Seems you can't drive a mile on any main road without almost running over a guy in a unitard riding a bicycle. I don't have anything against this activity. In fact, I used to love biking. Of course, things were different then.
As a kid, I had a red Sting-Ray with a sparkly banana seat and plastic fringe hanging from the handlebars. Metal clackers clipped into the spokes replicated the sound of a speedboat motor when I pedaled fast, which was most of the time. All the kids in the neighborhood rode bikes. We rode to ball games and birthday parties, to the park where we'd practice kissing under the backstop, and into town for pizza. We rode in bare feet, without helmets and usually with a sibling perched on the high-rise handlebars, untied shoelaces dangling over the front wheel.
So when, in college, a guy asked me for a cycling date, I accepted. I borrowed a friend's bike and dressed in a pair of denim cut-off shorts and a rayon blouse with new sandals gleaming on my feet. I was still blow-drying my hair when he knocked on the door.
"Is that what you're wearing?" The first words out of his mouth did not inspire confidence.
For our date, he wore knee-length tights with a swath of thick quilting in the crotch. I had never seen anything like that; I thought he was wearing a diaper. He carried two helmets.
As he inspected my bike, I held the helmets and tried hard not to stare at his grossly misshapen rear-end. The helmets were heavy in those days. Foam padding softened the interior; the outer shell was about two inches thick and hard as ice. I tapped the two helmets together, testing their resistance. "Are you expecting a hail storm?" He didn't laugh which was a bad sign.
I won't bore you with the details. Distance biking is boring. After about an hour, I'd had enough biking. I lagged behind, struggling to keep my slippery sandals on the pedals. Soon, I began to sweat. Everyone knows what happens to denim when it gets damp. It shrinks. The shorts tightened around my thighs and squeezed the flesh into taut sausages while the intersecting seam under my body rose, threatening to cleave into my softer parts. I started to worry about death by constriction.
My date was waiting for me at a scenic over-look. I spit out an insect that had died on my flagging tongue and asked: "How much farther?"
"About eight miles more," he said, offering water from his canteen. "Don't drink too much," he warned, "or you'll throw up." I glared at him. Who takes a girl on a date that features vomiting?
Sweat transformed the rayon blouse into plastic wrap trapping body fluids against my already chafing skin. I wiped my face with fingers that, it turned out, were black with residue from the handles. Before I could bleat the words "I've had enough," he took off.
I arrived at our destination to find him sunbathing on a picnic bench, asleep. I rode up fast and rammed the front tire into the bench. My legs were stiff with mud and blood. Only one sandal had survived the trek. "Where's a phone?" The words croaked out of my mouth along with foam, spit and odd bits of inedible debris. I called my roommate and gasped: "Come get me."
When I drive past cyclists now in their sleek jerseys and iridescent tights, I can understand what attracts people to the sport. Modern cycling is all about the gear. The shiny cleats, the aerodynamic helmets, the tiny rear-view mirrors. There is so much to buy!
Sometimes I look at my ten-speed hanging from hooks in the garage and I think: maybe I'll take a ride, but the tires are flat and the gears haven't been greased since 1994. Plus, everyone knows you can't embark on a bike ride before going to Sports Authority and spending a hundred dollars on cycling attire.
Would I ride today if I still had my Sting-Ray? I conjure the sound of that little bell clamped to the bars near my right thumb and think: Yes, I believe I would.
Brrrring! Brrrrring!
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
