Two wheeled tale

Most of my neighbors have known that I'm a couple sandwiches short of a picnic for years, but I've confirmed it for those that were still of the "she's just eccentric and high spirited" school of thought.

My last shreds of dignity rolled out the door when I rode my birthday present home from the bike shop.
I've said it before and I'm sure I'll repeat it ad nauseam, but I just can't help myself.

I love this bike.

And therein lies the problem.

I love the sheer act of riding this bike, pushing the pedals, sitting on the comfy, springy seat, steering the handlebars ... ringing the bell.

It's all fabulous.

And the odd thing is that I don't want to ride it to places. No, I just want to ride. I just want to enjoy the satisfaction I get from pedaling myself around. And that's it.

I don't want to end up somewhere else. I just want to ride.

But I only want to ride until I don't want to ride anymore.

In regard to my bike, I'm like a spoiled little kid (OK, in regard to most things, I'm like a spoiled little kid, but let's stay on task).

I want everyone to ohh and ahh over the bike. I only let a select few actually ride the bike and then only long enough to agree with me that it's the coolest bike ever. Then I want them to enjoy watching me ride my bike. And I don't want to go anyone in particular on the bike. Then when I'm tired of riding my bike, I want to not be riding it anymore.

So yeah, I ride the bike around the block ... again and again.

It's perfect really. I'm not going anywhere in particular. My neighbors and family and watch me ride by again and again ... and believe me, they know when I'm coming around again as I can ring that bell like a mutha. And when I'm tired of riding the bike, I'm so close to home that I can stop whenever I want.

So for the past week, I've been riding my bike in a big figure 8 around the block and I ring the bell whenever I pass our house. Sunday, Margaret suggested I ride around 8 times, so I did (I threw in a couple extra just for fun).

And you know what? I've started to get self-conscious.

After a few turns past the same houses I've been riding in front of day after day, I've started feeling like the giant dork that I am — I hate when that happens.

See, when I picked out this bike I was sure it was the coolest bike ever. But after a few Pee Wee Herman comments, I started to think that maybe it actually teeters on the brink between really cool and ultra dorky.

Add the fact that I ride the thing in the same big circle over and over again, goofy grin plastered on my face and I'm pretty sure I know which side of cool/dorky line my bike and I fall on.

I can live with that. But I decided last night when several turns around the block left me unfulfilled.

I knew it had to be done.

I branched out. I started riding across 12th Street and around other blocks. I rode by the park and down Grand Avenue.

It was liberating and exhilarating ... and a little scary. What if I got tired and had to pedal many blocks to get home?

I didn't care anymore. I rode down 12th Street and barely made it through a yellow light pedaling as fast as I could.

I didn't want to stop. I wanted to keep going around the streets where I could look at all the wonderful cottages and bungalows that fill the blocks of our downtown.

I rode until I knew my obligations at home couldn't be shirked any longer and I finally turned down our alley and tucked my bike safely away for the evening.

It was a dry, hot evening last night, perfect for riding a bike.