The Face Off

REI. Memorial Day, 2010. Husband Jon (who has been riding all his life) takes me up on my generous wifely offer to forego my busy athletic regimen of naps and ice cream to consider the possibility of learning to ride a road bike, with the long term goal of accompanying him on a future STP - Seattle to Portland, 202.4 miles.

This is the bike of choice.



And this is me.



So.

You might notice that I am round, fluffy, well-fleshed, curvy, zaftig. I have not been on a bike in 25+ years, and that one was my brother's low riding banana bike with about 20 inches between me and the ground, for easy access should I have to scoot like a toddler on a Big Wheel.

We took the bike out for a test ride behind the store, along the service road for privacy. Which is good, because when you wedge a 4-inch wide saddle between much wider buttocks cheeks, slap a helmet on your head and say goodbye to reason as you pedal as fast as you can simply to not fall over, it's nice to have some privacy to preserve the small remaining sliver of dignity remaining.

Ok, so I had to have Jon hang on to the back of the bike and run along side. And I wobbled precariously enough to warrant the thought of actually having to purchase the bike simply because of the damage I would inflict on it. And I emited various squaks and squeaks most unbecoming to my age and station. And I had to get off the pedals and straddle-walk it around the other way since I couldn't imagine how to turn it with the handlebars. And I ground to a halt every thirty feet or so to catch my breath, stop hyperventilating, uncross my eyes and clear my vision of tiny white spots. Ok, the test ride lasted six and one half minutes. I admit, I am not a natural.

But I also did not experience projectile vomiting.

We took this as a good sign, and purchased the bike.

I named it "The Red Dragon" because it seems more reasonable to fear than with its actual name, "Scott." There is no good reason to fear a bike named Scott.

But I still wonder. As it sits in the hallway, leaning comfortably against the wall and blocking my way everytime I take out the trash, I think I can hear it whispering. S.....for skinned knees.....C...for concussion.....O....for Omigodwhatwasithinking....T....for Ta-ta, baby, cuz you're gonna die...and T....for.....Th'th'th'that's all folks.