As it says in the subhead this is the land of cycling. I think it has replaced Christianity some time back in the sixties. Communities have a way of making you feel unwelcome when you don’t follow the pack, and since I always enjoyed biking it was easier to join then making my first communion and promised to be have laughs.
The first thing I needed was a bike. Well, I actually have one but I thought when in Rome get yourself a bike. The only problem was I hadn’t bought a bike in some time and was in for a bit of sticker shock. My last bike cost $59.99 and that included the guy from Model’s putting it together for me. Those banana seats can be a bitch! I was prepared to pay more and scraped together $150 to get the best I could. Turns out $150 doesn’t even buy you the best helmet you can get let along what goes under it. The whole concept of helmets is wrong. Their main purpose, really only purpose, is to protect your head. It’s sort of like insurance for your brain. But just as I wouldn’t be paying the same premium for a Maserati as when I’m driving a Ford I shouldn’t be paying for the same kind of protection a NASA scientist is. Pound for pound he has a lot more to protect then I do. (This is where my friends and family jump in and say “oh stop that”, but all I’m hearing are crickets.) Until they fix this wrong I’ll just keep using my home made one of half used paper towel rolls and rubber bands.
Speaking of crickets, we have some very adventurous ones out here. While taking my Schwinn for a jaunt I keep hearing strange noises. It sounded as if I left my Carl Yastrzemski rookie card in the spokes, which I clearly remembered I removed back in ‘88. The path I was on was littered with grasshoppers and they wait until the last possible moment before jumping out of the way. It was as if tiny quiet fireworks were going off as they jumped hither and thither. This game of insect chicken resulted in a number of cricket fatalities as many of them became caught in my wheels and gears, resulting in the needless destruction of innocent lives. When will they learn that life is not a game of chance but of luck? As I sat on the side of the gravel path, toothpick in hand, picking out grasshopper guts out of my derailer for the past thirty minutes I wondered if the church would take me back.