Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word

Feeling better and determined to attempt my bike ride once again, I hopped on Mona’s bike, plugged my iPod into my ears, threw my backpack on my back and headed out through the neighborhood. My motivation was a serving of sour cream and onion Pringles potato chips, which I had a craving for and intended to get from the market up the street, then take home and eat with my lunch. The weather was warm, and fueled by my overwhelming craving for the salty treat, I was feeling exceptionally strong as I pedaled my way through the neighborhood to the bike path. The wonderful thing about the area is the bike/walking path that runs for miles, in all directions. Anywhere there’s a major road, highway or open space there’s a path, making it possible to bike to virtually anywhere. Excited for the exercise and the thought of exploring, I was flying along at a good pace when I hit the bike trail.
Apparently the good weather brought all the bikers and walkers out, because the minute I hit the trail I was smack in the middle of a biking trail traffic jam. There was a young man in front of me going exceptionally slow, and swerving from left to right on the path. Bike path etiquette requires that you stay to the right, and if you pass someone you do so with some kind of acknowldegement, like, “Passing on your left.” The young man kept weaving, and as I was getting ready to pass him on the left, another cyclist approached from the opposite direction, and I was forced to remain in line behind the slow biker. By the time the other biker passed, my turn was quickly approaching, and I didn’t have time to pass the slow biker before I needed to turn. So I slowed way down and fell in behind him, crawling down the path until I broke free and turned off the trail to the right. I enjoyed about 3 minutes of riding fast, the wind whipping my hair and chilling my face, before I came upon a couple of walkers. An older couple, out for a morning meander. I once again slowed down and waited for a chance to pass, which involved waiting for them to wander across the narrow bridge before I greeted them with “good morning” and went around them.
I cleared the bike path and emerged on the sidewalk of an overpass, close to my destination. The sidewalk was narrow but downhill, so I accelerated and once again enjoyed the feeling of riding fast. For about 2 minutes. Then, on the narrow walk in front of me, was a city maintenance man, riding in a gold cart, which took up most of the sidewalk in front of me. Damn. I slowed down yet again, and crawled past the man who greeted me with a “good morning” and a smile. By the time I passed him, I was only a block from the gas station, and my craving for Pringles potato chips would soon be satisfied.
I was disappointed that my ride had been so slow, and it didn’t feel quite like the workout I had hoped to achieve. But, nonetheless, I purchased my little canister of Pringles, stuffed them in my jacket pocket, and headed home, taking an alternate route down the path, hoping to be less impeded. I did indeed satisfy my need for speed on the return trip, and by the time I rounded the last corner to the house I felt like I was 8 years old again, mastering my two-wheeled vessel and riding like a pro.
With Supertramp blasting in my ears as I approached home, I danced my way through the garage and put the bike away. I continued my happy dance as I went into the kitchen, where I prepared to make a sandwich and enjoy my Pringles. But as I reached into my jacket pocket where I had stashed the delicious treats, I came up empty handed. My pocket was empty. The small canister had obviously worked its way out of my pocket and fallen to the road, somewhere between the market and home. I sighed heavily and hung my head in defeat. There would be no chips with my sandwich. I considered retracing my steps to look for the lost chips, but decided against it. I ate my dry sandwich and sulked for the rest of the afternoon.

March 2, 2011 - Posted by | Uncategorized

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