riding

Yesterday I bought a bike.

I've been wanting one for upwards of two years now. One of my favorite activities in North East was riding my mom's bike all over the backroads, winding up the valley to The Hill (the line of the original Erie lakeshore, in the days before Daniel dozed among the lions) and plunging down to the water. Early summer mornings, smelling of dew on grape leaves and ferns tucked into hollows, were just about as good as coffee.

So coming to South Bend, leaving the hills and the immediacy of the lake, was even more difficult for lack of a bike. The city was flat and monochromatic and I was stuck in one place. But I'm strapped for money, and I haven't felt inclined to by a cheap bike at Wal-Mart that would make me feel like I was wrestling a cantankerous horse every time I took it out.

And lately with the lethargy that's been plaguing me (spoils of depression, impending unemployment, and the frustration of thwarted purpose) I've been wanting to do something active. Something healthier than sleeping all day and eating Pringles.

So yesterday I bought a folding patio table and two cheap patio chairs, so that I can sit comfortably on the porch eating Pringles and watch the day pass like all good laid-back Midwestern summer folk. And that's how I bumped into Jim.

Jim lives downstairs. His living room is directly below mine. We used to have volume wars over the radio, television, and stereo where the dishes would rattle in my cupboards to the bass lines of belted Bette Middler and the Grease soundtrack and I would call his phone which he would never answer and leave polite cheery messages asking him to turn it down. It was a Saturday ritual.

Jim works the night shift. He's offered to get me an application for his data processing company. Starting pay is twelve bucks an hour, and I wouldn't have to work nights. He seems wary of people and keeps almost entirely to himself, and last summer for awhile he grew red chilis in the only sunny spot in the yard, next to the garbage cans. I don't think he ever picked them. Later in the summer he pulled up the stakes and left the chilis in a pile on the lawn. If you look closely, you can still see where they were. They were the only proof I had for awhile, besides the coming and going of his beige Astro van out front, of his presence. But the few times I talked to him, he's been nice.

So I ran into him yesterday as he tinkered with a bicycle in the front yard. I stopped to chat. He said he'd just bought the bike, and did I know of anyone who wanted one, because he was going to sell his old one. It's in fabulous condition and he bought it for a grand, but it's a racing road bike and the angle hurts his wrists, since he's getting older.

I said, "I'm looking for one."

Eagerly he brought it out and showed it to me and let me take it for a spin. It's red, and lightweight, and perfect.

So I got it for a hundred bucks, which includes a helmet, extra pedals, a valve, and (I think) gloves. It was pleasant to see the soft shy joy in his eyes when he wheeled it to my back step and watched me do a happy dance holding onto the seat.

I went for a short ride this morning, up Riverside Drive where the road spoons the river and the air smells in places of mud and putrification, but mostly of undergrowth and trees. It was lovely.

The only potential problem is traffic negotiation -- I live in a place where you have to travel to hit the backroads, and I've never really ridden on busy streets. But, as always, live and learn.