Biked around yesterday on my mom’s old red bike. I know this is a dangerous prospect. Two or three months ago, when my stepdad’s bike had a flat, I used hers. Seemed OK. Then a few days in I woke in the mornings with a biting ache somewhere down in the cartilage that connects the femur to the tibia. Kept biking. Kept getting worse. Finally I realized it wasn’t that I was experiencing rapid aging, no, something about the pedaling on this bike was askew. The experience riding that particular bike was straining my knee.
I moshed up the chain on the blue bike and the shop wouldn’t be open till today. You know I must have really wanted to ride. I took that red one out of the garage yesterday and raised the seat way up high and pedaled off. Could I feel it? Not yet. Seemed cool. I went on. About a mile in I faintly feel it. A bit further on it wasn’t so faint, any more. Yup. It’s there. And then a simpleton’s debate began in my mind: “Power-through the pain. Break the barrier,” was fortunately told to shut the fuck up, by the darkened image of me lying in bed the next morning saying, “this is dreadful. Stop.” I turned around there in the park near Huguenot Street where the flags of Belgium, and France and the United States hang at half mast.
Today’s the day. I dropped the seats down in the Highlanders, and slid the big bike in and dutifully darted off to grab a quarter from the closet to feed the meter, there by the bike shop. There are two guys down there and they have different personalities. The one guy isn’t a good salesman. I sell for a living. You watch how other people sell. This guy makes ya nervous, because with each new item he suggests you’ll need, he anticipates your pushback, and makes you feel as though his trade has him forever on the defense. The other guy is better. He makes ya feel calm, and that your money is going to be well spent. It must be a grinding business with the thinnest of margins. We go through the chain, and de-railer and chain wheel and though I ask a few polite questions to ground myself as other-than-suckah, I’ll pay what he asks, because I use the bike every day and I want it to work well and I feel sort of sorry for their tough business.
Down in the back behind them, there is a bakery. Never been. Why not see if they have espresso. They do. And while they’re making it and I’m social distancing from the other customer and the counter I notice that they have a few chicken pot pies. I consider: “chicken pot pie.” Neve made one. I’m supposed to be fasting today, but I could try to turn the Mrs. and the little one on to a chicken pot pie. And later, when I do, and half of it doesn’t get eaten, I dive right in and finish it. I bet I could make one better.
Tuesday, 11/17/20
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