Ride 'Em, Desk Jockey

One of the things I stopped doing in the latter half of the 90's (besides bathing) was riding a bike. When I was a kid I loved my bike. In my student years I spent a lot of time throwing myself down the local mountains trying to avoid striking fixed objects. At all times bike rides equated with freedom.

Last year, in a total lapse of yuppie consumer idiocy I purchased a nice Brodie from a local vendor. The sales guy is the younger brother of a former associate with whom I first plummeted down mountains while attached to a bike. He, that is, the vendor, is some kind of riding pro. Being in his presence made me feel weak. I managed to avoid, narrowly, purchasing a stupidly expensive full-suspension downhill bike.

If I counted the number of times I have ridden the bike the per ride cost would be too embarrassing to disclose (but not as embarrassing as admitting I do not know how to do the math). Yesterday, what with spring almost being over, I rode my bike across the south side of town to run some errands. It felt good to ride through neighbourhoods I enjoyed spinning through as a kid and as a young adult (bugs bouncing off my glasses, cars inexplicably honking, children diving out of my path). The spring air carried the scent of lilac, it was sunny, and I felt free (until my ass started to hurt, then I felt free of all things, except ass pain). I once again attempted to convince myself to become a bicycle commuter.

This morning as I drove to work I followed the actual version of the car pictured above. I think the guy in that car (and he owns another one which is parked in his driveway and appears to be for sale) needs some help. If you are looking to get into the wide ride the Pacer affords the discerning auto owner, let me know, I will hook you up. Meanwhile, maybe we should all chip in and buy the guy a bike.