Well, summer has finally arrived here -- it's been two nights since we've had to turn the heat on. The local visitor bureau has determined that cyclists are the niche of choice for its marketing efforts and the streets are jammed with fiercely lycra-clad racers as well as a more casual wheeling crowd. There also seem to be a lot more young adults on little bitty bikes in my neighborhood as well, which was recently explained by my neighbor as being due to a rash of DUI's at the end of the school year. At least they're only behind two wheels now vs. four.
I have a bike. I bike downtown, to the store, to concerts etc. I don't do it a lot, but I can. I've mentioned my deficient cycling skills here previously, which I blame on the geography of my childhood home, growing up at the top of a long, narrow, winding hill with poison ivy in the ditches, ducking out-of-control suburban station wagons driven by moms hopped up on caffeine and late to the PTA meeting.
However, I've gradually realized that something more nefarious is going on.
Bikes don't like me. They sense my fear and it turns them mean.
When I'm around them they tend to jump out and attack my legs, leaving scrapes and bruises even when I haven't tried to ride them.
I'm not exaggerating. This was recently witnessed at the farm stand when a strange bike bit my shin. I had my hand out for it to sniff and everything. I hadn't even made eye contact.
My current bike is a gentle old nag who is pretty kind, though it's been known to throw me at intersections. And when it smells alcohol on my breath (say, after concerts), it likes to buck and rear, then stand by and snicker. I can show you the scars.
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