So, obviously I wanted to be funneled into that category.
When I first moved back, I had enough in my savings to purchase a new bike. Unfortunately, the gods were against me and, the day before I was going to get my new ride, my current computer practically exploded in my strong, strong hands.
I was crushed. Positively crushed. Luckily, my father calmed my tears and incessant sobbing by telling me he had an extra bike he would send up to me. This is why I keep him around.
I had the bike sent to a nearby bike store for 1) it's convenient location and 2) the incredibly sexy, sexy, sexy staff. Seriously, I walked in to the shop and my jaw dropped at the manliness on display. So many double entendres whipped through my mind as they told me once the bike arrived, they give it a fine tune up.
I called later in the week and, much to my chagrin, a FEMALE answered. Hiding my disappointment, I asked if my bike had arrived.
Lady: "Well, what kind of bike is it?"
My inner thoughts: "Shit. I have no idea. Fake it, Mr. Vest. Fake it."
Mr. Vest: "It's a yellow one."
Lady. "A yellow one? Can you be more descriptive?"
Inner thoughts: "Make something up, you sound stooooopid."
Mr. Vest: "It's an old bike."
Lady: "Okay...perhaps it's a ten speed?"
Mr. Vest: "Yeah, sure."
Inner thoughts: "You don't know anything. Go somewhere and order some nachos."
Somehow, despite my obvious lack of knowledge in the biking sector, the bike was found and I happily skipped to the store.
Once there, a gentleman I'll call Randy helped me out with his masculine, strong, manliness. In a few minutes, I was out on the streets.
Falling on my ass.
Twice.
In one block.
In my new jeans.
Those people who say you never forget how to ride a bike can go fly a kite. It took me quite some time to balance myself on George (that's the bike's name). After a while, though, George and I practically became one. He and I traveled through the streets of Cambridge, laughing and singing. and being generally carefree.
He took me to school. To J. Crew. To the ice cream social. George was the perfect man. There were some kinks along the way, but I was beginning to enjoy being a Boston biker.
That is, until I was thrown off of George when a man decided to make a turn when he shouldn't have. As I fell, the people around me shouted, "Heavens!" (SERIOUSLY) and a plopped on the pavement.
I immediately got up and took one look at the man who could have deprived the world of Mr. Vest. He smiled and waved as if he and I were old school chums who once shared an awkward night together but things were now okay between us.
Rage filled me as I tore my helmet off, walked over to his car and shouted some words that should not be said around being who shout "Heavens!" In a nutshell, I advised him that he made the wrong decision and he should drive more carefully.
I shook it off, proudly picked up George and strutted away (mainly due to the limp caused by the fall but I looked good). The people around me asked if I was okay and I thanked them for their concern.
As I got home, blood on my knees and ego a bit bruised, I decided to put George to rest for a few days. He'd been through so much. Plus, I was worried that car guy would find me and hurt me.
So manly.
Though, I look over at him throughout the day and he appears to beckoning me to get on him again. He just looks so very, very sad. In due time, my chap. In due time.
