: this is a carrot * :

What, you’ve never seen a carrot before? You think it’s a bike, don’t you?

Nope, it’s a big, fat, ten-speed carrot dangling from a short stick. First, it’s going to lead me into temptation, then into oncoming traffic.

I know this just as surely as I know it’s futile to resist; I will succumb. You see, I love bikes. I love their design, I love the freedom and the openness and the tick of the gears when I coast. I love the sun on my shoulders and leaning into turns and the feeling of power and exhilaration and speed.

You know what I don’t like? Biking shorts, they’re too shiny. And pedal clips; things I call toe traps. Neither do I like the one-legged stuff: the getting on and off, the stopping and starting, that’s where trouble lies. Not with the riding, but with balancing on one leg.

I mean, I can’t even put on a pair of pants without clutching a wall. Or climb stairs without gripping the railing. What do I think will happen when I get on a bike? I’ll defy gravity? Levitate? Hover like a traffic helicopter? No, sir.

What I will do, of course, is crash to the ground with the dainty grace of space junk. Someone will see me fall, run to my aid, ask if I’m okay, and yadda yadda yadda. It’s a summer ritual, that first crash ushers in the new bike season.  Granted, I meet a lot of nice people this way, but still.

Why do I keep doing this, year after year? It hurts. And I know how it’s going to turn out, but I do it, anyway. Eagerly and with great anticipation, because I love the rush. I get jazzed by the sounds and the rhythms and the near misses.

After a long winter trapped indoors, my senses are deprived and I’m dulled stoopid by climate-controlled comfort. I want out. No matter the price, just let me out in the fresh air and commotion and noise. I’ll fall down, get up with a limp, and all will be right with the world.

copyright © 2016 the whirly girl

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