Here’s the deal: I’m graceful on the bike, a Russian dancer on two wheels, afire with the… no, wait. I’m a shark on my Giant, a hungry, vicious predator of the seven seas who just happens to use his fins. For pedaling.

Huh.

Okay, I’m a guy who, during his lunchtime rides, hopes he has the local trail all to himself so that he can happily belt out Air Supply without being harassed by, say, open humiliation. Today was such a day!

“I’m all out of love, I’m so lost without you…”

Well, except for the bit where I see this totally-attractive-but-not-my-wife-(who’s-so-much-hotter)-but-still-I-started-feeling-the-bumps-on-the-road-a-little-more-if-you-know-what-I-mean-and-I-think-you-do friendly, lovely jogger headed toward me.

Quick! I thought. I need something more modern to sing, more cool, more hip and today. I know, I need nasally and bland! Thank god for Wilco.

We passed. I sang Wilco. I nodded, she nodded back and all was well because when you don’t embarrass yourself in front of a pretty woman whom you’ll probably never see again, that’s a good day.

“By the way,” she yelled back at me, “why are you singing AAMCO?”

“Huh?” We were drifting further away. Feign confusion; we’ll be out of earshot soon.

“Double-A,  honk-honk, M, C, O. You were singing that.”

“Can’t hear you! Sorry! I’m married!”

Embarrassment has a ten foot limit. Law of physics, that—couldn’t break it if I tried, and here I was at least 10.5 feet away. I shrugged. Laws are laws.

“I know you were right, believing for so long!”

HI! GOSH, THANKS FOR BUYING ME. MY NAME IS HAPPY O’ WHEELER LAPTOP, BUT YOU CAN CALL ME HOWL FOR SHORT. I’M YOUR BRAND-NEW BIKE COMPUTER, AND I’M VERY EXCITED!

Thanks, HOWL. You can call me Skippy.

IT’S SWELL MEETING YOU, SKIPPY!

Thanks.

My wife looks better riding a bike than I do. It can’t be helped: she’s much prettier than I am (although I rate a close second), and between the two of us, I’d much rather creepily leer at her while she pedals than I would me.

Not one to let a soul-crushing thing such as losing a beauty contest get in my way, however, I fought back in the looks department by donning a new pair of gel-padded gloves. “They’ll help you rest your palms,” the salesman suggested.

I gave him a look.

“For biking, for biking!” he insisted. “You’re not buying them for any other reason, even if you’ve been married nigh over nine years, I’m sure.”

Well…

“Also,” the salesman hurried on, “they’re guaranteed to repel pirates and, every other Tuesday, lead you to a leprechaun’s pot o’ gold.” Every word, I believed it. Of course, the salesman was me as I talked myself into buying something on-line, but I’m very convincing when I try. I like to try to talk myself out of things, and some of the time I mostly win all of the time. (Nate Silver would be proud of that last sentence, I just know it.)

The gloves, they arrived and tonight I got the chance to finally wear them. There’s me, see?, pedaling down the driveway; there’s me, a stunning figure in repose (I don’t know what that word means; ignore it), gliding down the street in effortless motion; there’s me, miles away from my house, attacking a giant hill, grunting, screaming, yelling, tongue purple, eyes bulging black, cheeks… bright appleish, but calm, tranquil, serene on the inside because all those colors match well with the color of my–

Goddamn it, I forgot the stupid gloves.

Won’t stop me. Not me. Reality’s a loser today because my shirt has long sleeves and will wrap PERFECTLY around my naked hands to make my own pirate-repelling gloves. There’s no gel, but pay no mind; there’s no real range of movement what with the sleeves kinda mummifying my hands, but no huge concern; there’s no way to pull on the brakes because…

And that’s how my leg ended up all scraped to hell. In case anyone asks.

My butt hasn’t quite forgiven me yet for the inaugural 30 mile ride the other day. While we’ve never been the closest of friends, my butt and I have largely shared a cordial relationship, with he doing the cushioning and the sitting, and I bravely contributing to, you know, clean-up. (It’s much like working at an assisted living facility, only my butt very rarely confuses me for his grandson.)

Lately, however, I can tell he’s still grumpy, sore even, that I didn’t ask for his permission for the last ride, and now we don’t talk as much. Still, seeing as how he’s the Australia of my body parts (that’s Down Under for butt), his accent was always pretty garbled, anyway. No big loss.

Lest you think I’m heartless (which is nowhere near my butt, no matter what the Insta-Princess insists when she’s angry at me), I did purchase a new bike seat for its comfort. It’s all sleek and gel-padded with grooves and stuff for my nether bits. It’s the Rolls Royce of seats for those of us who did two minutes of search on Amazon and said, “Hey, that looks kinda cheap–I’ll get that!”

The new seat should also help me go faster. (I don’t know if it does, but the seat looks cool, which is pretty much what any physicist worth his salt would insist is the primary ingredient needed for making things go fast.) Also, I slapped on a pair of new bar ends, which makes my bike look like it has devil horns. That’s me: riding through the suburban trail system, squashing bugs, scaring deer and looking like I’ve lashed myself to Pan.

My butt should be prouder than it is. My butt’s a spoiled lil’ ass.

Math and I have an adversarial relationship. Math, for example, insists my time spent in Calc. II was a beleaguered, pathetic attempt at learning the difference between a parametric equation and a paratrooper. Math insists this was highlighted by me showing up to class with a sloppily packed parachute in hand. (Math’s a little bit of a gloating bastard and doesn’t often get invited over for word problems dealing with dinner.)

Math further annoys me by pointing out that, no, contrary to what I always say, I haven’t been on a bike in almost twelve years. I say a couple years, and wouldn’t I know since I’ve got three bikes hanging in my garage, so that’s gotta prove something.

Sorry. Two bikes. I miscounted. (It’s the stupid parachute. In poor lighting it LOOKS like a bike. I only keep it around in case I run into a pop quiz. [You never know.])

But, let’s forget about math. Let’s focus on the fact that today, the weather at a blissful 80-some degrees, called for me to get my twenty-some year-old Giant off the ceiling hooks and down to the ground. The chain is twenty years old, the brakes are twenty years old, the inner tube and tires are twenty years old and the calcified seat is twenty years old.

But it has a brand-spanking-new LED headlamp, so that’s how I knew it was ready for the road!

Me and Giant, we hit the Indian Creek Trail at 11:00 and didn’t find our way back until 2:00. That’s 30 miles of back-and-forth, my friends, and I don’t care what the other trail riders were pointing and laughing about, not ALL of the miles were due to me getting lost. A lot of them were due to me getting WILDLY lost, and a handful of them were because quite a few parents chased me from the attached various parks and playgrounds as I lumbered up to them to beg and plead for someone to kill me because, Schwinn, the Greek God of biking refused to help me out.

I also asked for a ride home, but they were pretty unreceptive to that, too. Next time, I start with that as my lead request. I might get better responses.

Brian Fyffe, a seasoned bike master, joined me for the last half of the journey home, and from him I only rarely saw wide-eyed looks of pity. (Most looks of his were of concern, peppered with questions like, “Why are you riding like that? Are you sick? Is it catching? Are you deformed? You look deformed. Is THAT catching?”)

Thankfully, Brian was able to help me figure out a way back home when he threw out a few helpful hints dealing with parametric equations and curves. Turns out, for that last part, he was talking about a cute woman he saw jogging on the trail, but I followed her home anyway and called it quits.

So, that was okay.