Last week I borrowed Jennifer's black 70's-vintage (?) chevy pickup truck to take the three bicycles languishing in our backyard to the shop to see if we could get them fixed up. I have been looking forward to picking them up today, as I wanted to ride mine home from the shop. We picked them up around noon and bought a rack to put on the back of my newly-recovered Corolla, thus reluctantly taking one more step towards unashamed yuppieness. We drove to Target, to buy cheaper helmets than were offered at the bike shop, and Rachel left me in the parking lot to figure out how to lower my bike seat so that I could actually ride it home.
I took the bike back into Target, and bought a half-dozen wrench set (drop-forged in China) in the hopes that one would fit the metric bolt at the base of the seat. The biggest one was slightly too big but worked tolerably well anyway just outside the store. Putting the wrenches in my jeans pocket, i was off like a rocket for the first time in maybe about 10 years. It wasn't too hard even after so long; it was like riding a bike.
I took mostly back roads of the residential persuasion, though a lot of the bigger roads in this part of town have bike lanes on either side, which i used for certain stretches. Early on i stopped fairly frequently to readjust the seat a little lower or consult my printed map, and later on i would get off to walk for a while and recover a little bit.
I stopped at Trenholm Plaza (local market square frequented just about every week) and found the Corolla with a bike rack on the trunk and the groceries in the back seat, and left a little love note in the driver's window for my lovely and gracious. I proceeded home on more back roads, riding halfway up the hills and all the way down them. Somewhere on this second leg of my afternoon quest, the old cycle starting squeaking consistently on the down stroke of my right pedal.
Sister Jennifer-in-law was waiting in the driveway as i pulled up, and Rachel pulled in a few minutes later. Jennifer wanted to show off her newly-rented apartment in Shandon, so we piled into her Accord, stopping by Starbucks for some warm apple cider for J. and a cold water chaser for my roasted almond granola bar. High hopes and compliments all around upon perusal of said domicile, and then she dropped us off back at home. We had a late lunch of leftover steak from last night's night out, and i spent the late afternoon browsing the web with Winamp on shuffle, my body humming pleasantly contented from the day's exertions.
Is this tiny feeling of guilt to be listened to?
