Things Born of Bicycles

I recently bought a bike and...my bike, she is a pretty bike.

Truth be told, I don't think I've ever owned a nice bike before. I've had okay bikes bought from the hardware store that I loved to pieces and rode to death, but never anything worth bragging about. This bike is worth bragging about, and exclaiming over, and generally showing off to the world. She is European, and has a bell, and a dutch lock and built in lights, and...well...none of those features do her true justice, because they don't capture her quintessential quality which is...Pretty.

I live in a city, and work in the sketchy part of said city, so any bike in my possession would likely have an inevitable life span due to rampant theft. This bike, however, I fear is not long for this world. She isn't worth thousands upon thousands of dollars, she was actually reasonably priced and on sale...but...pretty. The bike thieves will snatch her up the second I leave her unattended, I'm sure.

So a bike lock seemed more like a ceremonial gesture than a true theft preventative, but I was willing to do the song and dance if it bought me a little while longer to play out my European fantasies on my beautiful new bike. I could buy bread and wine and go to the beach and...see? It's a priceless fantasy. A solid looking lock might protect it, at least for a little while.

I was also in need of a bike helmet. I am not a fan of helmets, at all. As I child on route to the nearest gas station convenience store, I would abandon my helmet in a ditch a block away from my house, bike down a busy highway full of transport trucks, and then pick up my helmet on the way home because...well, I guess I wasn't the brightest of children. But also, because I do not like helmets. They mess up the hair, they irritate the neck, and just...no. It's not that I want to be brain damaged, because that does not sound fun. It's just that if I do get into a serious accident, I'd rather not have only my brain protected and everything else smooshed, because having an already depressed mind trapped inside a useless body, drinking out of a straw, and communicating through blinks to resentful family members while I slowly die of an untended bed sore....also not fun.

I happened to be talking to my little sister on route to the bike shop and, while I expected a lecture, she enthusiastically applauded my anti-helmet stance. And at first I was thrilled and validated but then, I felt the sour pangs of elder guilt, and I worried: am I being a bad influence? What would my little sister do if I was killed....or what would I do if she was killed? Such deep routed fears are best dealt with through retail gesturing, so I promised to buy a good helmet if she would, too. I had to wear it, she noted wryly, and I responded in kind. We both sighed and agreed, and I found myself stuck. I now needed both a helmet and lock, though I really didn't see the use in either. The bike shop loomed in the distance and I rolled my eyes, then dutifully stepped inside.

The fog engulfing the city, at that moment, lifted. The clouds parted, a single light shone down from the heavens, while underneath the din of rush hour traffic, a chorus of angels in perfect harmony began to sing. The words were celestial in the tongue of the gods, but their message was clear:

"Can I help you find anything?"

"No, I'm okay." I stammered, then smiled. "I'm just browsing, I mean. I need a lock?"

The man...he was pretty. He smiled back at me as I compared brand names, and the smile, it was pretty, too. Truth be told, he could have been the spitting image of my grandmother and I wouldn't have cared, because he possessed An Accent. Donegal women are particularly vulnerable to the charms of accented men, and I am no exception. Was he from New Zealand, or was it well-spoken Australian, or colloquial English? I don't care. He slurred his words, pronounced no 'R's, and I was smitten.

I'm not one for crushes, and I rarely flirt. I'm shy, I guess, and inevitably awkward. It's easier with liquor and, for me, the perfect accent is the equivalent of three tequila shots. I asked for his bike lock expertise. When he mentioned he was a bike mechanic...swoon. I don't know why, actually, I didn't think I would find that sexy...but there you go.

The pretty, accented bike mechanic sold me a bike lock. We will see how long it lasts. And then he sold me a helmet, and we'll see how much I wear it. But at the till, he smiled, and he gave me a discount- "Wait, stupid computer, I was going for an even hundred but it won't...."

...Aw, you're awkward, too. I think I love you, Bike Boy.