Was it Mrs. Gloria Steinem or Irina Dunn who said “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle”? I can only say I completely agree, and my heart goes out to all of those poor fish out there. I love my bicycle!
After several sad, lonely years recently made worse by the indignity of being moved out to the garage, my bicycle is once again heading back to the center of my heart. The little bro’, defending his title to Master-of-the-Art-of-Living this week, helped me pick out and install some superfly new tires on my bike. These tires are as close to puncture-proof as rubber and kryptonite can get, which will be useful to me on my upcoming lava and broken-glass ninja crusade. I installed more reflectors on the Viragette-mobile than Quadrophenia has side-mirrors. They flash, they wink, I am a queen. A matching set of black plastic fenders keep my gown spot-free.
A lifetime of devotion to this particular bicycle has already yielded my matching set of purple paniers, and my sky blue flowered helmet. (FAQ: “Is that a kid’s helmet?” A: “No. It’s my helmet.”) I have the gloves. I have the waterproof, windproof coat. I have festive stripped socks to display my dainty right ankle. I have the memory of what it was like to be able to ride up Capitol Hill, from the University Bridge to the Harvard Exit, at top-speed and still laugh at the top.
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