A few days ago, while negotiating some deep slush on my primary bicycle and trying not to crash, I slammed my left knee into the front gear shifter, breaking it. After trying but failing to put the exactly nestling pieces back together I conceded defeat and ordered a replacement part on the Online. Not three hours after entering my credit card information I remembered the two discarded bicycles leaning against the leaky wall in my cellar, broken machines festooned with spare parts. I chided myself for not following my usual practice of asking myself “Do I really fucking need this?” before confirming Online purchases, used Ujjayi breathing to clear my head of negative thoughts, and when next I was home stripped my once-trusty Specialized of its forward shifter. There it was, a working part, except its cable was too short for my current needs. Unperturbed, I rolled out my replacement whip, a woman's Epple Boogie bicycle complete with fenders, cargo carrier, dress catcher, kickstand, and functional DC generator to power the running lights. I am used to people staring at me riding my bicycle in all types of weather; now, though, I really blow their minds. Here I am, a 210 pound heavy, 6 foot tall, grown-ass man mashing pedal on a 10 pound woman's velocipede with his back straight and his head on a swivel, hauling ass through rain and snow and dark alike. The psychic energy I sponge while doing this is a crazy mix of hatred and encouragement, fear and concern and disbelief all blended into one. My favorite is when I am gawked at by rugged-looking, baseball-cap-wearing men driving lifted pickup trucks. “Who's the rugged one now, you warm-bottomed, gas-guzzling, dry-clothes-wearing wannabe?” I ask them silently while pedaling past them on my mother's rusted old bicycle. Instead of confronting their own hypocrisy, they immediately look away. Huzzah.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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