bicycle built for two

Today, the high was 35 degrees. And when the high is so deliciously, so sunnily, so ice-meltingly warm, I make up adverbs, get out my light coat, put on shoes that aren't snow boots, and smile up at the blue sky and the sun. On days like this, days when the ice has melted, when the snow is slushy and dirty but out of the way, when the wind feels like cold water instead of dry ice, my bicycle (see above, except now, with a big orange milk crate basket on the back) starts calling me from its dry indoor winter home.

lindsey, take me outside, take me to the grocery store, take me to the craft store, use my large, luxurious baskets. please, just take me outside. My bike apparently speaks with lowercase letters only.

So I take it out. Lug its sturdy steel frame up the stairs. Curse the whole way up. Wrap my scarf around my face (cold water is still cold). Shove my helmet over my hat and ponytail. And ride. Except today, the back tire was flat. I took my helmet off and clipped it to my purse, exposed my face, and set off via sidewalk to my friend's house. I was going to learn how to patch my own tire, dammit. (After all, I do have a secret desire to be a bike mechanic.)

Even at 35, the sidewalks are hardly as luxurious as the streets. Some stretches are shoveled. Some aren't. Some shiny pools of water between the street and the sidewalk are actually water. Some are dirty, snowy, icy water. Some are ice. I pulled (not rolled) my bike through the mess, brakes clogged with snow, cursing the whole way. A six pack of beer bouncing and clanging around in the basket.

A rusty staple was clearly the culprit, so I, in a rustic-feeling plaid button-down shirt, and my friend, in a T-shirt and a sweatshirt, set about getting our hands dirty. We pulled the staple out. We marked where it was. We found the wrenches and loosened some bolts. We wedged the tire out of the rims, we removed the tube. We found the hole, escaping air tickling my cheek. We applied the glue. We let it dry. We applied the patch. We pressed it down. We put the tube back in the tire, put the tire back in the rims, put the wheel back in its place, screwed the bolts back in. Pumped up the tire. Pumped up the other tire. My hands were black at the finger tips and I wanted to do more. There was nothing more to do. (Or, really, nothing more that I had the tools and parts for at that particular time. With a 1974ish bike, there's plenty to do always.)

I washed my hands. Wrapped my scarf around my face. Shoved my helmet over my hat and ponytail. Attached and illuminated my lights. And rode. Tomorrow, the high is 36.