I know I’m officially “middle aged”. While I don’t necessarily embrace the fact, I do (begrudgingly) accept it and even think of myself as such (from time to time).
I was stunned by my reaction when Fritz over at Commute by Bike referred to me as “This middle aged man“. I wasn’t surprized that he wrote it, but I was quite shocked by how much it stung, if only just for an instant, seeing it in print. Ahh… the power of the printed word!
Oh and Fritz, you’re still missing the point of my story. It wasn’t about being complimented by a teenaged girl. It was about her subsequent mortification and embarrassment. The compliment was just the icing on the cake.
So, I finally got my lazy ass out on a bike. JW knows (or can deduce) how shamefully long it’s been, but I’m hoping he’ll keep that to himself.
With my lack of conditioning and whatnot, I originally planned a leisurely ride with gears, but the cyclometer on the Fuji was dead and everyone knows that battery changing is an after-dark or rainy day activity, so I was ridin’ fixed on the Svelte Felt.
What is it about riding, particularly on the fixed gear that makes it so hard to “take it easy”? Every incline becomes the finish at Alpe d’Huez, every signpost an intermediate sprint (for time bonuses and valuable prizes, natch!)
Of course, I was slower than usual, but all things considered, I felt surprizingly good and my spin has remained remarkably smooth (26.2MPH @ 42×16 on 25mm tires, that’s just shy of 130RPM, bike-math geeks, not too shabby (for me)).
Later I was looking over some old ride logs, seeing entries like rides home from work at 14° with 25mph winds and wet, slushy roads. Man, I gotta stop with the “it’s too wet/cold/windy BS”, harden the fuck up, stop making excuses, and ride!
I know that most, if not all, cyclists have our tales of forgetting to unclip from our pedals, thus toppling over in super-comical slow-motion in front of various pedestrians, motorists, and other cyclists. CycleDog shared one of his, which led me to post this counter-point, as it were.
I won’t deny that I’ve had my share of those mortifying incidents, but that isn’t what this post is about. This is about the much more satisfying converse of that situation, that special moment in time when we get to revel in the discomfort and embarrassment of another.
A few years ago I was riding here in town when a car whizzed past, as it did the unmistakable voice of a teenaged girl yelled “Nice butt!”
As the car went past I could see only the driver, raptly looking straight ahead. The fates intervened, however, and there was a light changing to red just up ahead. The car stopped and moments later, I rolled up on the passenger side. There a second teenage girl (obviously the ’shouter’) was ducked down in the passenger seat, giggling and thinking herself invisible. With me being on my bike, however, she was nothing of the kind and I was looking right down upon her, not even a window separating us.
The driver was also keenly aware of this situation and was furtively whispering at and prodding her friend.
The friend slowly looked up, our eyes met, and I smiled, giving her a slight ‘tsk tsk’ headshake.
I’d give anything for a photo of that moment. Her face turned such an extreme shade of red, it seemed almost painful.
Thankfully for her, the light quickly turned green and they sped away. The driver, no longer able to contain her mirth, burst into peals of hysterical laughter.
I try to remember that day; that priceless expression, when some idiot yells at me to “get off the road”, squeezes past much too closely, or any of the myriad other abuses we all suffer on a nearly daily basis.
I hang out in the news group Alt.Fan.Letterman occasionally a lot. Over the years I think some of ‘the regulars’ over there have begun to begrudgingly accept me. Imagine my delight when I received a package (I’m considering it a birthday gift) in the mail from Kath, my favorite Australian.
Note the clever (and no doubt, intentional) misspelling of my name, lest I get too cocky.
A lovely card inside.
Signed by people I don’t know, at least one of whom seems unnaturally interested in seeing my pigeon-chest.
My Dingo! My Dingo!
The flip-side, showing Fraser Island, the dingo’s supposed home. I can’t imagine how they ever find a baby in all that sand! No wonder the poor thing looks so hungry!
Thursday night they got the furnace running. The water heater was doing its thing in time for me to enjoy a hot shower before work Friday night. And… Sunday my neighbor downstairs called to let me know that she had found my missing house key.
As an added bonus, I just realized that all the rain and flooding should have washed all of the evil salt from the roads, so hopefully I’ll be out rocking the ‘good’ bike wheels this week, with nary a worry that my pristine, practically frictionless bearings will be infiltrated by salt water or my bike otherwise besmirched with unsightly salty grime.
Today after considerable time steeling myself for the inevitable horrors of an ice-cold shower, I bit the bullet and took one (with quite a bit of, shall we say, “colorful language” thrown in for good measure). Along the way I discovered something, an ice-cold shower is a sure way to put me in a foul mood. It’s not “exhilarating”, it’s not “invigorating”. It’s horrible, it’s truly awful. It’s just a blindfold away from being actual torture.
Anyway, after doing my best to put this awfulness behind me it was off to the big reference laboratory where they’ll be drawing blood and doing my labwork, some 30 minutes away. I arrived at 3:40 feeling quite pleased with myself until I discovered that they closed at 3:30! Who the Hell, aside from elementary schools, calls it a day a 3:30?!?
So, having accomplished exactly nothing aside from wasting well over an hour driving, I arrived back home. Imagine my delight when I discovered that I didn’t have my house key. After several minutes attempting the old “credit card trick” I concede that I’m going to have to go retrieve my hidden emergency key.
Guess where it’s hidden? In the basement. The same basement that is filled knee-deep with ice-cold water which backed up through the floor drain from the storm sewer. At least when I was done I could rinse off with yet more ice-cold water and bask in my 55° apartment.
Tuesday and Wednesday it absolutely poured rain, at one point Wednesday evening it even started to snow big fluffy snowflakes. For a brief time everything that wasn’t underwater was coated in snow.
The bad news is that my basement flooded and I therefore have no heat or hot water until they get it pumped out and the various pilot lights can be re-ignited.
The good news? There’s a family of ducks who seem to be having a splendid time swimming around what used to be my back yard.
You know how now they’ve got those musical greeting cards that actually sound “musical”? Well, my mother, always one to embrace our Irish heritage (she hoped I would be born on St. Pat’s day; my middle name would have been Patrick) sent me a St. Patrick’s card that plays music. Imagine my surprize when I realized that it was playing a Dropkick Murphys song.
More specifically, this one:
There’s also a really good live performance here, it’s a Live on Letterman Web Exclusive!
The other day I got an ad from Pier 1 in the mail (I’m on their mailing list and don’t mind, I’ve always liked Pier 1). The first thing that struck me about the ad was that it said “spring-a-ding-ding” on the cover yet I had to shake the snow off of it after removing it from the mailbox. The next thing that grabbed my attention was page 19, the Damask Armchair.
I’m not the type to get all worked up about chairs, but when I saw that chair I said, “I love that chair! Later in the week, when I’m feeling better, I’m going to Pier 1. If that chair is at all comfortable, I’m buying it.”
Today I went to Pier 1. It is, I did. The cat is napping in it even as I type.
That’s right, good news! Something that’s been sorely lacking on my blog of late. I know what you’re saying; “What, pray tell, is this news, Greg?”
I’m going to see Steve “By Gawd*” Earle on May 6 at the Southern Theater in Columbus. I snagged my tickets from the pre-sale on his website just minutes after it was announced, so I should have great seats. Hooray for my team!
*Just to inject the (evidently) obligatory downer, “Mr. ByGawd” / “Steve ‘By Gawd’ Earle” were the names assigned to him by a dear-departed friend of mine.
