I miss my bikes.
I miss riding the Kalakala to yoga in the morning with my mat laid over the top of my Wald basket.
I miss putting both panniers on the Hunqapillar and pedaling to the grocery store to stock up on provisions for the week.
I miss riding the Saluki out to Bothell along the Burke-Gilman trail and then, after a day at school, enjoying a smoke n’ spoke on the way home.
I miss stuffing my umpire gear into the Nigel Smythe saddlebag on the Tournesol and hurrying to Queen Anne or Mercer Island to officiate two or three softball games.
I miss my occasional spin on the single-speed Quickbeam, usually to Red Apple to pick up some forgotten grocery item or off to the library to drop of some overdue books.
On vacation, earlier this week in San Francisco, and now, for a few days in Los Angeles, I’m enjoying the pace of walking, but there’s a bicycle-shaped hole in my heart not to mention splints in my shins from covering ground on two feet that I would normally cover on two wheels.
I stopped into a junk shop today that had a sign outside advertising “Burning Man Bikes;” it featured a generous pile of rusting department store cycles that normally I would hardly look twice at; today, however, I pored over selection and it was all I could do not to offer the proprietor a couple of twenties for an aged Huffy that I could have pedaled to the coffee shop down the street.
In San Francisco, I saw a guy on the BART train with a moustache-bar equipped Rivendell about my size; it took a good deal of willpower not to ask if I could take a spin. The likelihood of his consenting to my request was small, but had he acquiesced, I wouldn’t have given it back until I recalled just how much a person can really miss his ride.
I miss riding the Kalakala to yoga in the morning with my mat laid over the top of my Wald basket.
I miss putting both panniers on the Hunqapillar and pedaling to the grocery store to stock up on provisions for the week.
I miss riding the Saluki out to Bothell along the Burke-Gilman trail and then, after a day at school, enjoying a smoke n’ spoke on the way home.
I miss stuffing my umpire gear into the Nigel Smythe saddlebag on the Tournesol and hurrying to Queen Anne or Mercer Island to officiate two or three softball games.
I miss my occasional spin on the single-speed Quickbeam, usually to Red Apple to pick up some forgotten grocery item or off to the library to drop of some overdue books.
On vacation, earlier this week in San Francisco, and now, for a few days in Los Angeles, I’m enjoying the pace of walking, but there’s a bicycle-shaped hole in my heart not to mention splints in my shins from covering ground on two feet that I would normally cover on two wheels.
I stopped into a junk shop today that had a sign outside advertising “Burning Man Bikes;” it featured a generous pile of rusting department store cycles that normally I would hardly look twice at; today, however, I pored over selection and it was all I could do not to offer the proprietor a couple of twenties for an aged Huffy that I could have pedaled to the coffee shop down the street.
In San Francisco, I saw a guy on the BART train with a moustache-bar equipped Rivendell about my size; it took a good deal of willpower not to ask if I could take a spin. The likelihood of his consenting to my request was small, but had he acquiesced, I wouldn’t have given it back until I recalled just how much a person can really miss his ride.
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