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.
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!”