Today has been quite the adventure. Shell and I decided to head on a bike ride. Little did we know how involved it would turn out to be.
First, we embark on real bikes. You know, the bikes that real bikers use. The ones who wear full-body spandex. We are not real bikers. We disregarded this small setback and continued on anyways.
We made it to our destination rather flawlessly, emerging ourselves amongst the wind and cars.
Then we rested, enjoy some tasty fruit concoctions, and began the trek back.
The wind had started to pick up, and my weak and fragile straw fidora couldn't take the heat. It blew off my head and traveled with great speed backwards.
Luckily, we were in a parking lot, and only one car had to stop for me. That car saved my little hat.
Our spirits weren't dampened yet, though, and we kept on pedaling. The ride was beautiful!
There was a left turn to make. A wide left turn. A left turn only real bikers could make and succeed. Since it bears repeating again, just so everyone is reminded, I am not a real biker. I begin to turn this skinny tire, foot-pedal strap, low handle-bar, real-biker bike, but I overestimate the precise angle in which I need to conquer in order to be okay.
For future reference, don't overestimate your angles while biking.
At this point, I know I am going to crash. I have come to peace with it. It is now just a matter of time, milliseconds really, and wondering if it will hurt.
It does. I faintly hear Shell squealing, "Sevs! Sevs, oh no! Sevs?!"
That thin, black tire met with the uninviting curb, and crash. There I went. I left my eyes open, that way my subconscious would have some entertainment as well. I saw green coming straight to me, or through me rather, and felt the bike and its finicky foot-pedal-straps let me free. My face became friends with the shrubs, my legs friends with the branches. Shell was stifling laughter.
Then we both laughed.
Then we realized the chain on the real biker's bike had gotten off-track. (If it was really that legitimate to begin with, shouldn't it have been sturdy enough to withstand one, simple nosedive?) Shell, being the strong woman she is, fixed it though, after we had walked for awhile. Our fingers became laced with grease, but at this point, grease wasn't a major concern. We mounted those bikes once more, but not before we were told by two bystanders that we were in the middle of a swarm of bees.
We rode faster.
And finally, to Jessup we returned.
I think it's safe to say as this point that we are now real bikers.
Next time, I'd rather just have a nice bike like this. It doesn't intimidate me.