Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Whoever said "It's like riding a bike" was an idiot.

I rode bikes a lot as a child. I rode my purple Schwinn to school every day. I rode to the movies, gas stations, all sorts of places. I have no idea how. Now that I'm an adult, I'm terrified of traffic and of breaking bones, particularly bones in my legs or skull, not the mention the humiliation that would come with injury.

I own two bicycles, for really no reason. The first one I acquired when a friend of mine moved to a nearby city and asked if I could store her bike for her until she found a larger place. We lost touch for various reasons, and next thing I knew, I heard that the girl was living in Japan. I later heard that she was living in New Zealand. She's back in the country now, and we talk from time to time, but she's never mentioned the bicycle, and I've had it for almost eight years. I feel safe calling it "mine."

I acquired the second bike under similar circumstances. I had a roommate for a couple of years, and it was a very strange experience. She didn't have a lot of things, she mostly used my stuff. I knew she was planning to move out in June of that year, so I became a bit concerned when the time was getting near and she hadn't even begun to pack. Her father was in town, and was going to help her move her things across the country in a U-Haul. She had a large trunk her grandmother had given her, and she wanted to leave it in the apartment with me. Her father was very concerned about her leaving the trunk. He asked me several times if I was absolutely sure that leaving the trunk wasn't a problem. The trunk was fine, it fit in the corner, it wasn't in my way at all. I went to work early on the day she was supposed to move, and it was only then that she started packing. I figured she didn't have much stuff, so maybe she and her dad could throw it all together and get out. When I returned home from work that evening, everything this girl owned was still in the apartment except for her clothes. She left everything, including her rickety old bike. I was not pleased, as I had to mail her all of her things (on her dime, of course).

Both of the bikes eventually got flat tires. I didn't have a pump, nor do I have any avid bicycling friends, so no one I knew had one, either. I've been poor for years and have never been able to justify the expense. I know they're only $10-$15, but that can be a lot of money when you're poor, and when you want to spend money on fun things, bike pumps aren't exactly a priority.

I'm living on credit cards these days, and I figured I'd just be frivolous and I bought a pump. I filled the tires of the nicer of the two bikes (the first one) and I took it outside. Before I even mounted the bike, I noticed that the brakes don't work. Neither set. At all. I took the bike back home and took the rickety one out for a ride.

I'm short (5'1", tops), and this bike was clearly designed for a larger (or at least taller) person. I have the seat down as low as it goes, and it's still too high for the likes of me. Add to that its wonky pedals; the pedal straps have been replaced with awkward (and garish) rubber things that are a bit awkward to put one's feet into. The brakes worked, though, so I thought I'd take it for a spin, anyway.

That wasn't really the best idea. As it's not the right height, it wasn't particularly comfortable, and I feel that my center of gravity is in the wrong place for such things. I tried to slow down and turn, and then I decided to stop, and as I braked, I leaned over so I could touch my foot to the ground. Well, my foot didn't touch the ground and I toppled right over. Oy vey. I may very well get the brakes on the good bike fixed, but judging by how long it took me to buy a bicycle pump, that won't be any time this century. We'll see. Next humiliating adventure: learning to roller skate.

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