Sunday, October 12, 2008

i liiiike my biiiike.

In the words of the late, great ghoti hook,

"there's just one thing that i love more than anything....i liiiiike my biiiiike! "

Having taken a half-day off from work this past Friday, I wanted to make the most of my extra 4 hours of freedom. Since the Wonder Years marathon had ended and I have sworn off random body piercings, I looked to my garage in pursuit of inspiration. Bypassing unfinished canvasses and sawdust covered wood scraps, I found titillation on two wheels.

Propped upside-down on its seat, in the same naive way that my friends and I would stow our bikes outside of grocery stores, my Haro DV8 beckoned playfully. Cob-webbed spokes, non-functioning brakes and all, she is my freestyle temptress. As an unnamed stairwell, an unfortunate onlooker in the distance, and I can personally testify, my seductive Haro can be a harlot at times. Despite the often painful consequences of taking her out on the town, I decided to air up the tires and go.

Pedal, pump, pedal, pump, avoid the speedbump, pedal, pump, pedal, pump, bunny hop mini jump, pedal, pump, pedal pump, harumph, harumph, pedal, pump, pedal, pump, that man has a toupee a la donald trump, pedal, pump...

Every time I have been on this bike since restoring it(still no brakes, just new wheels), I have the same 2 epiphanies. (1) The only adults who should ride bmx/freestyle bikes are sponsored by vans/mountain dew. (2) I get to observe so much more, in a more intimate way when I'm pedaling away, not confined behind the wheel of a car. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a filthy hippie who thinks that "all cars are like, the man, man," but there is a certain charm to using pavement without using fuel.

Unable to sit down because of a potentially disastrous short distance between my knees and the handlebars, I pedaled and pumped my way through an array of otherwise ho-hum scenery.

The golf course near our apartment, by way of bicycle on bridge, was a veritable shire, complete with club-wielding wealthy hobbits.

The suburban nature trail that I presumed to be vast and not filled with homeless people was brief and filled with homeless people.

The dog shit that I typically don't think about while driving was alive, well, and pungent on sidewalks and lawns.

My increasing heart rate was a crescendoing meter for imagination invigoration.

I sped up and slowed down, sped up and slowed down, coasting when the coast was clear of ninjas and pirates poised to attack from tree-tops and sewers.

Unripened acorns were pretend land mines, igniting under the pressure of my freshly aired tires. Pedal, pop, pop, pedal, pop, pop. With each revolution, my wheels made for a fresh batch of pre-cracked squirrel snacks.

On a bearable, even breezy Friday afternoon away from work, I can't say that I was "a kid again." I was (and am) a grown-ass person, inspired, invigorated, and uplifted from operating a vehicle of youth.

I'm not back-pedaling, I'm back, pedaling and pumping for the creative endeavor.

Thanks, bike, I liiiike you.

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