I love my new bike. It’s a mountain bike, although I have no real intention to ride it on mountains. I will probably ride it in dirt from time to time, but mostly I’ll be on the road. Sure, I could have got one of those one-speed, old French guy on the poster with the baguette bikes. Thing is, I need gears to have any hope of keeping pace with Brent, unless his knee hurts like it did last weekend. I wanted a bike with wide handlebars that did not look dorky. “Dorky” is a technical term for bikes I don’t like. It includes, but is not limited to, bikes that are pink, most girl-bikes, bikes with big seats, and the like.
Due to three generations of pressure, I don’t get that wind-in-my-hair feeling while riding, but at least my helmet is red. I may look ridiculous, but I’m visible.
Riding it is a quick trip to the carefree parts of being a kid. I like the wind. I like the feel of the tires on the street. My thighs remind me they exist when I pedal. The sound of coasting relaxes me with its ticking. Even the part where I scraped the back of my ankle on the pedal felt like childhood.