Bike-buying for semi-novices

I've mentioned that during my autumn in Chicago, my bike was stolen, right? The same bike that I'd owned for a total of three days, and hadn't even been able to take around the block before it was pilfered. Alas, how I grieved the loss of that green Cannondale (I think it was a Cannondale. I'm pretty sure it was a Cannondale. But it was definitely green) hybrid. I even ended up writing a rather bitter creative nonfiction short about it. It was to be part of a collection my writing classmates wanted to put together, "Bike Shorts." But then I left grad school and Chicago and never heard what happened about that.

I digress (who's surprised at that?).

Anyway, I've meant to replace that bike ever since it was stolen, but finally got around to doing it on Sunday.* Since I haven't ridden much at all since I was, hmm, about thirteen, it was with a small amount of trepidation (along with the scissors and nylon rope so I could secure it in the trunk of my Corolla) that I went to the bike shop. It would be best to ride a bike around the shop, I knew, so I could get a better sense of the fit and whether the bike would really work for me. But I, nevertheless, had visions of myself crashing into a stand of helmets or running into some teenager trying out a BMX bike. Seeing as you supposedly never forget how to ride a bike** I wondered what my status was. I wasn't a beginner, as I'd ridden before, although admittedly nearly half my lifetime ago. But I certainly wasn't a seasoned rider. I now think "once and future rider" is rather poetic, but at the time I settled upon "semi-novice."

So reassuring myself that bike shops are there to help semi-novices as well as beginners and seasoned riders, I headed off to the bike shop with a brand and possible models in mind.

At the bike shop, it wasn't too long before I found my chosen brand and my possible models. A few minutes more, and one of the shop assistants approached me. "Can I help you?"

Okay, I thought. The guy has a leg in a cast and is on crutches. This doesn't bode well.

But I was there to buy a bike; I was determined to buy a bike, and so I cast aside thoughts of ill omens.

I explained to the crippled assistant that I was interested in buying a hybrid bike, and had a couple of questions about the differences between the Trek hybrid line and the fitness line. Main difference, the shop worker told me, is that the fitness bikes are lighter. I perked up at that. "Weight's an issue for me," I said, "because I'll have to lug it up to my apartment."

The worker's eyes brightened behind his glasses. "Ah, I actually had a girl return one of those"--he gestured to one of the straight hybrids--"for that very reason. Third floor."

All right, so I'm on the second floor. Only half as difficult as the third floor. But if the thought of carrying my bike upstairs after a long ride makes me want to not take the dumb thing out in the first place, what's the point?

But to be sure, I test-rode both, then proclaimed to the shop-guy that I liked the fitness one better. "I'm not surprised," he said. "This is the model I use to commute."

Well, when his leg's not broken, I assumed.

He then proceeded to ask me about my commute. "It's seventeen miles," I said, "and it's along the Interstate, so I don't think . . ."

I trailed off as it became apparent the worker was cogitating. "You ought to be able to take the frontage road," he said at last.

I made some sort of noncommittal noise, then said I'd like to go ahead and buy the bike.

"Great!" he enthused. "And then, somewhere down the line you can get [some type of tire the name of which I've forgotten] that are great for rain and snow. Once you get up to about six inches of snow, things get difficult, but otherwise--"

It was at that point I started to tune him out. Did he fail to notice my frequent braking as I attempted to navigate around various stands filled with bicycle accessories? He definitely couldn't have missed my awkward dismount from the fitness model, since he found it necessary to take my arm to keep me from falling over. Did I really seem like the type of person who's going to lug her bike down the stairs when there's even a quarter-inch of snow on the ground?

But I bought the bike and spent only about fifteen minutes using the nylon rope to jury-rig the bike in my trunk so it wouldn't fall out during the twenty-minute trip home. I rode the bike the next morning, and enjoyed it--when I wasn't trying to avoid collisions with fisherboys standing on a bridge I had to cross, or panicking about hitting some rocks on the sidewalk and careening into the street. Still, who knows? Maybe the shop assistant has some sort of sixth sense about assessing bike-buyers, and my semi-novitiate state is actually the cocoon of a hardcore cyclist.

After all, I grew up near Boulder.


*As I've ridden it once and have had it for four days now, my record is already better than with the maybe-Cannondale. Things are looking up!

**Though I figure that if neurological problems can make you forget how to walk, the same thing could happen for bike-riding.

On spam

Okay, so writing about spam isn't particularly innovative. My lack of innovation is only one of the reasons why I haven't been able to quit my day job and live off the profits of the Next New Thing! invented by yours truly.* So you're stuck with a post on spam. Suck it up.

Aside from the OEM software spam, the spam I receive the most is that along the lines of "Separate yourself from other men." I know that spammers don't discriminate in who they spam, but I gotta wonder if they'd have more luck with a little targeted marketing. I don't want to "separate myself from other men." I'm already separated from all men by virtue of the fact that I'm not a man. Can't really get more separated from that.

And why is it that I have never once received any spam with the subject line "Separate yourself from other women"? If "separate yourself from other women" would refer to what I think it'd refer, I wouldn't be interested in it in the first place, but nevertheless, there's an opportunity for a feministic rant there. But I don't really consider myself a feminist--or at least not a feminist who goes into feministic rants. And plus, Heroes is going to come on soon; no time for a rant. I have my priorities.

Then there's the spam I receive with the weirdo subject lines, such as "Machiavellian splendor." When I open these up (because how can anyone resist "Machiavellian splendor"?) it appears to be some sort of weather report. At any rate, there's usually something about a storm blowing northeast.**

So once the novelty of Machiavellian splendor wears off, what spam would I actually look at? To be honest, if I'm very bored, "Fix split ends!" might do the trick. Even during the composition of this post, I have spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the ends of a lock of my hair and wondering if I should change conditioner brands. I kid you not. I did that a lot during NaNoWriMo, too. It's interfering with my productivity. Just think, if I were more productive, maybe I could indeed become more innovative. Then I could get the townhouse--er yard*** with muscly foreigner Yosef, and in addition to fanning me with palm fronds, Yosef could massage coconut oil into my scalp and hair, thereby ridding me of the need to read split-end-spam in the first place.

Life is cyclical.


*I would greatly love to live off the profits of the Next New Thing! I'd pay off my debt, get out of my apartment, and buy a nice little townhouse. Only I'd want a yard where I could lounge in the sun while being fanned with palm fronds by a nice, muscly foreigner who doesn't speak English and therefore wouldn't interfere with my innovative thoughts.

See, not even my fantasies are innovative. But you've got to admit that palm fronds in general are very tempting, to say nothing of the muscly foreigner. We'll call him Yosef.

**As yet, my computer hasn't blown up after opening one of these, so I don't think they're viruses. And my antivirus/antispyware/anti-otherstuff software has yet to find something less innocuous than tracking cookies. Should you care about the security of my computers. Cough.

***See the first footnote if you have no idea what I'm talking about.