Bikes: July 2009 Archives

When people introduce themselves, the first few questions are invariably the civilian equivalent of name/rank/serial number: What's your name? What do you do?

The latter being perceived as the most important, the real identifier. We are what we do. Presumably.

Why, then, do I feel so far removed from my self-identifiers? When asked, I usually say "I'm a writer." And occasionally, "I'm a writer and an artist."

But honestly, the only places I write lately are here, the fridge, and work. None of which align with the sort of writing that I'd expected - or hoped - to define my life, to be the conduit for everything I want to say and make for this world.

I don't think I'm finished or anything. Heck, I've hardly started.

But when I look at the things that occupy the bulk of my thought and conversation, they're like the joke someone made about me recently - "You're all about the two B's - bikes and boys."

Yes, I am.

At least, most of my surface-level thoughts are.

I suspect, though, that there's something more happening underneath. I think what the two B's have in common, and what may explain why they're so compelling to me, is this: PLAY.

I haven't played nearly enough in my life. I've been so damn serious, for so very long. SO SERIOUS. So serious, in fact, that last summer I had to consciously strive not to think so much. Not to make any big decisions, at least not with my brain. Last year was all about learning to listen to my body, to lead with hormones and chemicals and muscle.

This summer I haven't been quite sure what's going on, until now. Side note: It's interesting that I seem to do a lot of big work during summers. It's as if each has a theme, and at the moment, paradoxically, the theme seems to be about not working so much - and not only that but actively learning to play. Allowing myself to be all about play, and all about the two B's - my favorite forms of it.

So while that may seem shallow, especially to that judgmental part of me that's been so harsh, so demanding - it's maybe not a waste of energy, nor of my not-inconsiderable talents and brainpower.

I desperately need to play, I think. I don't think I can really write that great novel without it. My brain needs to grow some frills, some frosting; it needs pink.

Showers and thunderstorms likely. Some storms could be severe, with large hail, hail, damaging winds, gusty winds, and heavy rain. - National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

There is a very large, very dark cloud overhead, and intermittent dashes of rain against the street below. The fan is bringing in the smell of ozone and wet pavement.

Forty minutes ago I was sailing along on my track bike, my bag loaded down with groceries, having ridden most of the way through southern Brooklyn with one of the famous boys.

It was a lovely ride, though there were giant crackling thunderclaps now and again, even in a sunnier sky when we set out, and the air seemed just about to burst into giant drops the whole way back. I arrived home, carried bike and a zillion pounds of dried fruit and peanut butter and hummus and assorted necessities and a bar of dark chocolate and so on upstairs, put it all away, and looked outside to see the rain pelting pelting down. As if it had been waiting for me to get everything done first.

So nice of it. Thank you Rain.

It's been an unexpectedly beautiful day, the kind that surprises me. All weekend I've been up and down and all around about how I feel about this boy, and I have no answer, which might be a problem in and of itself. And yet, every time I go to tell him, "well, this is wrong and that is wrong, and I can't do this," I end up not saying anything. I end up falling right into his little slim arms again, and I don't know what to do about it, because I like it.

I can't seem to logic myself into a more straightforward situation with him, or with the world in general. And I don't know why I expect it of myself, anymore, since I've never been a very good Vulcan. I'm a creature of strong feelings, and perhaps happiest when I relax into that instead of fighting myself. It can make for some strained moments - eyes filling with tears unexpectedly in a movie theatre and then draining away just as quickly, only an instant in the dark, seen by nobody. Needing suddenly to vanish, to hop on my bike and fly home to the cat, who I know will have missed me because she always misses me, even if I'm only gone a few minutes. Needing to just hole up in the half-dark with the Tour de France, with Phil Liggett's voice, soft and erudite and familiar.

He's very tiny this boy, small and sweet and delicious, like a little tart plum. Acerbic. Fiery.

So I had this idea. It was a good idea.

The idea ran thusly:

Miz Fury and I would ride our bikes to the beach on a weekday, thereby avoiding weekend crowds and Wednesday responsibilities.

We met at the appointed time(ish) at my apt and hopped on our respective steeds, armed with a metric ton of sunscreen and considerably fewer snacks, and headed south.

Lalala, everybody's happy, the sun is shining....booom!

What was that? Did I run over an exceptionally loud plastic bottle? I stop and turn around and see a Very Large Screw protruding from my rear tire.

Me: No fucking way (or words to that effect).

Miz Fury: Wouldn't it be better to leave it in? Like a sword?

Me: (pinching tire) Nope, it's losing air already. I'll have to change it.

We pull over. I change the tube, pull out a dollar bill to make an emergency tire boot, and start pumping. Realize that my tiny hand pump will only get the tire to about 70lbs. (30lbs. less than I need). Pull out the CO2 inflator, realize that it's busted (blowing a $6 cartridge in the process). Try the hand pump again. Break off the end of the Presta valve.

Miz Fury suggests looking for a bike shop. I realize I already know of a bike shop nearby, and that one of my friends is a mechanic there. I call another friend to get the address, and we ride over.

The place is mobbed, but because I know the mechanic I get the royal treatment. Buy another tube, let the air out of the tire, change the tube (again), slip in the dollar bill (again), borrow a floor pump, buy a better-quality hand pump (just in case), and we get back on the road.

Ride the rest of the way to the beach. Pull out pocketcam to take some pics and discover that its little servo motor has developed an eccentricity and it first won't focus properly and then simply won't turn on. Alas Poor Pocketcam.

The ride home was fine, and my legs felt strong the next day. But no beach pics. And no screw pics, since I didn't think to save it for posterity. The Nikon is now interviewing for the job of pocketcam.

Oh fastboys, why is it so difficult to quit you?

Why do I simply have to dodge my way through traffic, following your swallow-like flight, pedaling my old(er) heart out to keep up? Why don't I just say no, thank you, I've had enough complications for one summer.

Well, I did say it. And then I kissed you anyway, like someone who didn't know her own mind (I don't). Or knew her own mind but ignored its better judgment because some other part of her was not in agreement with the streamlining-the-weirdness plan.

Damn oh damn oh damn. I don't even know why, other than that maybe I like pummeling my way through traffic, barely able to keep you in sight, skinny long-limbed leaf on the wind. Damn oh damn oh damn.