Thinking about...

I am in love with my bike.

So... last night I left work at my regularly scheduled time and managed to get to the bike shop by 6:15, a whole 45 minutes before closing. I found a great parking spot, changed my work shoes to my Keens and went in. The same guy I spoke to on the telephone the other day (James, the one who laughed at my lame joke) pulled my bike down from the rafters where they were storing it, and I got to see and touch my bike for the first time.

I sat on it, because I was really worried that it was going to be too big, but James and some other dude who worked there (guy looked about my age; this will be important, later) assured me that it wasn't. It felt good, though I was concerned about having barely a toe on the ground (again, they said that was right. I might still have them lower it but I'm willing to try it this way, at least until I crash my lovely new bike). James walked it outside with me, and I went for a spin around the block (to Tito's, if you're wondering, though, I didn't stop). It was a lovely evening and not at all dark. I was tempted to cruise over to my parents' house but didn't want to press my luck. They closed at 7 and we had stuff to do.

By "we" I mean of course, my new best friend James and I (Eric was nowhere to be seen).

I went back in, and James and I looked at the things I had purchased before (I exchanged the big ol' honkin' lock I'd bought for a lighter one), and then we went around and picked stuff out that it had occurred to me would be fun to have: a odometer/speedometer thing (wireless of course), a saddle bag, a bike pump. Then... I found out that the brake levers I thought could be installed for me (new road bikes don't come with the levers on top of the handlebars like my old 10 speed. They just have the ones that you have to lean over to reach. This seems fine for professionals or even people with experience on these bikes. I would like to feel safe and know that I can reach the brakes if I need to. If this makes me an old lady, well, fine) were the wrong size. James offered to order the right ones. They may or may not arrive in time for my scheduled pickup date of Friday, July 3. I don't care. I'm going to have them do what they can with the other stuff (I suppose I could've figured out how to put the odometer on myself, but I'm holding out hope that they'll get the levers in time), and they promised to have it ready for me to pick up at 1 p.m. on Friday.

So, I'm standing around while James was conversing with the bike mechanic guy, putting my pickup date and time in stone (I offered to bring donuts, or Tito's. Apparently this won't be necessary), and while I was standing there by the cash register, the other guy (the one "about my age") rang up a customer. Here's what occured during that transaction, from the moment I started paying attention.

Cash drawer closes.

Salesguy: Want a bag?

Customer: [silence]

Salesguy: What am I saying, "Want a bag"? Would you like a bag for that, sir?

Customer: No, thank you. [Customer stomps off.]

Salesguy: [to me] That was rude of me.

Me: No, it was funny. I used to work in retail, and rang up the actor Eric Stoltz. Instead of asking him if he'd like a bag, I asked him if he wanted a ride.

Salesguy: Ha! Who's Eric Stoltz?

Me: Oh, lord.

Actually, I messed my story up. While it's true that I did indeed once offer a customer a ride, it was not Eric Stoltz, but rather, just a very attractive young man (ah, I was young too, once). Oh, well. During my encounter with Eric Stoltz (at Rizzoli; I sold him a book on divorce, the only one we had in the store) I was too tongue-tied and confused to say much to him at all. That guy was very attractive in person.

Anyway, once I actually have my bike, I'm sure these daily missives detailing my love for and anticipation of having it in my possession and riding it will trickle off, and I will return these blog posts to the topic of... whatever it is I used to write about.

It's possible.

On the other hand, picture me, riding my bike along the Santa Monica bikepath, a flash of red and black, and there, on the bike path approaching me, wearing a green bike helmet and olive colored shirt (and hopefully not those teeny tiny shorts from the 80s), grayish-blond hair poking out, is Stewart Copeland. He catches my eye. I crash into the sand (no scratches on my bike, please). He stops and pulls me up. I say "Wow." One of history's greatest friendships is born, and Stewart and I, plus our bikes and our respective spouses, go to Europe.

Hmmm. Now that would be a great blog entry.