welded into a design of his own engineering.

No, I’m the only one of the two of us who seems to be getting older, and though I’m nearly three decades his junior, I have more gray hair. No fair.

Dad did invite me to partake in the Tour of Shawnee, which was Sunday, but I didn’t look into it soon enough, and I’ve regretted it since.

Oh, well. The weather’s turning, but there’s still plenty of time.

So, what do you say, Dad? Shall we ride?