Hamhocks of Fury, He Teases Me, Lovingly

Even though I am not actually a bicyclist.

I do ride, but just around town. On a cruiser. My sweet monument to Punky Brewster, Rainbow Brite, and excessive girldom everywhere. I love my cruiser. Just the sight of it makes me smile.

And I’m not alone there. I can’t tell you how many times people effusively comment as I ride by: “Nice rainbows!” “Nice pompoms!” “Wow, that’s some crazy psychedelic hippie shit!” I could never get away with frowning while riding this bike. It’s just too…well, too everything.

I owe a lot to my cruiser. Mostly because it has reunited me with the feel of wind in my hair. There’s nothing quite like it, is there? That sense that even on the hottest of days you can be cooled by the breeze you generate cutting through the air on your two-wheeled machine. It wasn’t until I started riding the cruiser again that I remembered how independent, how close to flying my seven-year-old self felt when perched on the glittery-green banana seat of my very first bike.

My dad bought me a ten speed one year for my birthday that I wish I could say equally nice things about. I know that for him it was a rite of passage: grown-up girls need grown-up bikes. And I wanted to love it, but I couldn’t. I felt too vulnerable atop that seat. Too precarious, too top-heavy. Like if I hit even a small bump in the road I was sure to go cup over tea kettle, poised as I was with most of my weight over the handlebars rather than the seat. I think I rode it once. And even then not downhill.

Sorry, dad.

A year and more ago I met a woman who commutes by bike. And I mean really commutes – 30 miles round trip. I went immediately starry-eyed. Oh, how life will turn you inside out. Suddenly, bike riding was all the thing for me. I can ride my 30-mile commute too! And I will! I swore.

Taken-aback Rick has been nothing but accommodating. Bicycles happen to be his favorite mode of transportation. So I can now count among my possessions a fancy road bike and a pair of bicycle shorts (um, not lycra – not ever). And I think so far I have used each exactly once.

(Hey, I didn’t say I was proud of that.)

But no more of this terror of two wheels. Just this morning, the bicycle gods presented me another role model to guide me through bicycledom (or, another goddess to emulate, take your pick): Victoria Pendleton. Who can sprint like a demon. And who supplements her rigorous bike-training schedule with sex. Hallelujah! Amen! (Ok, I've got a healthy respect for a holistic approach. Also, for any woman with well-built thighs.)

So now, with more motivation than any one person could realistically expect to find in life, I'll cajole myself back onto the big-girl bike. This weekend. I mean it (I add, for emphasis).

And away I'll go.