careening perilously down webster the other day, my lopped up pigtails fanning about my sweaty neck as, looking like a suicidal muppett, i bumped my way along a row of four parked cars, it dawned on me what complete bullocks this is.
i fancy myself not the stupidest person in the world. not the brightest, certainly, but still not the stupidest by far. so when my father rehabbed the red bike for which he'd paid $35 on my 12th birthday (we eatons, we get our money's worth) and carted it up to town, i assumed a glorious future of cycling lay ahead. i was led to believe riding a bike would be easy.
in fact, riding a bike is a rather mortifying exercise in self-abasement.
i've spent a considerable portion of the past two weeks sitting in the middle of intersections going round-and-round with pedals that seem magnetically repelled by my feet.
i have been honked at by buses.
i have hit six stationary objects.
i have prompted two (TWO!!!) taxi drivers to point and laugh.
which has brought me to the scary realization that riding a bike isn't so much like riding a bike as being a clown.