The Silver Bullet: a holiday story

When I was in college, I dated a quietly conceited fellow who has since earned the title of “Last Gearhead (bike geek) I Ever Want To Know Well.” Yet, for all his charming faults (ladies, if they shave their legs more often than you do, …please run.), he introduced me to the beauty of the bicycle, and the thrill of cycling (some years before Lance Armstrong got a rock star complex, thank you very much). Cycling had also been something that had interested both of my parents in their younger days, so it felt quite natural to gradually become enamored with the sport. What did not feel natural was that the prettiest bikes cost more than my crap-ass Saturn LS, and had half the wheels. And so, the years passed, and now and then, I’d walk into a bike shop and there would be rows of sparkly, gleaming bicycles murmuring “hey baby, wanna go for a ride? I can take you places you’ve never been before.” And I longingly replied, “You look so sexy, but I just can’t afford you today.” And that was that. I’d watch friends and strangers on their fancy bikes, and wonder how I could justify the expense, but no justification ever seemed sound. Besides, I traded in my Asturn for a Subaru Outback, and that was all the Xtremattude I could afford.

This Christmas, while I was fully expecting a ring, Mr. Bump instead surprised me with the most beautiful silver bicycle this girl has ever seen. I arrived at his house after returning from a trip to my parents’ home, and after unloading the car, he told me we had to go pick up my present, that we had to take my car, and that we were going into the city. I was confused. Why do we have to take my car? Is it big? Rings aren’t big, and we can fit Christmas trees in your car. Why do we have to go into the city? But no answers presented themselves. And so we drove. And drove. And ended up in front of a Staples. By now, confusion was no longer adequate, and I was forced to resort to mystification. What’s in Staples?? Is he buying me a shredder? A bookshelf? A binder display? Why’d we have to come all the way to this Staples, when there’s one right by his house? And then I saw it: the bike shop. I almost soiled myself.

We walked in, and there it was: shiny, tiny and waiting for ME! I admit, I cried a tiny bit. There were modest, but public displays of affection. The clerk had to walk away and give me a few minutes while I blubbered about and smiled like a fool. It’s a road bike, just like I’ve wanted for so long. The kind you can’t help but look like a badass on. The kind with the pedals that attach to your shoes. And in a year, when I am able to attach myself to my bike and detach myself from my bike without slowly, helplessly tipping over and falling onto the curb (this sucks for two reasons: it really kind of hurts, and more importantly, it makes you look a knob), I’ll let you know. And then you can look at cyclists zooming along and wonder to yourself “Is that Clabber Girl on her Silver Bullet?” Yow-Wow.