Driving home the other day, I passed a couple of old poops on bicycles, no spandex outfits or fancy cycling shoes, shorts and sneakers adorned their sweaty bodies. They were wearing helmets and riding at a fairly leisurely pace, chatting away. I got a guilty little twinge, it’s been about twenty years since a bike seat chaffed my rather ample behind. I have a bike, when I got home and having a little spare time, I checked the back of our storage garage and there it was, dusty and with one flat tire, it leaned against the back wall. It had been a present from The Queen back in the days when I was fifty pounds heavier than I am now. A generous gift and a not so subtle hint that I could benefit from a little exercise. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that if it had an odometer, it would register something less than ten miles on it. It’s a nice mountain bike, pretty green with a shifter and knobby tires. The only thing standing between me and the Tour De France was the lovely little hamlet I live in, all the roads go uphill. We don’t seem to have any downhill stretches. Going uphill on my bike requires shifting, my bike has a shifter and lots of gears but I don’t know how to use them. I moved the levers around until I found a gear I could pedal in. I was either pedaling like crazy and not going very fast or pedaling slowly with a lot of force and still not covering a lot of ground. My then middle aged legs were not happy campers sending me a series of toe curling cramps to emphasize their objections and the bike gradually worked its way to the back of the garage. Walking out of the garage my now senior legs reminded me that the new hip and knee were not enthusiastic about unmotorized transportation and that if I wanted to ride something they voted for our recliner, since the vote was two to one, I headed for the recliner. Settled comfortably with the two complainers up in the air, I started remembering when I was a bike rider, standing up, pumping hard, zigzagging down the dirt road with the breeze blowing through my butch waxed brush cut. The leader followed by my two younger brothers and our best friend and neighbor, Wild Bill. The Wild Bunch unleashed! Now that was a bike! A J.C.Higgins, balloon tires, a genuine fake gas tank the size of a Harley tank, a springer front end, resplendent in slightly rusty maroon and cream paint. A remarkable steed my Father had picked up for the handsome sum of three dollars on one of his trips to town. Sure it was a little big, I had to pedal ballet style sliding my adolescent fanny from side to side on the seat so my toes could reach the pedals but it was my first vehicle, I could go faster and farther than my black high top sneakers could carry me. It took me on adventures my parents never found out about. All innocent but exciting none the less. I rode it for years until girls and cars came between us. It sat for a couple of years, Dad sold it when I went to college. He got five bucks for it, he was happy. I wish I still had it, I think I’d join those two old poops I saw for a ride. My old bike only had one gear.
Thought for the week—A fool is someone who doesn’t know that he doesn’t know.
Until next week, may you and yours be happy and well.
Whittle12124@yahoo.com
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